Isadora found herself noticing things she’d been trying desperately to ignore. The way his eyes crinkled at the corners when he laughed—genuine laughter, not the cold amusement she’d witnessed during their confrontations. The elegant strength of his hands as he gestured to emphasize a point. The way a lock of dark hair fell across his forehead when he leaned forward, and how he pushed it back with movements that suggested the habit was unconscious.
The scar along his jaw caught firelight, making it appear less like a mark of violence and more like simple proof that he’d survived things that would have destroyed lesser men.
She was staring. Heaven help her, she was staring at her husband like some moonstruck girl rather than the sensible duchess she was supposed to be.
Charlotte caught her looking and grinned like the cat who’d discovered cream. Isadora forced her attention back to her teacup, but she could feel heat flooding her cheeks despite every effort at composure.
“I really must be going,” Charlotte announced abruptly, rising with suspicious eagerness. “The roads will be dreadful if I wait much longer, and Mama will have an apoplexy if I’m caught in another snowstorm.”
“But you just arrived—” Isadora began.
“Hours ago, darling. Time flies when conversation is stimulating.” Charlotte gathered her reticule and gloves with movements that suggested escape had been planned well in advance. “Your Grace, it’s been absolutely delightful. You are much less terrifying than advertised, though I suspect that’s deliberate misdirection on your part.”
Edmund rose to see her out, executing another perfect bow. “Thank you for tolerating my intrusion on your visit, Lady Charlotte. I hope we’ll meet again under less... supervised circumstances.”
“Oh, I’m certain we will. Isadora simply adores having me around to provide scandalous advice about—” She caughtherself, shooting Isadora a look of pure mischief. “Well. Various matters.”
Then she was gone in a flurry of farewells and silk, leaving Isadora alone with Edmund in a room that suddenly felt far too intimate despite its generous proportions.
They stood facing each other across the tea table, neither quite knowing what to say now that Charlotte’s chatter no longer filled the silence. Outside, snow continued its relentless fall, and somewhere in the house a clock chimed the hour.
“Your friend is... spirited,” Edmund offered finally.
“She’s absolutely incorrigible.” But Isadora couldn’t quite suppress her smile. “Though I suspect she rather enjoyed making you uncomfortable with her boldness.”
“I wasn’t uncomfortable.” His hand moved to straighten teacups that didn’t require straightening, betraying the lie. “Merely... surprised by her directness.”
“She has that effect on people.”
Another silence, this one weighted with everything they weren’t saying. Isadora moved to gather the tea things, using the mundane task as excuse to avoid eye contact. But Edmund reached for the same plate at precisely the same moment, and their fingers collided with enough force to send porcelain rattling.
The contact lasted barely a second—hardly enough to register as touch rather than accident.
Isadora snatched her hand back as though the contact burned. “Forgive me, I?—”
“No, it was my fault?—”
They spoke simultaneously, both stumbling over their words when they heard the other’s voice. Edmund’s eyes met hers, and she saw her own confusion reflected back—desire and uncertainty and fear all warring for dominance in green depths that had haunted her dreams since their disastrous confrontation.
“I should—” She gestured vaguely toward the door. “I have matters requiring attention. Thank you for joining us for tea. Charlotte appreciated it, I’m certain.”
The lie tasted bitter. Charlotte had appreciated it far too much, had read meanings into Edmund’s presence that Isadora desperately wanted to believe but couldn’t afford to trust.
“Isadora—”
But she was already moving, silk skirts rustling as she fled toward the doorway with as much dignity as outright retreat could allow. She heard Edmund call her name again, sensed him reaching toward her, but she didn’t stop. Couldn’t bear to face whatever he might say—whether apology or dismissal or somecombination that would only make this impossible situation worse.
She rushed through the empty corridor, stumbled into her chambers and closed the door with force that rattled the frame. Then she simply stood there, back pressed against oak while her breathing slowly returned to something approaching normal.
Her hand—the one that had touched his—felt like it was still burning. She pressed it against her racing heart, feeling the wild rhythm beneath silk and stays and all the careful armor she’d constructed around her feelings.
This was impossible. Absolutely impossible. She couldn’t continue living like this—couldn’t keep pretending indifference while her treacherous body insisted on reacting to every accidental touch, every unguarded glance, every moment when Edmund’s carefully maintained walls showed cracks.
She’d married him for practical reasons. To escape Lord Ashcombe, to help Lillian, to gain the freedom a duchess’s rank could provide. Nothing in their arrangement had included falling for a man who’d explicitly promised her nothing beyond duty and respect.
Nothing had prepared her for the way her pulse raced when he entered a room, or the heat that flooded her chest when he smiled that rare, genuine smile. Nothing had warned her that a practical marriage could transform into something far more dangerous than any duel or scandal.
“What have I gotten myself into?” she whispered to the empty room.
