Without waiting for any responses, he turned toward where Lillian sat with her governess. His voice, when he spoke, carried the absolute authority of a man accustomed to instant obedience. “We are leaving.”
The girl rose immediately, gathering her reticule with hands that shook slightly. Mrs. Hale startled awake, blinking in confusion before hastily following her charge. Within moments, they were gone, leaving only the faintest trace of sandalwood and the memory of green eyes that seemed to see straight through to her soul.
Isadora stood rooted to the spot, her heart hammering against her stays with a rhythm that had nothing to do with the tenor’s passionate rendition of a Christmas ballad. Around her, conversation resumed as though nothing significant had occurred. Ashcombe launched into a detailed description of his plans for Boxing Day festivities. Fitzsimmons regaled them with tales of his recent hunting success. Pemberton noddedalong while calculating how much he could borrow against his Christmas allowance.
But she heard none of it. Her world had narrowed to the ghost of sandalwood in the air and the echo of five simple words: She is not my daughter.
What did that mean? The gossips all whispered that Lillian Gray was the illegitimate ward of the Dangerous Duke, taken in after her father’s death in that infamous duel. But the pain in Rothwell’s voice when he’d spoken suggested something far more complex than mere guardianship born of obligation.
“Isadora?” Her father’s irritated voice cut through her thoughts. “Lord Ashcombe asked you a question.”
She turned back to the group, forcing her attention to the present moment. Ashcombe was watching her with the sort of knowing smile that made her skin crawl, as though her momentary distraction confirmed something he’d already suspected.
“Forgive me,” she said now, attempting to summon every ounce of her training in social graces. “I was distracted by the lovely music. Christmas songs always make me rather nostalgic.”
“Of course,” Ashcombe replied, his eyes following her every small movement. “Do share with me some of your thoughts on Christmas morning traditions. At Thornfield, we’ve always attended service as a family, followed by gift exchange in themorning room. Perhaps you have similar fond memories from your own childhood?”
The question was innocent enough on the surface, but she could hear the subtext: Tell me about your domestic inclinations. Prove that you’ll make a suitable wife for my household traditions.
“Christmas morning has always been special at Cavendish House,” she replied carefully. “Though I confess I’ve always been more interested in ensuring the servants and tenants have what they need for their celebrations than in elaborate gift exchanges.”
Fitzsimmons leaned forward with interest. “A charitable nature is most admirable in a lady. Do you involve yourself in local charities, Lady Isadora?”
Before she could answer, Father’s hand settled on her arm in warning. He’d never approved of her charitable work, viewing it as beneath her station. A lady of breeding should confine herself to token contributions and pretty fundraising events, not the actual work of helping those in need.
“Isadora has always had a soft heart,” he said with the sort of indulgent tone that dismissed her interests as feminine folly. “Though of course, a married lady’s first duty is to her husband’s comfort and her children’s upbringing.”
The words hit her like a physical blow. Is that what her life was to be? A slow suffocation of everything that made her who she was,trapped in a drawing room making polite conversation while the world beyond continued without her?
She thought of Lillian Gray, fifteen years old and already bearing the weight of scandal, needing guidance and protection and friendship. She thought of green eyes that had looked at her with something approaching respect, seeing her as more than just a decorative object to be acquired and displayed.
The Duke of Rothwell was everything the whispers claimed—scarred, dangerous, a man apart from polite society. His reputation was dark as evening storm clouds, his past was impurely stained with violence and tragedy. By every measure of sense and propriety, he should terrify her. And part of him did.
So why was she taking a step closer to the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of his departing carriage?
“Lady Isadora?” Pemberton’s voice held a note of concern. “Are you quite well? You look rather pale.”
She realized she’d been standing there in silence for far too long, her gaze fixed on the street beyond the glass where Christmas garlands decorated the lamp posts in preparation for the coming season. “Perfectly well, thank you. I fear the warmth of the room has made me a trifle lightheaded.”
“Perhaps some air?” Ashcombe suggested, offering his arm with the sort of proprietary concern that made her want to scream. “The conservatory is quite cool, and the Christmas roses are particularly lovely this year.”
The last thing she wanted was to be alone with Ashcombe among the winter blooms, but Father’s expectant expression left her little choice. She accepted the offered arm with a smile that felt carved from ice, allowing herself to be led away from safety and into whatever trap the evening had prepared for her.
But as they walked, her thoughts remained fixed on a scarred duke who’d appeared like an avenging angel when innocence was threatened, whose eyes had held depths she wanted to explore despite every warning bell in her head.
She was, Isadora realized with a mixture of terror and exhilaration, well and truly intrigued.
And that, she suspected, was the most dangerous development of all.
CHAPTER 3
The morning light streaming through the tall windows of Rothwell Abbey’s breakfast room did nothing to warm the chill that had settled permanently in Edmund’s bones. He sat at the head of the mahogany table, his untouched eggs growing cold while he watched Lillian push food around her plate with the sort of theatrical disinterest that only a fifteen-year-old could master.
Mrs. Hale had already delivered three sharp reminders about proper deportment, each one met with increasing defiance from her charge. Edmund could see the storm building in Lillian’s blue eyes—James’s eyes, he thought with a familiar stab of guilt—and braced himself for whatever declaration was about to explode from her lips.
“I will not be treated like a child,” she announced suddenly, her spoon clattering against the fine china with enough force to make Mrs. Hale wince. “Other girls my age are preparing for their Season. Why must I be hidden away as though I am something shameful?”
The words hit him like a physical blow, each one designed with the precision only an angry adolescent could achieve. Edmund’s fingers tightened around his coffee cup until his knuckles showed white against the porcelain. In that moment, with her chin raised in defiant challenge, she looked so much like her father that it nearly took his breath away.
