But the question had no answer—only the steady thunder of her heart and the terrible certainty that whatever she felt for Edmund Ravensleigh, it was far too real to be dismissed as mere performance or practical arrangement.
CHAPTER 18
Edmund had been avoiding the drawing room for three days.
Not deliberately—he told himself with the same conviction he’d employed since childhood to justify cowardice. Estate matters required attention. Correspondence couldn’t wait. Tenant concerns demanded immediate involvement despite the season making travel treacherous.
The fact that Isadora spent her afternoons in that particular chamber was entirely coincidental.
He stood outside the closed doors now, one hand raised to knock before entering his own damned drawing room, and wondered when precisely he’d transformed from the Dangerous Duke into a nervous schoolboy afraid of his own wife.
Not a real wife.
The words haunted him. Had been haunting him since they’d escaped his mouth three nights ago in a corridor decorated with Christmas greenery that mocked his failures. He’d watched hurt flicker across Isadora’s face—had seen the exact moment when his cruelty landed like a blade between her ribs—before she’d armored herself in dignity and walked away.
Leaving him alone with the terrible knowledge that he’d wounded the one person who didn’t deserve his defensive strikes.
He should apologize. He should have apologized immediately rather than retreating into his study like the coward he’d apparently become. But every time he’d tried to approach her, the words lodged in his throat—too honest, too revealing, admitting vulnerabilities he’d spent a decade learning to suppress.
What would he even say?I’m sorry I dismissed our marriage as meaningless when the truth is you’ve become the most significant thing in my carefully ordered world? Forgive me for being terrified that what I feel for you might destroy the last shreds of control I maintain over my own emotions?
Impossible. All of it.
So instead he’d hidden. Taken meals in solitary splendor while servants exchanged knowing glances. Buried himself in ledgers that didn’t require emotional honesty.
And absolutely did not listen for her footsteps in corridors, or track her movements through the house with the desperate attention of a starving man cataloguing crumbs.
Music drifted through the doors—Isadora’s voice raised in song, though the melody was unfamiliar. Something bright and simple, designed for children rather than accomplished musicians. Beneath it he caught another sound that made his chest tighten: Lillian’s laughter, genuine and unguarded in ways she’d never been with him.
His hand remained frozen on the handle. Logic screamed that he should leave. He should respect their privacy, continue the careful distance he’d been maintaining. He should absolutely not intrude on whatever lesson they’d arranged.
But he was so damned tired of logic. Tired of the walls he’d built, tired of the isolation he’d convinced himself was necessary. Tired of lying awake at night remembering the way Isadora had looked at him during the Fairfax dinner—as though she saw past his scars to something worth wanting.
Before she’d learned better. Before he’d reminded her that wanting him was folly.
He turned the handle.
The drawing room blazed with afternoon light that transformed winter into something approaching magic. Furniture had been pushed against walls to create space on the carpet, and Christmas decorations adorned every surface with a warmthentirely absent from the rest of his carefully preserved house. Holly wound through candlesticks, evergreen boughs arranged with surprising artistry, even paper chains strung between windows that could only be Lillian’s handiwork.
But Edmund barely registered the festive transformation. His attention fixed entirely on the two women moving together across the carpet in what appeared to be dance steps, though Lillian’s execution was enthusiastic rather than technically sound.
“One, two, three—no, darling, your left foot first.” Isadora’s voice carried patient instruction without the sharp edge that characterized Mrs. Hale’s teaching. “Like this. Watch my feet rather than worrying about your own.”
She demonstrated the sequence with fluid grace that made Edmund’s throat close. This was the woman he’d married—brilliant and kind and apparently determined to teach his ward social graces despite receiving nothing but coldness in return.
And she was beautiful. Not in the porcelain-doll way London ladies cultivated, but with the sort of natural elegance that came from genuine confidence rather than mere performance.
How had he convinced himself he could maintain distance from this woman? How had he imagined their arrangement could remain purely practical when watching her laugh with his ward made him want things he had no right to desire?
“I shall never learn,” Lillian groaned, tripping over her hem with enough violence to send her stumbling. “My feet simply refuse to cooperate with my intentions.”
“Nonsense.” Isadora caught her before she could fall, steadying the girl with gentle hands that Edmund had felt against his own arm, his shoulder, burning through fabric during their brief dance at the Fairfax dinner. “You will master this. It just takes some practice and a partner who doesn’t mind missteps. Dancing is meant to be enjoyed, not endured.”
She hummed another phrase of that bright melody, guiding Lillian through steps with patience Edmund had never possessed. His ward’s face was flushed with exertion and something that looked dangerously like happiness—an expression he’d failed to inspire during six months of determined guardianship.
The observation settled like lead in his chest. Here was evidence of his inadequacy made manifest: Isadora had accomplished in weeks what he couldn’t achieve in half a year. Had brought light to Lillian’s eyes, laughter to her voice, joy to an existence Edmund had reduced to rigid schedules and careful isolation.
What right did he have to intrude on this? What possible good could his presence bring to their lesson?
