The thought made Edmund’s chest constrict. But he couldn’t refuse the port without causing offense that would make matters worse. So he followed into a study reeking of tobacco and masculine self-importance, accepted a glass he had no intention of drinking, and tried to appear interested in Lord Hartley’s tedious observations about crop rotation.
All while his mind remained fixed on the drawing room where his wife faced Yorkshire’s vultures alone.
“Your duchess is quite lovely,” Ashford observed, settling into the chair beside Edmund’s with easy confidence. “Wexford’s daughter, isn’t she? I’d heard she rejected several excellent offers before you appeared on the scene.”
The implication was clear: What did you offer that convinced her to overlook your damaged reputation?
“Lady Isadora possesses excellent judgment,” Edmund replied. “She recognized an advantageous match when presented with one.”
“Advantageous.” Lord Fairfax chuckled, the sound carrying undertones Edmund didn’t like. “Is that what we’re calling it? I’d heard the match was rather... sudden. Barely knew each other, from what the London gossips say.”
“London gossips say many things. Most of them false.”
“But surely—” Ashford leaned forward with avid curiosity that made Edmund want to plant his fist in the man’s face. “Surely there must have been some compelling reason for such haste? A lady of her breeding, marrying within weeks of your first meeting?”
She was expecting. You compromised her. She was desperate to escape some scandal and you were her only option.
Edmund could hear the unspoken accusations clearly as if they’d been shouted. His hand tightened around the port glass, and he forced himself to take a measured sip rather than hurling the contents into Ashford’s smug face.
“My wife and I recognized mutual compatibility,” he said, each word emerging with icy precision. “We saw no reason to delay what was clearly an advantageous alliance for both parties.”
“Mutual compatibility,” Lord Hartley repeated with a smirk. “How very modern of you both. Though I must say, Your Grace, you’ve certainly been the subject of much speculation since your return to society. First the mysterious ward, then the hasty marriage—one can hardly blame people for wondering about the connections between these events.”
The implication was unmistakable. They thought Lillian was his bastard, instead of James’s, that Isadora had been coerced into marriage to provide respectability for his indiscretion.
Edmund set down his port with deliberate care, not trusting himself to hold the glass without shattering it. “I wonder,” he said quietly, his voice dropping to the dangerous register that had once preceded duels, “what speculation interests you most, Hartley? Or should I guess based on the tenor of this conversation?”
The older man paled slightly but pressed on with wine-fueled boldness. “Well, one can’t help but notice the timing. Your ward arrives, suddenly you’re in need of a wife?—”
“My ward arrived because her guardians died,” Edmund interrupted, his patience fracturing. “My marriage occurred because I recognized that a fifteen-year-old girl requires female guidance I cannot provide. There is no scandal beyond what small minds choose to manufacture.”
“Of course not, of course not,” Lord Blackwood interjected hastily. “I’m sure Hartley meant no offense, Your Grace. Merely natural curiosity about?—”
“Curiosity.” Edmund rose from his chair with movements that made several gentlemen flinch. “Is that what we’re calling malicious gossip designed to destroy a child’s reputation? How curious indeed.”
He needed to leave. Needed to escape this suffocating room before he said something that couldn’t be unsaid or did something that would confirm every whisper about his dangerous nature.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, already moving toward the door. “I find I require fresh air.”
Behind him, he heard Ashford mutter something to Hartley—too quiet to make out the words but carrying a tone Edmund recognized. Mockery. Derision. The sort of casual cruelty that men employed when they believed themselves safe from consequence.
Edmund’s hand was on the door handle when Ashford’s voice carried clearly across the study: “Poor girl. To get tied to Rothwell’s scandal. One almost pities her.”
Edmund froze.
“And what sort of wife,” Hartley added with wine-loosened tongue, “allows herself to be tied to such?—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t, because Edmund had crossed the room with speed that belied his size and now stood over Hartley’s chair with an expression that made the older man’s protest die unspoken.
“What did you say?” Edmund’s voice emerged barely above a whisper, but every gentleman in the study heard it clearly.
“I—that is, I merely—” Hartley stammered, his earlier boldness evaporating under Edmund’s cold fury.
“You were discussing my wife,” Edmund said, each word falling like stones into still water. “And my daughter. Please, continue. I’m most interested in hearing your observations about the ladies under my protection.”
“Daughter?” Ashford’s voice cracked slightly. “But I thought?—”
“You thought what, precisely?” Edmund turned his attention to the younger man, and satisfaction flared in his chest when Ashford shrank back in his chair. “That Lillian Gray is my ward only in name? That she’s some shameful secret I’m attempting to legitimize through marriage?”
