And for the first time since James’s death, Edmund allowed himself to hope that perhaps—just perhaps—he might deserve happiness after all.
CHAPTER 20
He had come far too close, Edmund realized in the days that passed, to admitting that he cared for her. He could see the fear in her eyes—and he wondered if it was fear of him withdrawing, or fear of him staying. Days had passed since they had held hands in the carriage on the way back from that disastrous dinner. Days since he had admitted to wanting to protect her—which to him, was as vulnerable as he could be.
And in the days that passed, Edmund made a point of avoiding his wife save for breakfast and some dinners. He couldn’t look at her and see the worry in her eyes, couldn’t explain the feelings he did not understand himself.
So, he’d begun keeping to his study and remaining quiet… A quiet that was now interrupted, where he stood in the library, by the irritated sound of her voice.
“Why will you not trust me?”
The question struck through the library like lightning, without warning or preamble.
Edmund stood before the fire, watching whiskey swirl amber in his glass. He didn’t turn. Didn’t need to—he had recognized her footsteps even before she spoke.
Outside, the storm that had been gathering all evening had finally broken over Rothwell Abbey. Rain lashed the windows. Thunder rattled ancient glass in its frames. Mrs. Pemberton’s Christmas garland draped along the mantel filled the room with pine and winter berries—sickeningly sweet in the overheated air.
“You should be abed,” he said simply, trying to keep his voice devoid of emotion. “The hour is late.”
But Isadora had clearly endured enough of his silence. Enough of his walls.
“Why are you avoiding me? Why do you withdraw from me like this? Why can you not trust me?”
The questions hit like a fist to the ribs. Edmund’s fingers tightened around crystal until it groaned. Slowly—because sudden movements would betray too much—he turned.
Isadora stood just inside the doorway. Still dressed though her hair had come loose. She must have rushed through corridors to reach him. Her chest rose and fell with emotion barely contained, hazel eyes blazing in the firelight.
She had endured enough of his silence. Enough of his walls.
That much was written clearly in the set of her shoulders, the tilt of her chin.
“Trust.” He tested the word. “An interesting commodity to demand from a stranger.”
“We are not strangers.” She stepped closer, silk skirts whispering against carpet. “We are husband and wife. We live under the same roof, share the same table. Yet you hide behind cold words and half-truths. You owe me honesty, Your Grace.”
The formality stung worse than any curse.
Edmund’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Isadora.”
The warning emerged soft. Dangerous. The sort of quiet that had silenced Parliament and preceded duels.
Most people possessed the wisdom to recognize when they’d pushed too far.
But she pressed on, braver than her trembling heart admitted.
“No.” One word. Absolute conviction. “I will not be dismissed. Not anymore. I will not stand by while you martyr yourself on some past tragedy I’m not permitted to understand. Tell me what happened. Tell me why they call you dangerous.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Lightning illuminated her face in harsh white before plunging them back to shadows. Thunder followed—closer now, the storm reaching its peak.
Edmund stared at this woman who’d somehow slipped beneath every defense. She stood there trembling slightly, yet refusing to yield ground. Brave. Foolish. Magnificent in her stubborn determination to breach walls that had kept everyone else at bay for ten years.
The crack in his chest widened.
“You want truth?” Rougher than intended. Edmund set down his whiskey because his hands had begun to shake. “Very well. But do not claim later that you weren’t warned. Some doors are better left closed.”
He moved to the window. Stared out at rain-lashed darkness. In the glass, he could see her reflection—watching, waiting with that terrible patience.
