“And… he forgave me. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he said. ‘I do not blame you, so do not dare blame yourself’. Instead, he gave himself the fault. Claimed that he shouldn’t have stood so close.” Edmund’s voice dropped to barely above whisper. “And then he told me about Lillian. About the daughter no one knew existed. Made me promise to protect her when the time came.”
He moved to refill his glass with hands that trembled. Behind him, Isadora’s quiet breathing. The weight of her gaze.
“I promised. What else could I do while my dearest friend bled out in December frost?”
“The seconds tried to testify to the truth at the inquest,” Edmund continued. “Tobias in particular was quite eloquent about the accidental nature of James’s death. But society saw only that I’d called a duel and James Gray had died. That I’d survived with nothing but a scar while my dearest friend was buried. The details mattered less than the scandal.”
“So they called you murderer,” Isadora said. Anger threading through her voice now. “They branded you dangerous and cruel, and you let them believe it.”
“What choice did I have?” Edmund turned to face her. For the first time in ten years, he felt the full weight of his isolation crash over him. “The truth was too complicated. Too easily dismissed as convenient fabrication. James died because of me—because of my foolishness, because of my temper. Because I let rage control me. And I failed him in every way that mattered.”
“That is guilt speaking.” Isadora moved closer. Close enough now that he could see firelight reflected in her eyes, could catch the faint scent of rosewater and something uniquely her. “Guilt and grief and ten years of punishing yourself for tragedy you couldn’t prevent.”
“You don’t understand?—”
“Don’t I?” She stepped closer still, and Edmund found himself backed against the sideboard. “I understand what it means to carry blame that isn’t yours but feels like it should be. I understand the weight of responsibility for things beyond our control. This was an accident, Edmund.”
Her voice had dropped to something soft, but underneath ran steel that reminded him why he’d married this woman.
“You’ve locked yourself away for ten years,” Isadora continued. “Built walls around your heart and convinced yourself you deserve isolation. You’ve let them call you dangerous because somewhere in your damaged mind, you believe you should suffer.”
“I should suffer.” The admission tore from him. “James is dead because of me. Because I was a foolish imbecile who thought I could challenge anyone and overcome, because I didn’t look at what I was doing, because I let my temper get the best of me. What right do I have to happiness when he lies cold in the ground?”
“Every right.” Her hand lifted. “You have every right to live, Edmund. To feel joy and connection and all the things you’ve denied yourself. James’s death was tragedy, but it wasn’t murder. It was accident and fate and terrible timing.”
Without thinking, Isadora reached up, and her fingertips brushed the scar.
The touch seared through him like lightning. Edmund went utterly still, every muscle locked as her fingers traced the length of the mark from jaw to chin. Gentle. Tentative. As though the scar were something precious rather than shameful.
No one had touched it since the surgeon who’d stitched the wound. He’d made certain of that, flinching away from servantswho came too close, turning his scarred side from society’s stares.
But Isadora touched it as though it represented survival rather than failure.
“Enough,” he growled.
His hand shot up, closing around her wrist. Not harsh, but unyielding. The contact sent electricity racing up his arm, made his breath catch.
“Leave me,” he said, though his grip gentled even as he spoke, thumb settling over the pulse point that raced against his touch.
“I will not,” she whispered.
They stood frozen. Connected by that single point of contact while rain lashed the windows and thunder rolled across Yorkshire. Edmund felt the control he’d maintained for a decade beginning to fracture. Something wild and desperate clawing at walls he’d built.
Her wrist was delicate in his grasp. Fragile as bird bones. He could feel her trembling—not with fear but with something else entirely. Something that matched the heat building in his own chest.
“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he said roughly. “No idea what you’re asking.”
“Then show me.” Her free hand lifted, palm settling against his chest over his heart. She could feel it racing beneath wool and linen. “Show me what frightens you so much that you’d rather live in isolation than risk feeling anything real.”
Edmund stared down at her. This woman who’d somehow slipped beneath every defense. Her touch against his scar felt like absolution he didn’t deserve. But the heat in her eyes, the way her lips parted as she looked up at him—that was something else entirely.
Something dangerous.
Something he’d denied himself for ten years because wanting anything felt like betrayal.
“Then I will show you,” he said, voice emerging as barely more than a growl, “why they call me the Dangerous Duke.”
His hand released her wrist only to slide to her waist, pulling her closer with a lack of finesse that should have scandalized them both. Her palm remained against his chest, fingers curling into fabric. His other hand came up to frame her face, thumb brushing across her cheekbone.
