“Because this is a practical arrangement,” Edmund cut in. The words tasted like ash. “Nothing more.”
“Keep telling yourself that. Perhaps eventually you’ll believe it.”
After Tobias departed—muttering something about stubborn fools and wasted opportunities—Edmund remained in his chair. Staring at the fire. Trying not to think about hazel eyes and the way Isadora’s voice had softened when she’d said his name.
Trying. Failing.
The truth was Tobias had understated the problem considerably. Edmund wasn’t merely watching Isadora. He was cataloguing her. Every gesture, every smile, every moment when she tilted her head just so while listening to Lillian’s enthusiastic descriptions of poetry.
At meals, he tracked the graceful movement of her hands. The way she cut her food with precise efficiency, the delicate arch of her wrist when she lifted her teacup. He noticed when she was genuinely amused versus simply being polite—the real laughter reached her eyes, made them sparkle like whiskey in sunlight.
When she played the pianoforte in the drawing room, he found excuses to pass by. Lingered in corridors to hear the music drifting through closed doors. Mozart mostly, thoughoccasionally something more modern. Her fingers moved across the keys with confidence that suggested years of practice, and he wondered what else those hands could do with such skill.
And in the gardens—heaven help him, the gardens were worst of all. He’d taken to watching from his study window as she walked with Lillian among the winter roses. The girl had bloomed under Isadora’s influence, laughing more freely than Edmund had ever heard. And Isadora herself seemed lighter there, unburdened by the careful performance she maintained in company.
He told himself it was paternal concern. Interest in Lillian’s wellbeing. Nothing to do with the way Isadora’s auburn hair caught the weak December sunlight, or how her laughter carried across frost-covered lawns.
He was lying to himself. Again.
The struggle was constant. Isadora was everywhere—in the breakfast room with her quiet morning greetings, in the library selecting books, in corridors decorated with Christmas greenery that reminded him forcibly of their near-kiss. Her presence had seeped into every corner of Rothwell Abbey, brightening spaces that had been cold and empty for years.
Her wit slipped beneath his defenses with alarming regularity. She’d made him laugh twice at dinner the previous evening with her dry observations about Yorkshire society. Actually laugh, not the rusty approximation he’d managed before. The sound had startled them both.
And her touch—that casual brush of fingers against his scar—lingered in his memory like a brand. He could still feel the ghost of her fingertips tracing the mark. Gentle where everyone else flinched away. Accepting where society saw only shame.
He could not afford desire. Could not allow hope. These were the truths he repeated like prayers.
And yet every time she entered a room, his resolve crumbled a little more.
It was frustrating beyond anything he had ever experienced. He felt suffocated by everything, by her presence and her absence. He knew not what to do with any of it.
The gallery was Edmund’s refuge when the house felt too small and the walls too close. Perhaps, he thought, that was where he ought to be now. Just to find some form of relief.
Which was why he rushed to the gallery, where he stood before the portrait of his mother, studying features he’d nearly forgotten. She’d died when he was twelve, leaving him with only fragments of memory—her laughter, the way she’d smelled of lavender, the warmth in her eyes when she’d looked at his father. She was the one who had taught him to feel, encouraged him to be kind.
He often how a woman as soft and gentle as her could love his father, who had taken pride in being a ‘hard’ man.
The other duchesses lined the walls in silent judgment. Generations of Ravensleigh women who’d navigated the treacherous waters of duty and expectation. Some had succeeded. Others had drowned under the weight.
He wondered which category Isadora would fall into. If their practical arrangement would eventually suffocate her spirit, or if she was strong enough to thrive despite the constraints.
“The fifth duchess has your eyes.”
Edmund’s entire body went rigid. He hadn’t heard her approach—had been too lost in thought to notice footsteps on marble.
Isadora stood several feet away, studying the portrait in question. She’d changed for dinner, wore deep green silk that brought out the warm tones in her hair. The Christmas candles Mrs. Pemberton had lit throughout the gallery cast her face in soft light.
“My great-great-grandmother,” Edmund managed. His voice sounded rougher than intended. “She was reportedly quite formidable.”
“I can see the resemblance.” Isadora moved closer to examine the painting. “Though she lacks your particular intensity. Or perhaps the artist was too intimidated to capture it properly.”
Despite everything, Edmund felt his lips twitch. “Are you suggesting I’m intimidating, Your Grace?”
“I’m suggesting you cultivate an intimidating presence to keep the world at arm’s length.” She turned to face him directly. “Whether it actually works is another matter entirely.”
They stood there in the lamplight. Close enough for conversation but carefully maintaining distance. Edmund could smell rosewater and something uniquely her—some combination of soap and woman that made his chest tight.
“You’re studying the duchesses,” he observed. Safer topic than whatever dangerous current was pulling them together.
