And that was a leap of faith too terrifying to contemplate.
So instead he stood alone in his locked chambers, separated from his wife by mere corridors that felt like chasms, andwondered at what point protecting his heart had become indistinguishable from destroying it.
CHAPTER 22
“The coffee is cold.”
Edmund’s voice was flat and he blankly stared at his cup. Didn’t look up. Didn’t meet Isadora’s eyes across the breakfast table.
As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t.
Because looking at her meant remembering the gallery. Her touch against his scar. The way she’d felt in his arms before terror had driven him to push her away.
“I’ll have Henderson bring fresh.” Isadora’s tone matched his—carefully neutral, stripped of warmth.
She rose from the table. Left without another word.
Edmund sat alone with eggs he couldn’t eat and toast that tasted like ash. The Christmas centerpiece mocked him with its festive cheer. Holly and ivy wound through silver. Red berries bright as blood.
He’d kissed her two days ago. Allowed himself one moment of complete honesty. One perfect instant where the walls had crumbled and he’d shown her everything he felt.
Then he’d fled like the coward he was.
I apologize, Your Grace. This cannot happen.
The words still tasted like poison.
Henderson returned with fresh coffee. Poured without comment. But Edmund caught the disappointment in the butler’s careful neutrality. The household had noticed. Of course they had. Servants always knew when their masters were destroying themselves.
Edmund drank the coffee. Bitter. Hot enough to burn.
Better than thinking about Isadora’s face when he’d pushed her away. Better than remembering how she’d looked at him—like he’d broken something precious she’d been foolish enough to offer.
He finished his breakfast alone. Left for his study without seeing her again.
It was safer that way. Cleaner.
Cold.
The afternoon found Edmund at his desk, pretending to work.
Ledgers spread before him. Account books that required attention. Correspondence from his steward about tenant concerns and crop rotations and a dozen other matters that typically demanded his complete focus.
He couldn’t concentrate on any of it.
Every time he tried, his mind replayed the gallery. Her whispered challenge. The way she’d risen onto her toes. How close they’d been to?—
Edmund slammed the ledger shut. Rose and moved to the window.
Outside, winter sunshine struggled through clouds. Weak December light that barely warmed the frost-covered grounds. He could see the rose garden from here. The beds Isadora had begun tending before everything fell apart.
She was there now. Walking among the dormant plants with Lillian at her side. The girl was animated—gesturing, clearly telling some story. And Isadora listened with the sort of patient attention that had become second nature to her.
They looked like family. Like mother and daughter.
The image made Edmund’s chest constrict.
He’d wanted this. Had married Isadora specifically to provide Lillian with feminine guidance. To give the girl a chance at normalcy despite the circumstances of her birth.
