And it was working. Lillian had bloomed under Isadora’s influence. Laughed more. Showed less of the careful wariness she’d carried since arriving at the Abbey. Actually seemed happy.
But watching them together hurt in ways Edmund hadn’t anticipated. Because it reminded him forcibly of what he’d nearly claimed. What he’d pushed away out of fear.
A knock at the door.
“Enter.”
Mrs. Pemberton appeared. The housekeeper’s expression carried the sort of careful neutrality that suggested this wasn’t a social call.
“Your Grace. A word, if I may.”
Edmund gestured her in. Braced himself.
“Her Grace has requested that several rooms be opened for cleaning and airing. The drawing room, the music room, the gallery.” Mrs. Pemberton’s tone remained professional. “She feels the house would benefit from more light and warmth. Particularly with Christmas approaching.”
Translation: Isadora was trying to brighten the house despite Edmund’s determined efforts to keep it cold and closed.
“Tell Her Grace she may arrange the household as she sees fit.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” But Mrs. Pemberton didn’t leave. Simply stood there with that careful expression.
“Was there something else?”
“If I may observe, Your Grace—the staff have noticed a certain... tension. Between you and Her Grace. And Miss Lillian has been asking questions.”
Edmund’s jaw tightened. “What sort of questions?”
“Whether duchesses are meant to cry in empty rooms when they think no one is watching.”
The words struck like fists. Edmund turned back to the window.
“That will be all, Mrs. Pemberton.”
“Your Grace.” She curtsied. Left with disappointment written in the set of her shoulders.
Edmund remained at the window. Watching Isadora and Lillian. Watching what he’d nearly had and pushed away.
The cold was safer. The isolation more familiar.
Even if it felt like dying slowly from the inside out.
Dinner that evening was torture.
They sat at opposite ends of the table—Edmund at the head, Isadora at the foot, miles of polished mahogany between them. Lillian occupied the middle, glancing between them with worry that she poorly concealed.
No one spoke beyond necessary pleasantries. Servants moved through their duties with funeral quiet. The Christmas decorations throughout the dining room seemed to mock the atmosphere with their festive cheer.
Edmund cut his pheasant with mechanical precision. Chewed without tasting. Forced himself not to look at Isadora.
But he was aware of her every movement. The graceful way she handled her fork. The slight tension in her shoulders. The careful control she maintained that couldn’t quite hide the hurt underneath.
“Will we be attending the Fairfax Christmas gathering?” Lillian’s voice cut through the silence. Tentative. Testing.
“That depends,” Edmund said. Noncommittal. Safe.
“On what?”
“On whether your lessons are completed satisfactorily. On whether Mrs. Hale feels you’re ready for such an appearance.”
