Tobias studied him with the sort of penetrating attention that had always made Edmund uncomfortable. “And what makes you think she’ll accept? Her father can afford to be choosy—she could have her pick of suitable husbands without the inconvenience of a scandalous reputation attached.”
“Perhaps,” Edmund conceded. “But I have certain advantages that other suitors lack.”
“Such as?”
Edmund’s smile turned genuinely predatory, the expression that had earned him his dangerous reputation and made grown men step carefully around him for the past decade. “I’ve seen how she looks at injustice, Tobias. Lady Isadora Cavendish has a crusader’s heart beating beneath all that polished perfection. She wants to matter, to make a difference in the world beyond drawing room gossip and charity bazaars.”
“And you think marrying you will satisfy that desire?”
“I think marrying me will give her the power to protect people like Lillian from predators like Bickham. I think it will let her use that fierce spirit for something more meaningful than selecting the perfect shade of ribbon for her bonnets.” Edmund resumed his seat, reaching for his whiskey with hands that remained perfectly steady despite the magnitude of what he was planning. “She’s wasted on the marriage mart, Tobias. All that fire and intelligence channeled into nothing more significant than producing heirs for some merchant’s son who’ll never appreciate what he’s acquired.”
“So you’re going to rescue her from a life of comfortable obscurity by offering her what—a lifetime tied to a man societyconsiders dangerous? A husband who brings scandal instead of respectability? Edmund, you’re not thinking clearly.”
But Edmund was thinking clearly—perhaps more clearly than he had in years. Lady Isadora had revealed herself in that alcove, had shown him glimpses of a woman who was capable of far more than society expected from her. She deserved better than the safe, suffocating future her father was no doubt planning, just as Lillian deserved better than a guardian who was too paralyzed by the past to help her face the future.
“I’m thinking that she needs purpose as much as Lillian needs protection,” he said quietly. “And that perhaps, if I’m very fortunate, we might be able to provide those things for each other.”
Tobias shook his head slowly, but Edmund could see the resignation in his friend’s eyes. They’d known each other too long for Tobias to waste energy trying to talk him out of decisions once they’d been made.
“Very well,” Tobias said finally. “Assuming you can convince Lady Isadora to overlook your many and obvious flaws, how exactly do you plan to court her? You’ve spent the last ten years perfecting the art of frightening away anyone who might want to get close to you.”
“I don’t intend to court her,” Edmund replied, the words carrying a finality that made the air between them suddenly thick with tension. “I intend to offer her a choice.”
The look Tobias gave him was equal parts admiration and horror. “Edmund, please tell me you’re not planning to?—”
“Propose? Yes, I am. Tomorrow, in fact.” Edmund drained his whiskey, savoring the burn as it traced fire down his throat. “Lady Isadora is practical beneath all that elegance. She’ll understand the advantages of an alliance with the Duke of Rothwell, just as I understand the advantages of having her strength and intelligence at my disposal.”
“And if she refuses?”
Edmund’s smile was sharp enough to draw blood. “Then I’ll simply have to be more persuasive.”
A confident smirk appeared around his lips. Edmund Ravensleigh had never learned to accept defeat gracefully, had never backed down from a fight that mattered to him. And this—protecting Lillian, claiming the one woman who’d managed to intrigue him in years—mattered more than anything had since that terrible morning when James Gray’s blood had stained his hands.
Tomorrow, he would lay siege to Lady Isadora Cavendish’s practical heart. And God help them both, he intended to win.
CHAPTER 4
The frost had turned the windows of Cavendish House into sheets of crystalline lace, each pane etched with patterns that reminded Isadora of the delicate needlework her governess had once forced her to master. She pressed her forehead against the cold glass, watching the servants below wrestle holly garlands into submission around the iron railings. Their breath formed white clouds in the December air, and she found herself envying their simple purpose—string the greenery, tie the ribbons, make the house ready for Christmas. No one expected them to smile prettily while their lives were bartered away like livestock at market.
The irony wasn’t lost on her that Christmas preparations should feel so much like funeral arrangements.
She’d been summoned to the library an hour ago. Father’s note had been characteristically brief: My study. Immediately. The sort of terse command that had preceded every major disappointment of her three-and-twenty years. When she wastwelve, it had been the announcement that she would no longer be permitted to visit the stables unaccompanied. At seventeen, the declaration that her involvement with the local orphanage was “unseemly for a lady of her station.” Last year, the lecture about her responsibility to marry well and stop embarrassing him with her “peculiar notions.”
She suspected today’s summons would make all previous disappointments seem trivial by comparison.
“Lady Isadora?” Jenny appeared in the doorway, wringing her hands in a way that suggested she’d been listening at keyholes again. “His Lordship is asking for you. Again. He seems rather... insistent.”
Insistent. What a delightfully understated way to describe the Earl of Wexford when his patience had reached its natural conclusion. Isadora could picture him now—standing behind his mahogany desk like a general surveying a battlefield, calculating which pieces to sacrifice for the greater good of his political ambitions.
She’d always known this day would come. Had watched her sister Charlotte marry the Marquess of Pembroke at twenty with all the enthusiasm of a lamb approaching slaughter, then disappear into the northern estates to produce heirs and manage household accounts. Had endured three years of increasingly pointed comments about her unmarried state, her advancing age, her stubborn refusal to accept perfectly adequate proposals from perfectly tedious men.
But knowing and accepting were different creatures entirely.
“Help me look presentable,” she said, turning from the window with the sort of resigned determination she imagined martyrs must have felt on their way to the flames. “If I’m to be sacrificed for the family honor, I might as well look dignified while it happens.”
Jenny worked quickly, pinning Isadora’s hair into a severe chignon that would meet Father’s standards for propriety while doing nothing to soften the sharp angles of her face. The dark green morning dress she selected was one of his favorites—modest neckline, long sleeves, not a single ruffle or ribbon to suggest frivolity. The sort of garment that proclaimed its wearer to be a serious person worthy of serious consideration.
Though she suspected Father’s definition of “serious consideration” would prove rather different from her own.
