Page 28 of A Duchess for my Ward
She turned to face Mrs. Hale directly, noting how the older woman’s hands had begun their nervous twisting—a gesture thatseemed to be endemic among the Abbey’s staff whenever they found themselves the focus of attention. “How long have you been responsible for Lillian’s education?”
“Nearly six months, Your Grace,” the governess replied stiffly, drawing herself up with wounded dignity. “Since His Grace determined Miss Gray required more structured guidance in her studies.”
“And what, precisely, does that structured guidance entail?”
Mrs. Hale’s chest puffed with pride at the opportunity to defend her methods. “The curriculum I have implemented focuses on the essential accomplishments required of a properly bred young lady. Poetry suitable for feminine sensibilities, basic history and geography, French conversation, watercolor painting, and of course, deportment and household management. Everything necessary to prepare Miss Gray for marriage to a gentleman of appropriate standing.”
The recitation sounded rehearsed, as though Mrs. Hale had delivered this same speech to justify her methods before. Isadora wondered how many other bright young minds had been systematically dulled by such an approach to education.
“I see.” Isadora picked up one of the books from Lillian’s desk—a slim volume bound in pink leather with gilt lettering that proclaimed it to be “Moral Tales for Young Ladies of Breeding.” She flipped through several pages, noting the infantile language and simpering moral lessons that would insult a ten-year-old’s intelligence, much less someone of Lillian’s obvious intellectualcapacity. “And you believe these materials adequately challenge a mind of Lillian’s caliber?”
The question was posed mildly, but Edmund’s eyes sharpened with warning. He recognized that tone—the same careful politeness she’d employed when dismantling arguments in her father’s drawing room, the prelude to observations that left opponents scrambling for dignity.
“The materials are entirely appropriate for a young lady of Miss Gray’s station,” Mrs. Hale replied, though uncertainty had crept into her voice. The woman was beginning to sense that this conversation was not proceeding according to her expectations. “His Grace specifically requested that her education focus on practical accomplishments rather than... unsuitable intellectual pursuits.”
“She is fifteen, Your Grace,” Isadora said, turning to address Edmund directly. Her heart hammered against her stays as she met his penetrating stare, but she refused to let intimidation deflect her from what needed to be said. The Christmas morning light streaming through the schoolroom windows caught the scar along his jaw, making it appear more pronounced, a stark reminder of whatever violence had shaped him. “She needs guidance and instruction, not scolding. What she requires is a governess trained to prepare her for society, not to be treated as if she were still in the nursery.”
Edmund went completely still—the predatory stillness that preceded either violence or the sort of cutting words that could destroy a person’s composure entirely. When he spoke, his voicecarried the precise enunciation that made every syllable feel like a weapon being deployed with surgical accuracy.
“She has no need for society.”
The words hung flat and final between them, but Isadora had not come this far to be dismissed with such casual dismissal of a young woman’s future. Behind those four words lay everything that was wrong with how he approached his guardianship—fear disguised as protection, control masquerading as care.
“She has every need for it,” she replied, refusing to lower her gaze despite the way his green eyes seemed to burn through her composure. “Would you have her hidden away forever? Without proper teaching, she will suffer for it. A girl of her intelligence deserves better than to be kept ignorant of the world she must eventually enter. Surely you would not wish that for James’s daughter.”
The mention of Lillian’s father struck home with devastating accuracy. Edmund’s face went white around his scar, and for a moment a shadow settled in the depths of his eyes. She had found his weakness—the guilt he carried over his friend’s death, the weight of promises made to a dying man.
Lillian looked between them with wide eyes, clearly sensing the undercurrents of tension that had nothing to do with educational philosophy and everything to do with the complex dance of authority and attraction that seemed to follow wherever she and Edmund occupied the same space. The girl’s breathing had quickened, and Isadora could see her torn between hope forchange and terror of the consequences if this confrontation went badly.
Mrs. Hale, uncomfortable under the weight of the charged atmosphere that had nothing to do with curriculum disputes, cleared her throat delicately. “Perhaps... that is, if Your Grace would excuse me, I believe I should review the lesson plans for tomorrow’s instruction...”
She gathered her materials with hands that shook slightly, the pink-bound books and carefully prepared notes scattered across the desk in her haste to escape. Her curtsy was performed with the speed of someone desperate to avoid whatever explosion was building between the Duke and his new Duchess.
Edmund stepped closer, his boots silent on the polished floor despite his size. He moved with the controlled grace of a predator, and when he reached speaking distance, Isadora could catch the familiar scent of his cologne—sandalwood and bergamot and something darker that made her pulse flutter in ways she refused to examine too closely.
“You presume too much, Lady Isadora,” he said coldly. “I am her guardian. I shall decide what is best for her.”
But Isadora had spent too many years learning how to understand stubborn masculine pride to be cowed by displays of authority, no matter how magnificently they were performed. She had watched her father intimidate lesser men with similar tactics, had learned to recognize when power was being wielded to avoid rather than engage with uncomfortable truths.
She lifted her chin, meeting his stare with the sort of direct challenge that most people were careful never to offer the Dangerous Duke of Rothwell. “And I am your duchess,” she replied, voice steady despite the way her heart was racing against her ribs. “If I am to stand beside you in this household, if I am to help you protect and guide this girl who clearly needs both of us, then you must allow me to do my duty. She deserves more than your fear.”
The word ‘fear’ seemed to strike him, and he recoiled visibly. His nostrils flared, and she saw his hands clench behind his back—a gesture so brief it might have been imagined, but telling nonetheless. Here was the Duke of Rothwell, peer of the realm, master of all he surveyed, and she had reduced him to clenched fists and defensive postures with a single observation.
“I am not afraid,” he said, voice dropping to the sort of dangerous quiet that had probably preceded duels in his younger days. “I am protective. There is a difference.”
“Is there? Because from where I stand, it appears you are so terrified of allowing her to grow into the intelligent woman she was meant to become that you would rather keep her trapped in perpetual childhood than risk her developing opinions that might challenge your authority.”
Lillian made a small sound—half gasp, half sob—at this articulation of what she had never dared voice herself. The girl’s hand flew to her mouth as though she could somehow take back the reaction, but it was too late. Her agreement with Isadora’s assessment was written clearly across her features.
Isadora’s attention remained fixed on Edmund’s face, watching the way her words penetrated his careful armor and found their mark in whatever vulnerable place he kept hidden beneath layers of control and isolation.
She was aware, too, of her own response to his proximity—the way her skin seemed to tighten whenever he moved closer, the flutter in her stomach that had nothing to do with nervousness and everything to do with the dangerous magnetism that seemed to radiate from his carefully controlled presence. This close, she could see the individual threads of silver in his dark hair, could count the fine lines around his eyes that spoke of years spent squinting into Yorkshire wind and weather.
At last, Edmund stepped back, breaking the spell that had held them frozen in opposition. His expression shuttered, walls sliding into place behind his eyes with almost audible finality.
“Do as you wish,” he said at last. “But do not imagine you can bend me to your will. I have managed quite well without feminine interference in my household arrangements, and I am not inclined to begin seeking such guidance now.”
He turned toward the door with movements that spoke of rigid self-control, each step measured and deliberate. But he paused at the threshold, his hand gripping the door frame with enough force that his knuckles showed white against the polished wood.
