She Slapped England’s Most Feared Duke… Then He Refused to Let Her Go

Chapter 8

London society did not require proof to destroy a woman. Whispers were enough.

Within two days of Lady Harrington’s discovery, the rumors began to spread through the drawing rooms of Mayfair like perfume drifting through silk curtains. A governess visiting the Duke’s private library at night. Repeatedly. Alone. Candles burning until the small hours.

Some called it scandal. Others called it seduction. By the end of the week, the story had grown uglier — a governess contriving to catch a duke, a fortune-hunter in wool, a woman who had not scrupled to slap a man in public because no other method of attracting his attention had occurred to her.

And Isabelle knew exactly who had started it.

Lady Harrington was a master of the craft. She had not signed her name to a single rumor — she had only let the first one drop, carelessly, in the hearing of a woman who loved to talk. The rest had done themselves, as wildfire does.

Isabelle felt the change in the house first. The maids who had been polite became silent. The footmen found reasons to cross the hall behind her. The cook, who had always kept a piece of toast warm for her, stopped meeting her eyes. Even the flowers in her room changed — fresh ones were fewer, and finally, none at all.

Charlotte, at least, remained herself. “Why does everyone whisper when you walk past, Miss Fairmont?”

“People whisper about many things, my lady.”

“They didn’t whisper before the ball.”

“No.” Isabelle smiled, and her heart ached. “They didn’t.”

The tension reached its peak at the Harrington Spring Ball.

Crystal chandeliers flooded the grand ballroom with golden light. Violins floated through the air, distilled honey, and ladies in shimmering gowns glided across polished marble like painted swans. The scent of hundreds of roses — imported, hothouse roses, each one worth a farmhand’s yearly wage — hung over everything.

And Isabelle Fairmont stood alone near the wall. Invisible again.

But this time, the invisibility felt different.

Now the whispers followed her, close enough to touch.

Is that the governess? The one from the scandal?

They say the Duke keeps her in his library at night. In his private rooms.

How improper.

How — clever.

Isabelle kept her gaze calm, her spine straight. She had endured worse humiliations before — she had worn her father’s disgrace like a second skin for five years — but the cruelty still burned. It always burned. One simply learned to stand very still while it did.

Across the ballroom, the Duke of Harrington stood surrounded by diplomats and generals. Tall, immaculate, untouchable. Every woman in the room watched him. Every man listened when he spoke. He looked exactly as London expected him to look: cold, controlled, unreachable, assembled from marble and manners.

Yet suddenly — his eyes lifted. And found hers.

For one suspended moment, the ballroom vanished. The music faded. The warmth of the chandeliers went dim. He missed a step in the conversation — the smallest pause, invisible to anyone who was not watching him like a hawk. One of the ministers frowned, and the Duke recovered instantly, the mask sliding back into place.

The Duke of Harrington never showed weakness in public.

Never.

Still — a few minutes later, he excused himself, and disappeared toward the terrace.

Isabelle should have ignored it. She should have remained inside, safe among polite lies and controlled smiles. That was what a clever woman would have done. That was what a governess would have done, one who had any intention of surviving the season.

But something inside her refused.

Her feet moved before reason could stop them.

The terrace door stood half-open. Cool night air drifted inside, smelling of wet leaves and night-blooming jasmine. Moonlight washed across pale stone columns and climbing ivy, turning the gardens silver and black.

And the Duke stood alone beside the balustrade, his back to her, hands resting on the marble.

“You may come out, Miss Fairmont.”

Her breath caught.

“I know you’re there.”

She stepped forward slowly, her dress rustling against the stone. “I did not intend to follow you.”

“Yet here you are.”

“Yes.” She came to stand a careful distance away, at the balustrade’s other end. “Here I am.”

He turned. The silver light softened the severity of his face, made him look younger, made him look — for the first time since she had known him — tired.

“You should return to the ballroom.”

“I will.” A pause. “In a moment.”

Silence stretched between them. The distant music floated through the open doors, faint and sweet.

“You should not have come tonight,” he said quietly.

“My position requires it, your grace. London expects to see the scandal in person.”

“And the rumors?” His voice was rough. “I have heard them. I know what they are saying about you.”

“Then you know what they are saying about you as well.”

“I am a duke. They will say it anyway, whatever I do.”

Isabelle lifted her chin. “I have lived with worse. I will not hide because society dislikes the truth.”

Something stirred in his expression — something dangerous. He stepped closer. “You are remarkably stubborn.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Yes.” Another step. Closer now. The moonlight pooled between them. “You realize what my sister is doing.”

“Yes.”

“She intends to force me to dismiss you.”

“Then you should.”

The word surprised him. “You want to leave?”

“No.” Her voice softened. “But I will not be the reason your reputation suffers. You have spent your life building what you are. I will not be the chisel that chips it away.”

The Duke stared at her.

“Miss Fairmont.”

“Yes?”

“My reputation survived wars.” His gaze darkened. “I doubt a governess could destroy it.”

Despite the tension, Isabelle almost smiled. “That is very flattering, your grace.”

“It is accurate. Which is worth more.”

But before she could answer, another voice cut through the night.

“Dominic.”

Both turned.

A woman stood at the terrace doorway, framed by golden light. Lady Victoria Lennox. Her emerald gown shimmered beneath the lantern light, dark hair arranged like a crown, and everything about her — the tilt of her head, the curve of her smile, the way she inhabited her beauty — belonged utterly to the world of silk and candlewax from which Isabelle had been banished.

She stopped when she saw Isabelle. “Oh.”

The word carried quiet judgment, perfectly polite, perfectly poisonous.

The Duke’s expression hardened slightly. “Victoria. I wondered where you had vanished.”

Her eyes moved slowly between them — measuring, cataloguing, filing away. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Nothing of consequence.”

Victoria’s smile was polite. Too polite. “My father mentioned that your mother wishes us to dine together tomorrow.”

The Duke did not answer immediately. Victoria’s gaze lingered on Isabelle — a slow, comprehensive survey, from the hem of her plain gown to the knot of her hair.

“A private dinner,” she added, letting the words settle. “Just the two of us. I believe our mothers have hopes.”

The implication hung in the air, heavier than the jasmine. Future engagement. Society has already decided. Dominic Karstair and Victoria Lennox were inevitable. Every drawing room in London had said so for two years.

Isabelle felt the quiet sting of something she refused to name.

“I should return inside,” she said softly, and moved toward the doors.

But his voice stopped her.

“Miss Fairmont.”

She turned. “Yes?”

His expression had changed again — serious now, almost troubled. “Do not believe everything London says.”

Victoria’s smile thinned. “And what exactly is London saying?” she asked sweetly.

The Duke did not look at her. His eyes remained fixed on Isabelle.

“That Miss Fairmont is far more dangerous than she appears.”

Isabelle held his gaze. “Dangerous to whom?”

His answer came softly. “To any man foolish enough to underestimate her.”

Their eyes locked for a moment — a long, electric moment, full of current, full of unspoken things.

Then Isabelle turned and returned to the ballroom.

Behind her, Victoria studied the Duke carefully.

“You’re distracted tonight.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” Her voice was soft, but her eyes were sharp. “You rarely notice governesses, Dominic.”

He looked out across the dark gardens. “You’re right.”

“And yet this one seems to interest you.”

He said nothing.

Victoria stepped closer. “Be careful, Dominic. London forgives a duke many sins.” She glanced toward the ballroom doors, where the scandal had just walked back into the light. “But not if he ruins himself for a woman beneath his station.”

The Duke’s jaw tightened for the first time that evening, and when he spoke, his voice held steel.

“Miss Fairmont is beneath no one.”

Victoria’s eyes widened slightly.

The silence that followed said everything.

And somewhere deep in Dominic Karstair’s mind, a dangerous realization began to form.

The game had changed.

And he might already be losing it.