He stood tall in his dark riding coat, the morning sun catching in his hair. The breadth of his shoulders, the easy command in his voice, and the masculine grace he always held… He was magnificent.
They lived under the same roof, but it felt like she hadn’t seen him in months.
Aurelia forced herself to move toward him, even though her heart fluttered with each step.
“Your Grace,” she called, her voice steady.
Percival turned, and their eyes met. The cold look in his blue eyes dredged up a certain memory.
“I wish to speak about the estate,” she quickly added.
She wanted him to know that she had been carrying out her duties as the duchess. She wanted to prove that he didn’t have to run away when they could discuss improvements to the estate.
“Some of the rooms… have grown too dull. I thought perhaps?—”
Percival cleared his throat, cutting her off. “Not now.” He tugged on his gloves and looked past her. “There are urgent matters that require my attention.”
And just like that, he was gone, striding away with decisive steps that made her heart ache.
Aurelia was rooted to the spot. She felt her chest heave with fury. But beneath it, there was something worse—desire.
She could still smell the faint spice of his cologne in the air. Could still hear his voice, which sounded like silk made of steel.
And the way he kept his distance? She hated to admit it, but it left her trembling, wanting, and starved.
She took a deep breath, composing herself. If he would not listen, she would not remain idle.
She planned to start small, ordering the maids to draw back the curtains to let in sunlight and dust abandoned rooms.
One of the tasks led her to the half-forgotten attic. The door creaked as she pushed it open, dust welcoming her into the abandoned space.
She didn’t intend to stay long, just to pass some instructions to the maids. But something large caught her eye.
A big canvas was propped against the wall, covered with dust and linen. Curious, Aurelia stepped closer, hesitating before reaching out her hand. When the linen slid to the floor, her breath seized in her lungs.
It was the portrait of a woman.
She was dressed in silk, with her dark hair flowing down her shoulders. There was warmth in her painted eyes and a softness in the curve of her lips.
Aurelia’s throat tightened. She didn’t need a name. Sheknew. She could sense something.
“Who is she?” she whispered.
Linda, her new lady’s maid, stepped forward. “The late duchess, Your Grace.” Her voice was quiet and careful.
Aurelia turned to face her maid, who stood with her arms folded in front of her apron.
“His Grace had her portrait moved up here after…” Linda trailed off, her gaze dropping to the wooden floorboards.
After.
The word echoed in Aurelia’s mind. Something about it hinted at a history she had yet to learn about. A wound that was still bleeding.
She turned back to the painting, her eyes stinging. So this was the woman who had once held Percival’s heart.
The realization hit her like a boulder. Her heart ached. It wasn’t from envy, but from the fact that she could never be what her husband truly wanted.
Percival would never want her the way he wanted the late duchess. Because she was a substitute. A mere solution. A wife on paper and nothing more.
