The words landed like blows. Aaron forced himself to meet her gaze, though the concern in her eyes burned worse than the brandy ever could. “She attended Lady Huffington’s poetry reading last night. Hardly withering.”
Cecilia’s eyebrows rose to impressive heights. “You had her followed?”
“I receive reports.” He turned toward the window, toward the garden where nothing grew anymore. The fountain stood silent, its basin filled with dead leaves no one had bothered to clear. “She wore emerald silk. Her brother escorted her. She refused Lord Bradenton’s attention quite properly.”
“She refuses everyone.” Cecilia circled the desk, placing herself between him and his escape route. The morning light through the windows behind her created a halo effect, making her look like an avenging angel in purple silk. “Lord Calderley, Mr. Sheridan, young Lord Ashford, now Bradenton. All perfectly suitable men who would make exemplary husbands.”
Each name felt like salt in wounds that wouldn’t heal. Aaron’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache. “Then she’s maintaining appropriate standards.”
“She’s dying inside, you fool.” The words emerged soft but devastating. “Just as you are.”
“I’m ensuring her freedom to find happiness elsewhere.”
The slap came without warning, sharp enough to snap his head sideways. The crack of palm against cheek echoed in the stillness. Aaron touched his face, genuinely shocked. In thirty-four years, no one had ever dared strike the Duke of Calborough.
“That’s for insulting my intelligence.” Cecilia’s voice vibrated with fury that seemed to make the very air tremble. “You think you’re being noble? You’re being a coward. Worse, you’re being boring about it.”
“I’m being realistic.” Aaron stood, needing the height advantage, though his aunt’s presence seemed to fill the room regardless of physical stature. “You know what Father was. What he did. What he was capable of.”
“I know Charles Morrison was a cruel, selfish man who viewed women as possessions.” She moved closer, her perfume too bright for the stale air, carrying memories of gardens that actually bloomed. “I also know his son spent weeks searching for a wastrel brother who didn’t deserve it. Who protected two vulnerable women without asking for anything in return? Who fought five men in an alley to keep them safe?”
“Basic decency doesn’t erase heredity.”
“No, but choices define character.” She gripped his shoulders, forcing him to face her. Her hands felt bird-fragile but held surprising strength. “You think you’re your father’s son? Charles would have bedded Louise that first night and discarded her within a month. He would have used Emily’s vulnerability as leverage. He would have left George to rot in whatever hole he’d crawled into.”
Aaron tried to pull away, but her grip proved immovable. “Not destroying them doesn’t make me worthy of them.”
“You’re right.” A smile ghosted across her features, transforming her face from stern to almost impish. “You’re not perfect. You brood too much, drink too much, and your tendency toward dramatic self-sacrifice would make Achilles tell you to take a step back.”
Despite himself, Aaron felt his mouth twitch. The movement felt foreign, muscles remembering what they’d forgotten.
“But you know what else you are?” Cecilia released his shoulders, moving to the fireplace where cold ashes spoke of neglect. “You’re a man who reads fairy tales to a six-year-old. Who lets a dog destroy their garden because it makes a child laugh? Who keeps paying for a governess he’ll never see because education matters more than his wounded pride?”
She lifted the small, framed miniature from the mantel. Aaron’s mother looked out from it, young and luminous, cradling him as an infant, her expression caught between pride and awe.
“I had love once.” Cecilia’s voice gentled, carrying the weight of an old grief worn smooth by time. “My William. He died of fever three months after our wedding. Thirty-two years ago, and I still wake some mornings expecting to find him beside me.”
Aaron had rarely heard her speak of her brief marriage, the love that ended before it truly began.
“We waited, you see.” She set down the photograph with careful reverence. “His family objected to the match. My dowry wasn’t sufficient. We spent six months being sensible, letting them attempt to arrange something more suitable for him.” Her fingers traced the frame’s edge. “Then he caught a fever and died within a week.”
She turned back to Aaron, tears making her eyes brilliant as diamonds.
“Do you know what I regret most? Not the marriage that his family opposed. Not the scandal of a rushed wedding. I regretevery single day we wasted being careful. Every moment we didn’t claim because we were waiting for perfect circumstances that never came.”
She crossed back to him, taking his face between her hands with maternal tenderness that made his chest ache.
“Your mother wrote to me before you were born.” Her thumbs brushed his cheekbones, gentle as butterfly wings. “She knew she was dying. The physicians had told her the birth would likely kill her. But she wanted you to live, wanted it desperately.”
Aaron’s throat closed around words that wouldn’t come.
“She said she wanted you to know what real love felt like. Not the obsession Charles offered, that consuming possession that destroyed everything it touched. But something built on trust and choice and joy.” Cecilia’s voice cracked slightly. “She would be heartbroken to see you choosing misery because you’re afraid of becoming someone you could never be.”
“I don’t know how to not be afraid.” The admission scraped out raw, the first completely honest thing he’d said in weeks.
“Then be afraid and do it anyway.” Cecilia released him, stepping back. “Fear is just another feeling, Aaron. It only controls you if you let it. Your father never felt fear because he never risked anything real. You’re terrified because you’re risking everything. That terror is proof of your humanity, not your weakness.”
She moved toward the door, her skirts rustling with purpose. At the threshold, she paused, one hand on the frame.
