“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He nodded slowly. Then his gaze shifted—past her, to where Thaddeus stood rigid and silent by the desk.
Maribel watched Oliver’s small face as he studied the Duke. She saw him draw a breath, saw his fingers tighten on the wooden dog. Then, without a word, he walked past her.
His bare feet made soft sounds against the carpet. He walked past the chairs, past the corner of the desk, until he stood directly before Thaddeus.
The Duke looked down at him. His hands remained clasped behind his back, but Maribel noticed the slight movement of his throat as he swallowed.
“You will not make her go?” Oliver’s voice was barely above a whisper.
The silence stretched.
Thaddeus looked at her coldly. He then knelt down, his eyes meeting Oliver’s. Maribel watched them silently.
“No,” he said at last. His voice was rough, uneven. “I will not make her go.”
Oliver nodded again, that same slow, solemn movement. Then he turned and walked back to Maribel.
His small hand slipped into hers.
The gesture was wordless. The gesture was everything.
Maribel’s fingers closed around his, and her chest ached with a pain that was also fierce, bright joy. Oliver had made his choice, and he had made it clear. Whatever arrangements existed between the adults, whatever terms and conditions and boundaries—none of it meant as much as this.
She rose, Oliver’s hand still clasped in hers. When she looked up, Thaddeus was watching them. His face had gone very still.
“Take him to breakfast,” he said. His voice was quiet. “Mrs. Allen will show you to the manor afterward. We can discuss the particulars of your role once you have settled in.”
A dismissal. But not an unkind one.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
She led Oliver toward the door. His small fingers were warm against her palm, and he pressed close to her side as they walked.
They had nearly reached the threshold when Thaddeus spoke again.
“Lady Maribel.”
She paused. Turned.
He stood where she had left him, framed by the grey morning light from the windows behind. His hands remained clasped at his back, his posture rigid, his expression controlled.
“Your sister,” he said. “Margaret.” He paused. His throat moved again. “She was... a remarkable woman.”
Maribel’s breath caught. The words hung in the air between them—an admission, an offering, a crack in the wall he had built.
“Yes,” she said softly. “She was.”
She turned and guided Oliver through the doorway, her heart beating too fast, her thoughts racing ahead to all that lay before them.
The corridor stretched cool and quiet around them. Oliver’s hand remained firmly in hers, anchoring her to the present moment.
“Maribel?” His voice was small.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
