She looked, she hoped, like a woman who meant business. A woman who could not be dismissed or intimidated.
She did not feel like that woman. Beneath the composed exterior, her stomach churned with anxiety she refused to name, and her thoughts circled endlessly around the same worn grooves. What if Oliver did not remember her? What if the Duke refused her entry altogether?
Stop, she told herself firmly.You have come this far. You will not falter now.
She thought of the last time she had seen Oliver before the fever struck, at a quiet afternoon visit Margaret had arranged whilst Nicholas was away on business. The boy had shown her his collection of painted soldiers, explaining with grave solemnity which were cavalry and which were infantry, and Maribel had listened as though he were delivering a lecture of the utmost importance.
You are the best listener in the world, Oliver had declared.Even better than Mama.
Margaret had laughed at that, her eyes bright with the contentment of a woman who had built exactly the life she wanted.High praise indeed, my darling.
Maribel’s chest tightened at the memory. She had not known, then, that it would be one of the last peaceful moments they would share. She had not known that within a month, both Margaret and Nicholas would be gone, and the next time she saw the boy, he’d be confused and afraid, weeping with grief. Even then, however, she believed they would manage. She would take care of him, she thought. Then that letter came. He had signed all the right letters and by law, he would be the one to raise Oliver.
The Duke of Blackwood.
Even thinking his name sent a spike of irritation through her veins. Their interactions after the wedding had been cold too. There was only once or twice—the last time, when Margaret was still expecting.
The Duke had made it clear that he thought children ought to be raised with strict structure and order. When she had objected to this, he had dismissed her as though she were naught but a bothersome insect.
Maribel sat up a little straighter when the carriage slowed. This was it.
Blackwood rose before her like something from a dream. It was beautiful, of course. But there was a coldness about it that sent a shiver down her spine.
This was the house that Thaddeus Blackwood had built into a fortress of control.
This was where Oliver now lived.
The carriage halted before the entrance, and Maribel drew a steadying breath before allowing the footman to hand her down. Her heart raced wildly as she approached the door, each step carrying her closer to a confrontation she had rehearsed a hundred times and still did not feel prepared for.
The butler who answered was precisely what she might have expected—silver-haired, impeccably dressed, with stark blue eyes that she was certain saw everything.
“Lady Maribel Ashcroft,” she said, lifting her chin. “I am here to see the child. Oliver.”
The butler’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch—a monumental display of surprise for a man of his profession. “I regret to inform you, my lady, that His Grace does not receive visitors without prior arrangement.”
“I am not here to see the Duke. I am here to see Oliver.”
“The young master is?—”
“Maribel?”
The voice came from somewhere behind the butler, small and uncertain and achingly familiar. Maribel’s heart seized as a figure appeared in the shadowed doorway—slight and pale, dark hair falling across his forehead, those brown eyes that were so much like Margaret’s it hurt to look at them.
Oliver.
He stood frozen for a moment. Then his face crumpled, and he was running toward her, small feet slapping against the marble floor, his whole body trembling as he threw himself into her arms.
“You came,” he whispered against her shoulder, his voice ragged with tears. “You came, you came, I knew you would come?—”
Maribel gathered him close, her eyes burning, her hands trembling as they smoothed across his back. He was thinner than she remembered, his small frame sharp beneath hisclothes, and when she pulled back to look at his face, she saw shadows beneath his eyes that no child of four should possess.
“Of course I came,” she murmured, brushing the hair from his forehead. “Did you think I would forget you?”
Oliver’s lower lip quivered. “Everyone else did.”
The words struck her like a physical blow. She thought of Margaret, who had loved this boy with a fierceness that had bordered on the divine. Of Nicholas, whose laughter had filled whatever room he occupied. Of all the aunts and uncles and cousins who should have claimed this child and hadn’t, because grief was inconvenient and orphans were expensive and reputation mattered more than a four-year-old boy who had lost everything.
“I am here now,” she said, her voice rough. “And I am not leaving.”
