Maribel allowed herself to be led into the house, her heart lighter than it had been in days.
She was staying. Whatever else this marriage might bring—whatever coldness, whatever distance, whatever battles lay ahead—she had secured the one thing that mattered most.
Oliver had lost enough in his young life. He would not lose her too.
CHAPTER 6
“The chair was moved.”
Maribel continued arranging Oliver’s wooden soldiers along the windowsill, each figure placed with careful precision according to the battle formation he had described to her that morning. She did not turn toward the voice that came from the doorway.
“The light falls better here,” she said. “Oliver can see his illustrations without straining.”
“Mrs. Allen arranged the nursery according to specifications I approved before the boy’s arrival.” Thaddeus’s boots sounded against the floorboards—two steps into the room, then a halt. Measuring his territory, she supposed. Much like the soldiers in Oliver’s battle. It was what this manor had felt like since she had first stepped foot here—and it hadn’t changed after the wedding.
“Changes to the household are to be discussed with me before implementation.”
“I moved a chair, Your Grace. Not the walls.”
Oliver had gone very still beside her, his small fingers frozen around the cavalry officer he’d been positioning. Maribel placed her hand over his—a gentle pressure meant to reassure—and finally turned to face her husband.
She was quickly starting to recognize the way Thaddeus held himself when displeased: shoulders drawn back, jaw set at an angle that might have been carved from marble. She supposed that she was learning it so quickly because she was most often responsible for it. He stood framed in the doorway now, immaculate in his dark coat and precisely tied cravat, every inch the Duke whose household ran according to his exact specifications.
“The nursery,” he continued, “is part of this household. As such?—”
“As the duchess, I believe it falls under my purview as Oliver’s primary caretaker. Which is, if I am not mistaken, the role you assigned me.” She met his gaze without flinching. “Or have the terms of our arrangement changed?”
A frown formed between his brows. She could see his face paling to a deathly colour.
“The terms remain as stated. However?—”
“Then I fail to see the difficulty.” Maribel turned back to the soldiers, dismissing him as thoroughly as if she had shut a door in his face. “Oliver, shall we position the infantry next? I believe you said they guard the left flank.”
The silence stretched. She felt Thaddeus’s gaze boring into her back, felt the weight of all the things he wanted to say pressing against the carefully maintained walls of his composure.
His footsteps retreated. The door closed with pointed precision—not slammed, because the Duke of Blackwood would never do anything so undignified as slam a door, but pulled shut with enough force to communicate his displeasure.
Oliver let out a breath. “He’s angry.”
“He’s adjusting.” Maribel smoothed the hair from his forehead. “As we all are. Now—the infantry?”
The boy’s hands remained unsteady as he reached for the next soldier, and Maribel’s heart twisted with familiar fury. Four years old, and already learning to gauge adult moods, to make himself small when tension thickened the air. What kind of household taught a child such vigilance?
This one, she thought grimly.This cold, silent monument to control.
But she kept her voice light as she guided Oliver through the positioning of his troops, and by the time the battle formation was complete, the tightness had eased from his small shoulders.
As her days as a duchess dragged on, Maribel rather quickly learned to navigate the rhythm by which the household operated—though this was learnt through observation rather than instruction.
Breakfast at eight, served in the morning room with its east-facing windows and pale yellow wallpaper. Thaddeus presided over the meal with his correspondence spread before him, offering monosyllabic responses to any attempt at conversation. Maribel stopped attempting by the start of the second week, directing her attention instead to Oliver and the careful negotiation of getting porridge into a child more interested in watching the gardeners through the window.
Luncheon at one, taken in the smaller dining room. Thaddeus rarely appeared, sending word through the butler that estate business required his attention. Maribel suspected avoidance rather than industry, but she could not bring herself to question his absence. Besides, she could not deny that the meals passed more comfortably without his watchful silence. She would rather not explore the discomfort that stirred within her whenever that icy gaze locked in on her.
Dinner was served promptly at seven, in the formal dining room with its crystal chandeliers and mahogany table large enough to seat thirty. Here, propriety demanded they sit together—husband and wife at either end of that vast expanse, makingstilted conversation across the silver and porcelain whilst footmen moved soundlessly along the walls.
“The weather has turned cold,” she might offer.
“Indeed,” he would reply.
