“Lady Maribel.”
The voice cut through the moment like a blade—cold, controlled, carrying the absolute authority of a man who expected obedience as his birthright.
Maribel looked up.
Thaddeus Blackwood stood at the top of the grand staircase, his tall frame silhouetted against the grey light filtering throughthe windows above. He descended with deliberate slowness, each step measured and precise, and Maribel felt Oliver shrink against her as the Duke drew near.
The child’s fear was palpable. She could feel it in the tension of his small body, the way his fingers curled into her gown, the quickening of his breath. And something inside her—something she had fought to keep carefully banked—ignited into flame.
“Your Grace.” She rose to her feet, keeping one hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “I apologise for arriving without notice.”
“Do you.” It was not a question. Thaddeus came to a halt several feet away, his sharp features arranged into an expression of polite neutrality that did nothing to disguise the displeasure beneath. Up close, he was precisely as she remembered—tall and imposing, broad-shouldered, with an angular face that might have been handsome if it ever softened into anything resembling warmth. His dark hair was swept back from his brow, and his eyes, grey as the October sky, regarded her with thinly veiled suspicion.
“I came to see Oliver,” she said. “To assure myself of his wellbeing.”
“His wellbeing is not your concern.”
“He is grieving. He has lost both his parents within the span of a fortnight. Someone must?—”
“Someone must what, Lady Maribel?” Thaddeus’s voice remained level, but she heard the edge beneath it—the warning of a man whose patience was already worn thin. “Coddle him? Encourage his attachment to women who will disappear the moment sentiment becomes inconvenient?”
Oliver made a small, wounded sound, pressing closer against Maribel’s legs. She felt her own temper flare, hot and dangerous.
“I have no intention of disappearing.”
“You have no intention of remaining either. You are a visitor, Lady Maribel—an uninvited one, I might add—and whilst I appreciate your... concern, Oliver’s care is now my responsibility. I will manage it as I see fit.”
“And how do you see fit, Your Grace? Through rules and schedules and the careful avoidance of anything resembling affection?” She heard her voice rising and could not stop it. “He is four years old and he is more than a mere responsibility, he is a child. He does not need discipline. He needs comfort.”
“What he needs,” Thaddeus said coolly, “is stability. Not the indulgence of every passing emotion.”
“He needs to know he is loved!”
The words echoed through the entrance hall, ringing against the marble and the stone and the vast cold emptiness of this house that felt more like a mausoleum than a home. Oliver had gonevery still against her, and when Maribel looked down, she saw tears sliding silently down his cheeks.
Something in her chest cracked open.
She knelt before him, heedless of her gown, heedless of the Duke watching with that infuriating composure. She took Oliver’s face in her hands, wiping the tears with her thumbs.
“Listen to me,” she said softly. “You are the bravest boy I know. And I am so, so proud of you. Your mama would be proud of you too.”
Oliver’s breath hitched. “I want to go home.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
“The boy needs to rest.” Thaddeus’s voice had lost some of its coldness, though Maribel could not tell whether he was moved or merely inconvenienced. “Mrs. Allen will take him to the nursery.”
“No!”
Oliver’s cry was sharp and desperate, his small hands fisting in Maribel’s gown. “No, please, I don’t want to go, please don’t make me?—”
He was trembling violently now, his whole body shaking with the force of his distress, and when Thaddeus stepped forward, Oliver flinched backward so sharply that he nearly fell.
The Duke froze.
Maribel saw it happen—the way the colour drained from his face, the way his outstretched hand fell slowly to his side. His face grew pale, a muscle leaping beneath the skin, and for one unguarded moment she glimpsed the ache of a man realising that a child was afraid of him.
The moment stretched, taut and terrible.
