“And what world is that? The world of empty drawing rooms and careful silences? The world where grief is locked behind closeddoors and love is treated as liability?” She could feel her entire body heating up as though she’d stepped into a furnace. “He has already lost everything, Thaddeus. Would you have him lose his childhood as well?”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Thaddeus stared at her, his chest rising and falling with barely controlled emotion. She had gone too far—she knew it even as the words left her lips—but she could not bring herself to regret them.
“Good evening, Lady Blackwood.” His voice had gone flat, emptied of all inflection. “I trust you can find your own way back to your chambers.”
He turned and walked out, leaving her alone in the firelit library with nothing but the crackle of flames and the weight of her own frustration for company.
The collision happened three mornings later.
Maribel had been hurrying toward the nursery, her mind occupied with the day’s planned activities, when she rounded the corner and walked directly into a wall of muscle and broadcloth.
Strong hands caught her arms before she could stumble—an instinct, nothing more—and for one suspended moment, they stood frozen in the corridor, her palms braced against his chest, his fingers wrapped around her upper arms, their faces mere inches apart.
She could smell him. Sandalwood and something sharper beneath it—ink, perhaps, or the leather of the books he spent his days among. The warmth of his grip seeped through the thin fabric of her sleeves, and her pulse stuttered traitorously in her throat.
His eyes met hers. Grey as winter storms, as morning mist, as all the cold things she had associated with him since the moment they met. But there was heat there too—she saw it flare, saw his pupils dilate, saw the moment awareness crashed over him like a wave.
He released her as though she had caught fire.
“You should watch where you’re going.” His voice came out rougher than usual, stripped of its customary polish.
Maribel stepped back, pressing her hands to her skirts to still their trembling. “I might say the same, Your Grace.”
She stepped around him and continued toward the nursery, her heart hammering against her ribs, furious with herself for noticing the warmth of his grip, for remembering the scent of sandalwood, for the way her skin still tingled where his fingers had pressed.
She did not look back.
For the rest of the day, she managed to avoid him. The avoidance came to a sudden halt that evening, when loud voices came from the study.
“—the new Duchess has opinions about the nursery budget.”
The voice belonged to Mr. Crawford, the estate steward. Maribel had met him only once, briefly, and had formed an immediate impression of a man who resented any disruption to established order.
She paused, knowing she should move on, unable to make her feet obey.
“The expenditure she’s requested is considerable, Your Grace. Art supplies, new linens, books that will need to be specially ordered from London. The previous arrangements were more than adequate?—”
“The previous arrangements were made before the Duchess assumed responsibility for the nursery.” Thaddeus’s voice cut across the steward’s objections. “Her opinions are not your concern, Crawford. If she has requested changes, see them done.”
Maribel’s breath caught.
“But Your Grace?—”
“Did I not make myself clear? The Duchess’s authority in all matters regarding the boy is to be respected.” A heavy pause followed the instruction. “Is that understood?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The words emerged stiff, reluctant. “Perfectly understood.”
Maribel moved on before she could be discovered, her heart beating too fast, her thoughts spinning in directions she could not quite follow.
He had defended her. Not to her face—that would have required an acknowledgment of accord neither of them was prepared to make—but in private, to his own staff, where she would never have known if not for chance and an open door.
Her opinions are not your concern.
The Duchess’s authority is to be respected.
Nothing about what the man said and did make sense. In truth, she knew not how to reconcile the man who dismissed her arguments to her face with the man who championed her authority behind closed doors. Did not know how to fit this new piece into the puzzle she had been assembling since the moment she crossed Blackwood’s threshold.
