Mrs. Allen stood at the threshold, her weathered face apologetic. “Forgive the interruption, Your Grace, but Lady Blackwood has requested that breakfast be served in the morning room. She wished me to enquire whether you and Lord Westcott would be joining her and Master Oliver.”
The question hung in the air between them—innocuous on its surface, weighted beneath with all the small negotiations that comprised their carefully maintained distance. Thaddeus hadtaken precisely three meals with his wife and ward since the wedding. Each had been an exercise in stilted conversation and uncomfortable silences.
“Inform her ladyship that we shall attend,” Julian said before Thaddeus could refuse. “We would be delighted.”
Mrs. Allen’s relief was palpable. “Very good, my lord. Breakfast will be ready within the quarter hour.”
She withdrew, and Thaddeus turned on Julian with barely suppressed fury. “You overstep.”
“Frequently,” Julian agreed, utterly unrepentant. “It is one of my more endearing qualities. Now—shall we go meet your wife properly? Or would you prefer to hide in your study whilst I make your excuses yet again?”
There was nothing Thaddeus could do, other than to lead his friend to meet his elusive wife.
The morning room was smaller than the formal dining room, its east-facing windows admitting pale autumn sunlight that transformed the yellow wallpaper into something almost cheerful. Maribel sat at the round table with Oliver beside her, the boy’s attention fixed upon the soldiers he had arranged along the table’s edge in careful formation.
She looked up when they entered, and Thaddeus saw Julian’s assessment register in an instant—the faint shadows beneathher eyes that matched his own, the careful way she held herself, the slight stiffness of her smile as she rose to greet them.
“Lord Westcott,” she said, extending her hand. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Julian took her hand and bowed over it with courtly grace. “Your Grace. An honour, of course, to be hosted by the new Duchess of Blackwood. Allow me to offer my congratulations on your marriage, belated though they may be.”
“Thank you.” Her gaze flickered briefly to Thaddeus before returning to Julian. “I hope your journey was not too arduous.”
“A few hours in a comfortable carriage hardly constitutes hardship.” Julian released her hand and turned his attention to Oliver, who had been watching the exchange with wide-eyed interest. “And you must be Master Oliver. I knew your father well. He was one of the finest men I ever had the honour of serving alongside.”
Oliver’s face lit with the particular brightness of a child hearing his lost parent praised. “You knew my papa?”
“I did indeed. We served together in Portugal—your father, the Duke, and myself. Three young fools convinced we were invincible.” Julian’s voice held warmth without condescension, speaking to the boy as one might address an equal rather than a child. “Whenever I saw him after his marriage and your birth, he spoke of you without ceasing. He was tremendously proud of his clever son.”
“Did he really?” Oliver’s voice had gone small with wonder. “What did he say?”
Thaddeus watched Julian lower himself into the chair beside Oliver’s, beginning a conversation that flowed with the ease Thaddeus had never managed to achieve. The boy’s questions came faster as his initial shyness dissolved—what had Papa looked like in his uniform, had he been brave, did Julian remember any stories about him?
And Julian answered each with patience and genuine affection, painting Nicholas Talbot in words for a son who would never truly remember him.
Maribel had gone very still beside Thaddeus. He did not need to look at her to feel the weight of her attention, the questions she was not asking, the grief she held carefully contained behind her composed expression.
“Your Grace?”
He turned to find her watching him, her dark eyes unreadable in the morning light. “Will you not sit?”
It was not truly a question. More of a pointed observation that he remained standing whilst everyone else had settled, that his discomfort was visible enough to warrant comment.
He took the chair opposite hers—across the table rather than beside her, maintaining distance even in this small room where proximity was unavoidable.
Breakfast was served with efficient silence. Thaddeus noted the changes Maribel had implemented: porridge prepared the way Oliver preferred it, fresh cream rather than the usual milk, toast cut into soldiers that the boy could dip into soft-boiled eggs. Small accommodations that spoke of attention and care.
“The nursery looks quite different from when I last visited,” Julian said, accepting tea from the footman with a nod of thanks. “Much brighter. More lived-in.”
“Lady Blackwood has undertaken extensive reorganisation,” Thaddeus said. “She believes the previous arrangements were... inadequate.”
He saw Maribel’s teacup pause halfway to her lips, saw the slight lift of her brow that suggested she was biting back a response.
“I am certain her ladyship’s judgement in such matters is sound,” Julian said smoothly. “After all, who better to determine what a child needs than someone who clearly possesses both affection and sense?”
The compliment landed like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples through the careful politeness that had governed the meal. Maribel’s cheeks coloured faintly, and she set down her cup with rather more force than necessary.
“You are too kind, Lord Westcott.”
