Thaddeus went very still. “You overstep.”
“Do I? Because from where I stand, you’re punishing that child for the crime of being happy. For forgetting, just for an hour, that his parents are dead and his life is governed by a man who sees disorder in every laugh and threat in every friendship.”
“I am trying to protect him.”
“From what? From Thomas? From frogs? From having a childhood?”
“From losing someone else he loves!” The words exploded from him, raw and terrible. “From forming attachments that will only hurt him when they’re torn away. From—” He stopped himself, but too late.
The truth sat between them now, undeniable.
Maribel drew a breath. When she spoke, her voice had gentled despite everything. “He wasn’t doing anything wrong, Thaddeus. He was being a child. And you...” She paused, choosing her words with care. “You cannot protect him from loss by teaching him never to love anything at all.”
“You do not understand.”
“Then help me understand. Tell me what you’re so afraid of.”
But the walls had already gone back up. She watched it happen—saw the shutters fall across his eyes, saw his shoulders square,saw the Duke of Blackwood reassemble himself piece by careful piece.
“See that it does not happen again,” he said, his voice empty of all inflection. “Oliver is not to leave the house without my express permission. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
She turned to leave, but his voice stopped her at the door.
“The east wing.”
Her hand froze on the handle.
“I know you’ve been there. Mrs. Allen informed me you requested keys to the linen closet.” A pause. “I know you entered the wing.”
Maribel’s heart hammered against her ribs. She turned slowly.
Thaddeus stood before his desk, his face carefully blank. But his hands—his hands were pressed flat against the wood, fingers spread as though bracing against something.
“I only…” She broke off, searching her mind for an excuse, but there was none. She lifted her chin, attempting to show none of the guilt she felt. “I thought?—”
“You thought what? That opening sealed chambers and disturbing eight years of deliberate closure would somehow—” He stopped. Drew a breath. “You had no right.”
“I am the Duchess of Blackwood. Those rooms are as much mine as?—”
“Those rooms are nothing to do with you.”
True as it was, there was no denying that the words hurt. She was the duchess—yet only in name. His tone, his words, all of it made it rather clear that she was no more than a guest in this manor.
“Very well,” she said quietly. “I shall not trouble them again.”
She left before he could respond, left him standing alone in his study with his brandy and his silence and all the ghosts he refused to lay to rest.
That night, Oliver cried.
Maribel heard him from her chambers—those soft, muffled sobs that spoke of a child trying very hard not to be heard. She was in the corridor before conscious thought could intervene, her wrapper hastily donned, her feet bare against cold floorboards.
The nursery door stood open.
Oliver sat up in bed, his face blotchy with tears, his wooden soldiers clutched against his chest. When he saw her, a fresh wave of weeping overtook him.
“Hush, sweetheart.” She gathered him into her arms, rocking gently. “Hush now. It’s all right.”
