The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft crackle of dying coals and the whisper of turning pages. Maribel read the same stanza three times without comprehending a single word. Every nerve was aware of him—the measured rhythm of his breathing, the occasional shift of his weight, the presence of him filling the space between them.
An hour passed. Perhaps more.
Her eyes had begun to drift closed despite herself—the warmth of the fire, the comfort of the chair, the strange peace of shared silence conspiring to pull her toward sleep.
She forced them open and glanced toward Thaddeus.
He had fallen asleep.
The book lay open on his chest, one hand still resting upon it as though he might resume reading at any moment. But his eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even, and in sleep the harsh lines of his face had softened into something almost vulnerable.
He looked younger. Less the Duke and more simply a man, exhausted by burdens he carried without complaint.
Maribel found herself rising without conscious decision. Crossing to where a blanket lay folded over the back of a settee. Returning to drape it carefully over him—one small kindness, offered to someone who would never ask for it.
Her hand brushed his shoulder as she adjusted the fabric.
He stirred slightly, his brow creasing, but did not wake.
She stood there a moment longer than necessary, looking down at this complicated, wounded, impossible man she had married.
Then she slipped from the library as silently as she’d come, leaving him to whatever dreams visited him in the dark.
Morning came too soon.
Maribel woke to sunlight streaming through her windows and the sound of servants moving in the corridors below. She dressed quickly, her mind already turning toward the day ahead—Oliver’s lessons, the nursery routine, the careful navigation of a household that felt increasingly like a battlefield where every move might trigger consequences she could not predict.
She found the drawing room first.
The cushions had been returned to their proper places, exactly as they’d been after the fort-building. But this time, there was no wooden soldier waiting.
Instead, on the side table where Thaddeus had left his previous offering, sat a small brass key.
Maribel picked it up with trembling fingers.
It was warm, as though someone had been holding it recently. As though someone had stood in this room, turning it over in his hands, before setting it down and walking away.
She did not need to test it to know which door it would open.
CHAPTER 10
“They’re saying the marriage was indecently hasty.”
Lady Eleanor didn’t bother with preamble. She set down her teacup gracefully and her eyes met Maribel’s. “I must say that it was hasty, my dear. I too am… concerned. About you.”
Maribel continued buttoning her gloves. “They’ve been saying that since the banns were posted.”
“Today you must face them.” Eleanor rose, crossing to where Maribel stood before the looking glass. “Lord and Lady Whitmore’s garden party isn’t some insignificant gathering. Half of London will be watching how the new Duchess of Blackwood comports herself.”
“How delightful for them.”
“Maribel.” Eleanor’s hand settled on her shoulder. “You cannot afford contempt. Not when whispers about your marriage are fresh, and certainly not when Oliver’s position remains so delicate.”
Oliver. Maribel’s hands stilled on the last button. “What have you heard?”
Eleanor’s mouth pressed thin. “Questions. About the boy’s lineage. About why the Duke married so precipitously. About whether a woman of your background is truly suited to raise such an illustrious ward.”
Each word landed like a stone. Maribel turned from the mirror, spine rigid. “How considerate of them.”
