It stood open.
Thaddeus sat at his desk, staring at something in his hands—something small, precious enough to command complete attention.
She knocked softly.
He looked up, vulnerability in his expression. Quickly—too quickly—the mask fell back. He set down what he’d been holding.
“Lady Blackwood. Thank you for coming. I wished to discuss this afternoon.”
She entered. “You needn’t apologise for defending Oliver.”
“I wasn’t intending to apologise. I wished to ensure Hastings’s remarks hadn’t distressed you. You left rather precipitously.”
“I left to find you.”
The admission hung between them.
Thaddeus rose. Maribel’s eyes were drawn to the object on his desk—a miniature portrait in gold. A smaller copy of the same portrait she had seen in the east wing.
His mother.
“The key I gave you,” he said abruptly. “You haven’t used it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I wanted to wait. Until you were ready. Until you could?—”
“Until I could open them with you?”
Soft. Almost tentative.
She looked at him—truly looked—and saw not the Duke with his rigid control, but simply a man. Wounded, grieving, trying desperately to find his way back to wholeness.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He held her gaze. Then crossed to where she stood, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head back.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “If you’re willing. I’ll show you my mother’s rooms tomorrow.”
Not a command. Not quite a request.
An offering. A first step toward trust.
“I would be honoured.”
He nodded. Perhaps she glimpsed relief in his eyes.
Then he stepped back, restoring distance. “You should see to Oliver. He’s been asking for you.”
Gentle but unmistakable dismissal.
Maribel curtsied—absurd, formal—and turned toward the door.
“Maribel.”
She stopped and turned back. There was something in his voice that was—as Eleanor would have called it—beyond indifference.
