From within the study, she heard the sharp crack of glass—a tumbler meeting the wall with enough force to shatter.
Then silence.
Maribel pushed away from the wall and made her way through darkened corridors toward her chambers. Her mind kept returning to the study, to the rawness in his voice when he had spoken of his mother, to the vulnerability in his eyes when he had admitted his fear.
And then his sudden, complete withdrawal.
She reached her chambers and closed the door, leaning against it as the full weight of the evening settled upon her. Her candle flickered, casting dancing shadows.
Her hands were shaking.
She had thought—what had she thought? That one evening of honest conversation might change something between them? That seeing his pain might somehow bridge the distance he maintained?
How foolish.
Thaddeus was a man who guarded his heart like a fortress under siege. Who viewed vulnerability as weakness and connection as danger. Who had spent eight years building walls specifically designed to keep everyone out.
And she—she who had sworn to maintain appropriate distance, to keep this marriage exactly what it was meant to be—had just discovered something terrifying.
She cared what happened to him.
The realization settled over her with crushing weight. She pressed her hands to her face, willing herself to maintain composure. Willing herself to remember that this was an arrangement, nothing more, and that allowing herself to develop feelings for a man who would never return them was the height of foolishness.
Yet her hands continued to shake. Her chest ached. She could still hear the rawness in his voice when he had said:I am terrified.
How much she wished that when he had shown her his humanity, he had not immediately regretted it.
And how terribly afraid she was that he would never allow himself such honesty again.
Morning came grey and cold, with autumn rain pattering steadily against the windows.
Maribel rose before dawn, having slept rather poorly. She dressed with mechanical precision, her fingers clumsy on the buttons. Her reflection showed shadows beneath her eyes that told their own story.
She made her way to the breakfast room, uncertain whether she hoped to see Thaddeus or dreaded the encounter.
Mrs. Allen informed her without a sign of emotion, that His Grace had taken his meal in his study and requested not to be disturbed.
Of course he had. She pursed her lips at this. Was it so frightful to him to have been remotely vulnerable?
Maribel accepted toast and tea she had no appetite for and sat alone at the long table, staring out at the rain-soaked gardens.
He was avoiding her. That much was clear. Whether from embarrassment at having revealed so much, or anger that she had witnessed it, or simply because maintaining distance was easier than acknowledging what had passed between them—she could not say.
But the message was unmistakable. Last night had been an aberration. A momentary lapse. Something to be forgotten rather than examined.
The door opened, and for one wild moment her heart leapt.
But it was only Oliver, still in his nightshirt, his hair in wild disarray.
“Maribel!” He hurried to her side, climbing into the chair beside hers. “You’re awake early. Did you sleep badly too?”
“A little,” she admitted, pulling him close. “And you? Did you have nightmares?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I had a dream. That His Grace was my papa. Do you think… Do you think he would like that? Do you think he likes me?”
“I think,” she said carefully, “that His Grace cares very much. Even if he does not always know how to show it.”
Oliver considered this gravely. “Mrs. Allen says some people don’t know how to use their words properly. Do you think His Grace is one of those people?”
