“Yes,” Maribel said softly. “I think perhaps he is.”
Oliver nodded, apparently satisfied. He leaned against her side, and they sat together in comfortable silence while the rain continued its soft percussion against the windows.
And if Maribel’s gaze drifted toward the study door more than once—if she found herself listening for footsteps that never came—she told herself it was merely concern for Oliver’s wellbeing.
Anything else was too dangerous to contemplate.
CHAPTER 12
“If I am not mistaken, I believe that you may be falling in love with your wife.”
Thaddeus’s head shot up at this, and he looked at Julian with narrowed eyes. It was entirely untrue, of course. He cared for her, of course. Perhaps, there was a reluctant friendship forming between them, but love? No. He was most certainly not falling in love with her.
The fact that he wanted to protect her from hurt, wanted to stare into her eyes, wanted her opinion on all that mattered… it was meaningless. He cleared his throat.
“That’s absurd.”
“Is it?” Julian settled deeper into his leather chair, swirling brandy in his glass with the particular calm of a man who knew he’d struck bone. “Because from where I sit, watching you pacecircles around my study like a caged beast, it seems rather obvious.”
Thaddeus turned sharply. “You presume too much.”
“I presume exactly enough.” Julian’s voice remained mild, but his eyes held that particular glint Thaddeus had learned to recognise during their years of service—the look of a man preparing to press an advantage. “You defended that boy in front of half of London with a ferocity that shocked even me. Made Hastings look the fool he is. Risked your own reputation to protect Oliver’s.”
“The child is my responsibility?—”
“The child is Nicholas’s son, yes. And you would have protected him regardless.” Julian leaned forward. “But the way you speak of Lady Blackwood now—the way your entire demeanour shifts when her name is mentioned—that has nothing to do with duty and everything to do with the fact that you’ve developed genuine feeling for the woman you married.”
The fire crackled in the grate. Beyond the windows, London sprawled grey and cold beneath November clouds that threatened snow. Thaddeus thought of Blackwood—of Maribel moving through those corridors, her dark hair catching lamplight, her voice soft as she read to Oliver before sleep.
Thought of her face when he’d touched her cheek. The way she’d looked at him as though seeing past every wall he’d built.
“I cannot afford such feelings,” he said at last.
“Cannot? Or will not?” Julian rose, crossing to stand beside him. “Thaddeus. You married her. She lives in your house. Cares for your ward with devotion most mothers would envy. Has transformed that mausoleum you call home into something approaching warmth. At what point does denying your regard for her become not protection but cruelty?”
“Cruelty would be encouraging attachment when I cannot—” Thaddeus stopped himself.
“Cannot what? Love her?” Julian’s voice gentled dangerously. “Or cannot survive loving her?”
The truth of it struck deep. Thaddeus turned away, staring into flames that offered no answers.
“You tried this before,” Julian continued quietly. “After your mother died. After Nicholas. You have a tendency to attempt to convince yourself that distance equals safety. That if you care for nothing, nothing can hurt you. How has that served you so far?”
“It has served adequately.”
Thaddeus’s voice left no room for argument. He had not reckoned, however, with Julian’s refusal to listen to that tone of his.
“Adequately.” Julian’s laugh held no humour. “You call eight years of sealed rooms and deliberate isolation adequate? You call pushing away everyone who might actually matter to you adequate?”
“I call it survival.”
“Calling it survival, does not make it true.” Julian moved to block his view of the fire, forcing eye contact. “You call it survival because acknowledging what it truly is—slow death by your own hand—would require admitting you’ve been wrong. That the walls you’ve built haven’t protected you. They’ve simply ensured you suffer alone.”
Thaddeus’s jaw worked soundlessly. Every instinct screamed to leave, to retreat behind the familiar armour of ducal hauteur and dismissive coldness. But Julian knew him too well. Had known him too long.
“She… plagues me.” He admitted at last. “I do not… mean this as any kind of confession, but… Perhaps, when I look at her I do sometimes wish that I could…” He broke off at this and shook his head. Julian was not dissuaded.
“Could be what? The man you were before grief convinced you feeling was weakness?” Julian’s hand settled on his shoulder—brief, firm. “That man still exists, Thaddeus. Buried beneath ice and distance, perhaps, but not gone. Lady Blackwood sees him. That’s why she frightens you. Because she sees past the Duke to the wounded man beneath.”
