He glanced up suddenly, catching her watching.
Their eyes locked across the nursery. Maribel’s hands stilled on her mending, her breath catching whilst something shifted in the air between them.
Thaddeus’s expression changed. The careful control she associated with him wavered, replaced by something unguarded and vulnerable. He looked at her as though seeing somethinghe had not expected to find. As though recognising something important.
And Maribel felt the world tilt beneath her.
Because she understood, in that terrible, crystalline moment, what had been building between them over weeks of partnership and shared purpose and small kindnesses exchanged in corridors and studies.
She cared for him. Truly, deeply cared—not merely as Oliver’s guardian or the man she had married from necessity, but as himself. For his trying and his stumbling and his desperate attempts to be better than fear told him he could manage. For the vulnerability he showed when he thought no one was watching. For the goodness she saw emerging as his walls gradually crumbled.
She cared for Thaddeus Blackwood in ways that went far beyond duty or gratitude.
And the realisation terrified her.
Because their marriage had been born of scandal, not choice. Because she was convenient—already present, already caring for his ward. Because when he had kissed her weeks ago, he had immediately retreated, suggesting that moment had been a mistake rather than a beginning.
What if he could never care for her the way she was beginning to care for him?
“Maribel?” Oliver’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Are you quite well? You’ve gone all pale.”
“I—” She rose abruptly, her mending falling forgotten to the floor. “Forgive me. I’ve just remembered something urgent. Please excuse me.”
She was moving before conscious thought could intervene, her skirts tangling as she hurried from the nursery. Behind her, she heard Oliver’s confused question, but she could not stop. Could not remain in that room with this knowledge burning through her.
She cared for him. Cared so deeply it frightened her.
Maribel reached her chambers, closed and locked the door, then sank onto her bed with both hands pressed to her face.
No. This could not be happening. She could not care for him like this. Could not permit herself such vulnerability when their marriage existed purely from necessity.
But denial changed nothing.
She cared for Thaddeus Blackwood. The knowledge settled with devastating clarity. Cared for the man who sought her counsel on estate matters. Who played soldiers on nursery floors. Whowas trying so desperately to overcome eight years of grief and isolation. Who looked at her with growing trust and something that might—might—be the beginning of genuine regard.
But what if it was not enough? What if he could never see her as more than the convenient solution to scandal? What if that kiss had been merely momentary weakness, never to be repeated?
A soft knock sounded at her door.
“My lady?” Mrs. Allen’s concerned voice filtered through wood. “His Grace said you departed rather suddenly. Are you quite well?”
“I am well.” Maribel forced steadiness into her voice despite the tears threatening. “Merely fatigued. Please inform His Grace and Oliver that I shall see them at dinner.”
“Of course, my lady.”
Maribel listened as the footsteps retreated. She waited, then rose on unsteady legs and crossed to her dressing table, staring at her reflection. Her face was pale, her eyes too bright, her hair coming loose from its pins.
She looked like a woman balanced on a precipice.
Because she was falling. Had perhaps already fallen. And she possessed no certainty that anyone would catch her.
Maribel sank back onto her bed, wrapping her arms around herself whilst tears finally spilled down her cheeks.
She was falling in love with her husband.
And she had absolutely no notion whether he could ever feel anything for her in return.
CHAPTER 14
