“Why did you marry me? Truly.”
The question escaped before Maribel could reconsider its wisdom. She had not intended to speak at all—had been perfectly content to sit in companionable silence whilst Thaddeus brooded over correspondence and she pretended absorption in a volume of poetry whose words she had read thrice without comprehension.
Yet the silence had continued for far too long, filled only by the crackling of flames and the occasional rustle of paper, and something within her had finally rebelled against the careful restraint they maintained even now, even after him asking her opinion on estate matters, after spending more time together.
Thaddeus looked up from his letter.
The drawing room felt suddenly smaller. They had dined early—Oliver had been exhausted from an afternoon spent withThomas in the gardens—and had somehow gravitated here afterward without conscious agreement. The fire cast dancing shadows across Thaddeus’s features, highlighting the strong line of his jaw, the tension around his mouth, the weariness that seemed permanently etched beneath his eyes.
For a moment, Maribel believed he would not answer. Would return his attention to his correspondence and pretend she had not spoken. Would employ that particular brand of dismissal he had perfected—not quite rude, merely indicating the conversation held no interest for him.
But his gaze remained fixed upon her face.
“Because I couldn’t bear to see you ruined.” His voice emerged rough, stripped of its usual careful modulation. “Not you.”
The words hung suspended between them—too heavy to ignore, too fraught to properly examine. Maribel felt her breath catch within her throat, felt her pulse quicken in that treacherous manner that had become altogether too familiar whenever he spoke with such unexpected honesty.
Not you.
Two words that suggested she possessed some particular significance beyond mere convenience. That her ruin would have affected him differently than another woman’s might. That he had acted not purely from obligation but from something more personal, more specific to her.
She waited. Watched his face for some further elaboration, some expansion upon a confession that felt simultaneously too much and desperately insufficient. Her fingers had curled into the fabric of her gown without her awareness, tension coiling through her frame as she willed him to continue.
But Thaddeus returned his attention to his letter.
The dismissal was complete. Whatever momentary honesty had prompted his admission had been firmly locked away once more, his expression settling into that familiar mask of controlled disinterest that suggested nothing of consequence had transpired.
Maribel wanted to shake him.
Wanted to cross the carpeted expanse between them, seize his shoulders, and demand he look at her properly. Demand he explain what “not you” signified. Demand he acknowledge that something existed between them beyond duty and scandal and carefully negotiated boundaries.
She did neither.
Instead, she returned her gaze to the poetry volume in her lap, the words swimming meaninglessly before her eyes whilst her heart hammered against her ribs and her throat ached with all the things she could not say.
Because I couldn’t bear to see you ruined. Not you.
The admission would haunt her sleeping hours, she knew. Would replay endlessly within her mind, examined from every possible angle, weighted with meanings he might or might not have intended. Would torment her with hope she possessed no business entertaining.
But something had been said that could not be unsaid.
When Maribel woke early the next morning, she found her mind still turning over Thaddeus’s words from the previous evening, and found herself unable to return to sleep despite the chill that pervaded her chambers.
She dressed with more care than strictly necessary for a morning at home, then chided herself for such foolishness. What did it signify whom she might encounter? Why should she concern herself with appearing at her best within her own household?
Yet she chose the deep burgundy morning gown nonetheless. The one Eleanor had remarked made her eyes appear darker, more striking. The one that required assistance with its buttons—assistance she requested from her maid with studied casualness, as though the selection held no particular importance.
Oliver was already awake when she reached the nursery, engaged in arranging his wooden soldiers into elaborate formations across the carpet. He looked up at her entrance, his small face brightening with pleasure that made her chest ache.
“Maribel! Look—I’ve positioned them exactly as Thomas described. This is how the cavalry protects the infantry during?—”
He launched into detailed explanation whilst she settled beside him, letting his enthusiasm wash over her like a balm. This, at least, remained uncomplicated. Whatever confusion existed between herself and Thaddeus, whatever dangerous territories her heart insisted upon exploring, her love for this child required no examination, no careful navigation.
“—and Thomas says his papa once saw the King’s Guard perform manoeuvres, and they moved in perfect—Maribel? Are you listening?”
“I am sorry, sweetheart. I was distracted.” She smiled, focusing properly upon his earnest explanation. “Tell me again about the cavalry formation.”
They spent a pleasant hour thus engaged before Mrs. Allen arrived with Oliver’s breakfast. The boy ate with better appetite than he had displayed in weeks, chattering between bites about his upcoming birthday, about Thomas, about whether the weather might clear sufficiently for outdoor play.
