Thaddeus tore himself away so abruptly she staggered. His eyes were wild, his breathing ragged, his hair thoroughly dishevelled from her fingers. He looked at her as though she were something dangerous—or perhaps as though he were the danger and she the innocent requiring protection.
“I should not have—” His voice broke. He stepped back, putting distance between them with desperate haste. “Forgive me. That was unconscionable. I had no right to?—”
“Thaddeus—”
“This cannot happen.” Flat. Final. He would not meet her eyes now, his gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder as though he could not bear to look at her directly. “It should never have happened. I allowed myself something I have no right to want. I—” He stopped, his hands shaking so violently he pressed them against his sides. “You should retire to your chambers. Immediately.”
The dismissal hurt more than anything she’d ever felt. Maribel stood frozen, her lips still burning from his kiss, her body still trembling from his touch, whilst he retreated behind walls she had believed—foolishly, she understood now—might finally be crumbling.
“So that is your response?” She heard her own voice come out cold, harder than she had intended. “You kiss me as though—as though—” She could not finish, could not give voice to the desperate intensity of what had just transpired. “And then you simply dismiss me? Pretend it signified nothing?”
“It cannot signify anything.” His throat worked visibly. “I am not—I cannot be what you deserve. Cannot give you what you—” He ceased speaking, turning toward the window with rigid shoulders. “Please go, Maribel. Before I compound my transgressions further.”
She should argue. Should demand he explain himself properly. Should refuse to accept such cowardly retreat after what they had just shared.
But her own hands were trembling now, her throat tight with emotions she dared not examine too closely. And something in his posture—in the terrible stillness of him—suggested he stood balanced upon a knife’s edge, that pushing further might shatter something irreparable.
So she walked away.
She walked from the drawing room with her spine straight and her head high, refusing to grant him the satisfaction of witnessing her distress. Her footsteps echoed through corridors that seemed to have grown longer, colder, whilst her heart hammered against her ribs and her lips continued burning with the memory of his mouth upon hers.
Only when she reached her chambers and had closed the door firmly behind her did she permit herself to sink against it, one hand pressed to her mouth as though she might somehow recapture the feeling of his kiss.
What had she done? What hadtheydone?
The following days proved excruciating.
Thaddeus became a ghost within his own household—present in body yet absent in every manner that signified. He took breakfast in his study. Conducted estate business from morning until late evening. When forced into her presence at dinner, he remained scrupulously polite, his conversation limited to necessities delivered in tones that brooked no intimacy.
He did not look at her. Not properly. His gaze would slide past her as though she were merely another piece of furniture, pleasant enough but ultimately insignificant.
The avoidance proved more wounding than any harsh word might have been.
Maribel found herself watching for him despite her best intentions. Listening for his footsteps in corridors. Hoping he might seek her out, might offer some explanation for his retreat, might acknowledge what had passed between them with something approaching honesty.
He did not.
Oliver noticed the change, of course. Children possessed an uncanny ability to perceive adult tensions no matter how carefully concealed.
“Why does His Grace not join us for tea anymore?” he asked one grey afternoon whilst Maribel attempted to focus upon his lessons. “Have I done something to upset him?”
“No, sweetheart.” She pulled him close, her heart aching at the worry in his small face. “His Grace has considerable estate business requiring his attention. It is nothing regarding you.”
But the lie tasted bitter upon her tongue. A week passed. Then another. November surrendered to December, and still Thaddeus maintained his careful distance, his scrupulous politeness, his absolute refusal to acknowledge what had transpired between them.
Maribel felt herself hardening by degrees—her initial hurt crystallising into something sharper, more dangerous. She had been a fool to believe his kiss meant anything beyond momentary weakness. A fool to imagine that one moment of passion might overcome eight years of deliberate isolation.
She had been convenient, nothing more. A woman already present, already bound to him through scandal and obligation, already caring for his ward with devotion that required no effort on his part. And when proximity and argument had conspired to lower his guards momentarily, he had taken what he wished before retreating to safety.
The realisation settled cold and heavy within her chest.
She wasconvenient. Just as she had always feared.
Not chosen. Not wanted. Not loved.
Merely… there.
The knowledge should have brought relief—should have confirmed suspicions she had harboured since their wedding, should have protected her heart against further damage. Instead, it felt like dying.
