On the fifteenth day following their kiss—not that she was counting, she told herself, though the number remained burned into her consciousness—Maribel encountered Thaddeus unexpectedly in the library.
She had believed him occupied in the east wing with Old Brennan, discussing plans for spring planting. Had sought refuge amongst familiar shelves, desperate for distraction from thoughts that would grant her no peace.
He stood before the windows, silhouetted against weak winter sunlight, his posture speaking volumes about the isolation he cultivated so carefully.
They both froze.
For one terrible moment, Maribel believed he might simply walk past her without acknowledgment. Might continue this charade of indifference until they both expired from the weight of things unsaid.
But he stopped. Turned. Met her eyes for the first time in a fortnight.
“Lady Blackwood.” His voice emerged hoarse, as though from disuse. “Forgive the intrusion. I believed this room unoccupied.”
“The library belongs to us both, Your Grace.” She kept her tone carefully neutral, refusing to betray the rapid hammering of her heart. “I shall not drive you from it.”
He inclined his head—that formal, distant gesture that had once made her wish to scream. Now it merely made her sad.
“I trust Oliver is well?”
“He does. Though he misses your presence at tea.” She paused, then added with deliberate precision: “As do I.”
The admission hung between them. She watched him process it, watched something flicker behind his eyes—longing, perhaps, or regret, or simply exhausted resignation.
“Maribel—”
Her name upon his lips after so long sent a shock through her entire frame. She waited, scarcely breathing, willing him to continue. To explain. To acknowledge the chasm that had opened between them.
But he pursed his lips, and whatever he had intended to say died unspoken.
“Forgive me,” he said instead. “I have business requiring my attention.”
He walked past her without another word, leaving her standing alone amongst dusty volumes whilst something within her chest fractured beyond repair.
That evening, Maribel sat at her dressing table, regarding her reflection with detached assessment. She looked tired, she thought. Older than her two-and-twenty years. The woman staring back at her bore little resemblance to the defiant creature who had stormed into Blackwood months earlier, determined to protect Oliver at any cost.
That woman had possessed certainty. Purpose. Clear understanding of precisely where she stood.
The woman she had become, possessed only questions—and the terrible suspicion that she had been a fool to believe anything might change.
Her gaze fell upon the wooden soldier Thaddeus had left weeks ago. That small gesture of apology she had treasured like something precious.
Now it seemed merely another example of his cowardice—easier to leave tokens than speak honestly, easier to make small gestures than risk genuine connection.
Maribel rose and crossed to her wardrobe, opening the drawer where she had placed the brass key months earlier. The key to his mother’s chambers. The key he had given her without explanation.
Another gesture. Another substitute for honesty.
She closed the drawer firmly.
Thaddeus Blackwood had made his choice clear through weeks of careful avoidance. He did not want her. Not truly. He wanted only the convenience she provided—care for his ward, restoration of his house, the appearance of propriety without the inconvenience of genuine intimacy.
Very well.
She would give him precisely what he desired: distance.
And if her heart broke in the process, she would ensure he never witnessed such weakness.
Some walls, once erected, could never be breached.
