“I am newly married, newly titled, newly arrived, and being silently condemned by at least six dead dukes,” she replied. “Tired seems insufficient.”
Aaron giggled.
The duke glanced upward at the portraits, then back to her. “They condemned everyone.”
“Comforting.”
It did something foolish and warm and terribly inconvenient to her.
The housekeeper appeared in the archway, her shadow stretching long and thin across the polished floorboards. “Dinner is served, Your Graces.”
They moved in a stiff procession to a dining room built for fifty, where the silence filled the vast, hollow gaps between the mahogany walls. The table stretched far beyond the three of them, a long, gleaming expanse of white linen that made their little party seem even lonelier.
They sat down. Silver clinked rhythmically against china—a sharp, lonely sound that punctuated the stillness. Footmen drifted behind them like ghosts, their movements synchronized and soundless, pouring wine that glowed blood-red in the low flicker of the candlelight.
Emmeline focused on the centerpiece, a spray of pale, waxen lilies.
“The roast is excellent,” she said, because the silence had begun to feel like another guest at the table.
“My cook is efficient,” the Duke replied flatly, not looking at his plate.
Aaron sat between them, his chair pulled closer to Emmeline’s than to his father’s. His small head nodded toward his plate, his eyelids fluttering with the weight of the day.
He perked up just long enough to lean toward her, his voice a dry whisper. “The prince… will he see the dragon tree?”
“Tomorrow,” Emmeline promised and reached out, her fingers grazing his sleeve, a soft tether in the gloom.
The Duke’s gaze remained fixed on her, his eyes dark and unreadable over the rim of his crystal glass. He drank slowly, the muscle in his jaw working in a slow, rhythmic pulse. Every time her fork scraped the porcelain, the sound seemed to climb the walls and echo off the high, vaulted ceiling.
The heavy oak door creaked on its hinges.
Miss Harrow stepped into the circle of light, her black skirts rustling like dry leaves. “It is time for bed, Lord Aaron.”
Aaron’s shoulders slumped, the brief spark in his eyes vanishing. His small hand tightened around his silver spoon as he looked at the half-eaten sweets on his plate. “M-must I?”
The Duke opened his mouth, no doubt to say something efficient.
Emmeline spoke first. “You must, or tomorrow you shall be too weary for me to tell you about the dragon tree.”
Aaron hesitated. “You p-p-promise t-to tell me?”
“I promise.”
He looked almost shy with pleasure. “Then I shall s-sleep.”
The governess led him away, but before he left, Aaron paused near Emmeline’s chair. For a moment, he seemed uncertain what to do. Then he bowed. It was a small, solemn, imperfect bow that made her heart squeeze.
“Good night, Duchess.”
Emotion rose so quickly that she had to smile to contain it. “Good night, Aaron.”
When the door closed behind him, the room became too quiet.
Emmeline turned back to the table and found Rowan watching her with an unreadable expression.
“You are good with him,” he said.
The praise made her eyes sting. “He makes it easy.”
