Chapter 25
CHAPTER 25
T he ride back to Oakbourne townhouse was quiet but thick with unspoken tension. Killian sat across from Yvette, his eyes occasionally darting to her before he quickly averted them.
Fiona, seated beside her, hummed softly to herself, entirely unaware of the storm brewing between the married couple.
Killian gripped the armrest of his seat, his knuckles white with restraint.
She was utterly radiant tonight. The crimson gown she’d worn clung to her curves in all the ways that teased his sanity, the delicate embroidery glittering in the moonlight as if she were made of starlight itself. Her hair had been styled to perfection, but it was the flush on her cheeks and the fire in her eyes during their dance that had utterly undone him.
Now, trapped in the small confines of the carriage, the scent of her perfume lingered in the air, wrapping around him like a siren’s call. He wanted her—no, he needed her.
But Fiona’s presence was a chain that bound him.
As though feeling his gaze upon her, Yvette clenched her hands in her lap, her eyes darting to him and away from him. He smiled.
He couldn’t wait for them to reach the privacy of Oakbourne townhouse.
The moment the carriage stopped, Yvette nearly stumbled out, as though in a haste to escape the tension. She nodded her goodnight to Fiona and turned to head toward her room. She had barely closed the door behind her when it swung open again.
“Killian!”
He cut her words off as he pressed her against the closed door, his hands firm yet gentle on her waist. His lips crashed against hers, demanding and heated, and Yvette gasped into his mouth. He pulled back just enough to whisper against her lips, his voice a low growl.
“I have waited all bloody night to do this,” he murmured, his breath warm and heavy. “You looked breathtaking in this dress, wife . Drove me mad.”
Yvette’s lips parted, but no words fell from them, which Killian quite preferred. Less talking, more kissing.
He couldn’t think—not with his body pressed against hers. His hands framed her face as if she were something precious, which she was, if he were being utterly honest.
“You’re beautiful,” he rasped, his voice thick with desire as he traced the line of her jaw with his lips. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”
Her hands found his shoulders, clinging to him as the heat of his kisses burned away her composure.
“Killian…” she whispered, her voice trembling.
His response was a low groan as he claimed her lips again, this time slower, deeper. His restraint hung by a thread, and Yvette felt the intensity of his need in every touch, every kiss.
The rest of the world faded away. In that moment, nothing else mattered but the fire between them.
The first thing Yvette felt upon waking was the emptiness beside her. Her fingers brushed against the cold, untouched side of the bed, and her stomach churned. She told herself she had agreed to this arrangement—a pragmatic understanding between two individuals thrust into a union neither had planned. Still, the hollow space felt like an accusation.
He had made it a big deal, hadn’t he? Insisting on retreating to his own room afterward.
Yvette huffed, turning her face into the pillow. If they were to spend their nights together in moments of closeness, why should they part ways like strangers when dawn broke? She didn’t mind that they slept in separate rooms, but on nights like last night, it should be totally alright for them to sleep in the same bed.
A soft knock broke through her thoughts.
“Come in,” Yvette called, sitting upright.
The young woman entered, curtsying briefly. “Good morning, Your Grace. I’ve brought?—”
“Daisy,” Yvette said absentmindedly.
The maid blinked, tilting her head. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but my name is Agnes.”
Yvette pressed a hand to her forehead.
“Of course. My apologies, Agnes.”
Agnes simply smiled and began laying out a selection of gowns. Yvette stared at the fabrics, her thoughts still circling the previous night. She shouldn’t dwell on it, she told herself firmly. There were more pressing matters to attend to.
Once dressed, Yvette stepped into the hallway, where laughter echoed. She turned to see Fiona and Maisie at the end of the corridor.
“Duchess!” Maisie squealed, dashing toward her.
Yvette crouched just in time to catch the girl in a warm embrace. “Good morning, my sweet girl. Did you sleep well?”
Maisie nodded enthusiastically. “I missed ye last night! Papa said I had to go to bed early because ye were at a ball,” the little girl cried out with a soft accent.
Fiona approached with an amused smile. “Maisie wouldn’t stop asking when you’d wake. She’s convinced you’re hiding something exciting about the ball.”
Yvette laughed softly, smoothing down Maisie’s hair. “Well, how about this? I’ll make it up to you today.”
Maisie’s eyes lit up. “Can we play dolls?”
“Actually,” Fiona interjected, looping her arm through Yvette’s. “I had a better idea. Why don’t we take a stroll around London? It’s been years since either of us have properly walked through town, and I think it’s high time we familiarize ourselves again.”
Yvette hesitated briefly but nodded. “A fine idea. What do you say, Maisie?”
The little girl clapped her hands, and their small group was soon ready to head out.
London greeted them with its usual clamor. The streets bustled with merchants, carriages, and townsfolk milling about. The cobblestones gleamed faintly under the morning sun, and colorful signs swung from storefronts.
Maisie giggled as she hopped over the cracks in the street, holding Fiona’s hand. Yvette trailed beside them, allowing herself to soak in the peace of the moment.
But the tranquility shattered as they ventured into a busier area.
Whispers began, low at first, like the hum of bees, but soon escalating into cruel clarity.
“Look at them, parading about as if they’ve no shame.”
“That’s the new duchess, isn’t it? Thought she’d never dare show her face again after what happened to her.”
“And the younger one—Fiona, was it? Both sisters-in-law in disgrace.”
“And that poor child! Imagine the life she’ll have if she’s not kept far away from those two scandalous women.”
Yvette stiffened, her hand tightening around Maisie’s. Fiona’s face turned pale, and her lips thinned as she glanced at Yvette. The younger woman opened her mouth, perhaps to retort, but Yvette shook her head subtly.
“Come,” Yvette murmured, steering them away from the crowd.
Maisie looked back at the people, her brow furrowed. Once they were far enough, she tugged at Yvette’s hand. “What’s a scandal?”
Yvette froze, exchanging a brief glance with Fiona.
Crouching down to Maisie’s height, Yvette placed her hands gently on the girl’s shoulders.
“It’s a word people use when they think someone has done something bad.”
Maisie’s nose wrinkled. “But why did they say it about ye and Aunt Fiona? Ye’re both nice.”
“They’re wrong,” Yvette said softly. “Sometimes, people like to talk about things they don’t understand. Scandals are interesting to them. But you don’t need to worry, my love.” She stroked the child’s cheek. “Nothing they say will hurt you or us.”
Maisie’s frown deepened. “So they’re lying?”
“Yes, my darling.” Yvette smiled gently. “But we don’t need to argue with them. We know the truth, and that’s all that matters.”
The little girl studied her for a moment before nodding solemnly. Yvette pulled her into a hug, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Fiona crouched beside them, placing a hand on Maisie’s back.
“Yvette’s right, little one. People love gossip, but it doesn’t change who we are.”
Maisie smiled faintly, glancing between the two women. “Then I won’t listen to them anymore.”
“That’s my brave girl,” Yvette said, standing and taking her hand.
As they made their way back to Oakbourne townhouse, Yvette’s mind churned. The ton’s cruelty was sharper than ever, but she was determined to shield Maisie—and Fiona—from it. No matter what it took.
When Yvette returned to Oakbourne House, she could feel her pulse quicken as she made her way through the hallways. She had been thinking about what had happened throughout their walk, her mind constantly racing.
The gossip, the whispers—everything had been too much. She could already feel the tension building, and it only worsened when she heard the sound of Killian’s voice coming from the study. He must have just returned from his outing.
As soon as she stepped into the room, Yvette rushed to him, the words tumbling out of her before she could stop them.
“Killian, you won’t believe what happened. We were walking, and some of the ton spoke so ill of us—of me and Fiona—and of Maisie, too.” Her voice shook slightly, but she forced herself to stay calm.
“They’re still going on about that blasted scandal, both mine and Fiona’s.
Killian’s expression darkened at the mention of the gossip. He clenched his fists, his jaw tight as he struggled to control his temper.
“I’ll teach them a lesson they won’t forget, Yvette. I swear, if I ever lay hands on any of them?—”
But Yvette wasn’t having it. Stepping forward, she placed a hand on his chest, feeling the stiff tension of his muscles under her touch.
“No, Killian,” she said softly but firmly, her eyes locked with his. “Violence won’t fix this. It’ll only make things worse. You know that.”
She let her hand linger on him, her fingers pressing lightly against the fabric of his coat. Slowly, Killian’s fists unclenched, and his gaze softened, though the anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. He exhaled sharply, looking down at her.
“I just want to protect you,” he murmured.
Yvette sighed and reached up to stroke the side of his face, her thumb grazing his jaw.
“I know,” she said quietly, “but we don’t need to hide. We need to face this together. If we show them a united front, they’ll have nothing to say. They’ll eventually grow tired of it.”
Her words seemed to sink in, and Killian nodded slowly, though a storm still lingered in his eyes. He crossed the room to the desk, picking up a letter from the pile.
“I’ve been invited to a dinner party tomorrow night. An old Marchioness—Lady Colwick—who’s celebrating her 60th birthday. It’s a small gathering, but it could give us a chance to show the ton we won’t back down.”
Yvette’s breath caught in her throat as she processed his words. A dinner party, tomorrow? She could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on her. London was relentless, and though she had tried to prepare herself for it, the speed of it all was overwhelming.
“I… I don’t know if I can get used to this life,” she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s so fast. I feel like I’m always two steps behind.”
Killian turned toward her, his eyes softening as he took a few steps closer. A smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and there was something tender in the way he looked at her.
“You’ll get used to it, wife,” he said, his tone warm and reassuring. “And I’ll be right here, by your side, every step of the way.”
Yvette smiled faintly, grateful for the comfort of his presence. She knew he was right—she wasn’t alone in this. They would face whatever came next, together.