Chapter 13
“Iam truly convinced that I must begin with fear,” Madeline declared, walking back and forth in her drawing room. “I believe it is the most accessible emotion. Even the bravest soul has some kind of fear.”
Portia had come to call on her this morning, and she was now sitting with a heavy tome in her hands. To be fair, her sister was listening to her rather than being engrossed in yet another book of ancient philosophy. The younger woman did not look too impressed, though.
“I do wonder if there are any studies about such play on emotions, as you say, or if you have lost your mind completely. Dearest Maddy, are we not talking about the Duke of Huntington? He looks like a block of stone that has been fed with raw fish and vinegar from childhood. I am not even entirely certain that man breathes, as I have never been near him. Now, you are telling me that he has fears like the rest of us mortals?”
“Everyone is afraid of something, Portia,” Madeline insisted, as she leaned toward her sister.
Today, she was wearing a bright green dress, as if to remind herself what she was meant to do, and what she was expected to be. She had to believe in her own plans, or nobody else would.
“Think about it,” she continued. “A man like him, who has built walls that high, must have some fear. Some vulnerability. What is he trying to hide if he is concealing his true emotions so much? There must be some weakness. We simply need to find out what it is.”
“We?” Portia asked, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, no, Maddy. I will not be party to this campaign. I may serve as a spectator to your madness, but that is all I can offer halfheartedly.”
“Let us think about possibilities together, then,” Madeline pressed, returning to her pacing.
“What could a man of his stature and wealth be afraid of? He is also often at home or managing the estates rather than in social gatherings. Perhaps there is some fear there. Even though... He seems confident when in public, so no.”
“Knowing His Grace, he probably fears anything that destroys his perfect little world. Perhaps a mistake in his ledgers would horrify him,” Portia suggested.
“Oh, and perhaps a speck of dust on his otherwise shiny tables. I imagine he would be furious rather than scared. Then again, that is an emotion. Right? If not, he would just stare at his staff until they were the ones terrified of making a mistake. He is a stone statue, as Tristan says.”
Madeline stopped pacing. Her eyes drifted toward the tall, arched windows overlooking the perfectly manicured Huntington House gardens. The flowers were drenched with sunlight—the only detail that made it look cheerful.
“I refuse to live in a tomb, Portia,” Madeline said softly, revealing more of her emotions than she would like to.
She turned to her sister, who looked at her with startled eyes.
“I spent my whole life dreaming of true love. I do not need a knight on a horse to sweep me off my feet. A good man who loves me should be enough. But I do not want to be managed or tolerated. I want to know what it is like to be loved and cherished.”
Her younger sister’s expression softened. It was a rare thing for her, too. While Portia was not made of stone like Kenneth, she was more like a cynic. She would need facts to believe in something.
“Dear sister, this husband of yours would not sweep you off your feet on his horse. He is more likely to run you over, not because he hates you, but because he is too focused on something else within him.”
Madeline chuckled at the thought. What else could she do? It was an absolutely ridiculous notion, but she could imagine her husband doing it for some reason.
Ugh.
“I must try something, Portia. If I do not try finding the cracks in his armor now, I will start fading into the wallpaper or the carvings. I know it is merely a marriage of convenience, but please do not blame me for at least attempting to make it into something more.”
Portia sighed. Then, she gently reminded her sister, “You are in a marriage of convenience. The sooner you accept this reality that you are within the bounds of a ducal contract, the safer your heart will be from pain and disappointment.”
Before Madeline could defend her plans further, bounding footsteps interrupted her. Two small figures stormed into the drawing room like tiny but powerful storms. Any quiet the sisters hoped for was completely gone.
“Aunt Maddy!” Alexander cried, sliding across the polished floorboards before jumping onto the rug. “Monsieur Piotr is not too happy with my performance. I told him that the cold is making my fingers stiff!”
“It is not the cold that is making your fingers stiff!” Emily complained. She looked perfect, hair and ribbons intact, except for a smudge of mud on the hem of her dress. “You were too excited from trying to catch some frogs by the pond.”
Madeline rose and knelt to their level, smiling at the two. She could not help it. Even though the two were certainly troublesome, they managed to make her genuinely smile. She reached to smooth Alex’s unruly collar. An idea formed in her head.
Perhaps the children knew about their uncle’s fears better?
“Alexander and Emily,” she began, lowering her voice as if she were about to share an incredible secret. “I require your expertise on an important matter. A very important and secret matter.”
“Oh?” Alexander’s eyes widened with excitement as he shuffled his feet. “Will we be like spies? Or perhaps magicians and captains or—”
“Precisely,” Madeline interrupted. The boy did not look offended that his idea was brought to a halt. “Do you know what your uncle is afraid of?”
The children were quiet. They blinked in unison, as if enchanted or simply completely bewildered.
“Uncle Kenneth is not afraid of anything,” Alexander declared, puffing out his chest. “He is a duke. People are afraid of him.”
“Mm.” Emily looked deep in thought, an index finger pointing at her little chin. “If Uncle Kenneth is afraid of anything at all, it is a messy room.”
“Ha.” Portia grinned triumphantly.
“Any kind of mess,” Alexander agreed. “Yesterday, when I left some of my charcoal drawings in the library, he looked at me oddly!”
“You drew on the table, too, Alex!” Emily reminded him. “Also, that does not sound like Uncle was afraid. He was probably just passing by.”
“Spiders!” Alexander blurted, jumping up and down, making Madeline slightly dizzy. Her knees shook as she rose from her kneeling position. “No! Ghosts! I think anyone should be afraid of ghosts, don’t you think, Aunt Maddy?”
“Somehow, that sounds more like me than your uncle,” Madeline admitted wryly. “Those are interesting answers, children. I will keep them in mind. A messy room. Spiders. And... ghosts! Thank you, my darlings.”
Portia caught her eye as if to tell her, “I told you so.”
The afternoon turned into evening, and shadows stretched across the hallways of Huntington House. Madeline’s imagination ran wild, but she only uncovered more of her fears, not Kenneth’s. His fears remained a mystery to her.
And I still have come up with nothing.
By midnight, suffocating silence had settled over the house. Of course, the children had long been asleep, exhausted from their daily adventures. The fire in the hearth of Madeline’s bedroom flickered low. Her heart pounded in her chest.
In her bed, she was depressed in a thin nightgown, her hair tumbling over her shoulders. The strands were now chaotic from her tossing and turning. Her pulse was racing, and with it, she was reminded of the times she had been ill. She was slightly warm, but that was from her restlessness.
Her hand reached for the bell pull. She remembered her family’s concerns about her desire for love within a cold, arranged marriage.
Am I truly going to do this? Am I going to go this far?
Doubt washed over her. What would Kenneth do if he realized that she had been lying to him? The situation between them might become worse.
However, a sense of determination washed over her as she remembered the cold indifference in his eyes. She needed to see through his cracks. She needed to know whether she would have to live like this forever.
After a sharp exhale, Madeline pulled the cord. Not long after she sounded her call, Gertie knocked softly and then entered her room.
“Your Grace? Do you require anything? Are you well?”
Madeline was never in the habit of just calling Gertie for everything. The young maid usually came when she was needed for dressing, and that was all.
The Duchess groaned aloud, hoping that she would sound ill and not petulant. She threw an arm across her forehead and began breathing through her mouth.
“Gertie, I fear something is wrong. I am terribly cold, but I also feel like burning.”
“You look as pale as your nightgown, Your Grace!” the maid exclaimed, her sleepy eyes becoming more alert as she rushed to her mistress’s side.
“Please inform His Grace,” Madeline rasped, making her shallow breaths dip inward to squeeze out a little wheeze. “Tell him that I am very ill and cannot rest. Do tell him quickly!”
“Right away, Your Grace!” Gertie cried, panic evident on her face. Madeline felt terrible for having to lie to her lady’s maid, but she had no choice.
I have to know. Would he worry about me? Would he be afraid something might happen to me?
As soon as the maid ran out of her room, Madeline felt a mix of guilt and excitement, her heart galloping faster.
All she needed to do now was wait.
Kenneth was not yet asleep. In fact, he was still in his study, examining a ledger with the help of a single candelabra. He was ready to retire, though.
If somebody were to find him there in his study late at night, they would praise his efficiency while being worried about his tendency to overwork. Yet, anything was better than being restless and sleepless in his bedchambers, knowing that Madeline was only on the other side of his walls.
His mind kept returning, against his will, to the sight of her bent over his bed, her orange skirts shoved to her hips, the sounds she had made, the gasp that broke into a moan, the way she had pushed back into his hand and begged him to touch her.
He had been close enough to feel the heat coming off her, close enough to know how ready she was, and it had taken everything in him to step back instead of dragging her beneath him and sinking his cock into her until that defiant mouth had nothing left to say but his name.
He set down his quill and reminded himself, not for the first time, that desire was simply another appetite. It could be governed like any other.
A sudden, frantic pounding interrupted his thoughts.
“Enter,” he said coldly, wondering what could be so urgent so late at night.
The door burst open. Gertie flung herself into the room, one hand clutching her chest. She was panting and trembling, but managed to keep her candle lit.
“Forgive me, Your Grace! I had to run to you. Her Grace is very ill, and she had me come here to call for you immediately as she—”
“Slow down, girl,” Kenneth said firmly, his heart pounding. “Tell me again. What is wrong with her?”
“She has taken ill. She is burning up and feeling cold at the same time. Her hair is sticking to her forehead from the sweat and the tossing and turning. She does not look like she could breathe well, Your Grace. I am afraid she might die at this rate!”
The air in the study suddenly vanished, or at least it felt that way. Kenneth could not breathe. He had to stop himself from clutching his chest.
A fever? His wife seemed to have a strong constitution. She did not get sick after being drenched in chilly lake water. She seemed to spend most of her time outdoors.
Yet, a fever was nothing to be trifled with.
It could steal lives at night, silently and quickly.
The thought of Madeline succumbing to illness made his heart slam hard against his chest. He did not know what to do with the dread rising in him; he was not a man accustomed to fear, but this was quite sudden.
Slowly and calmly—at least on the outside—he rested his quill and stepped out from behind his desk.
“Calm down, Gertie,” he said with a flat tone. “Fever is common. There is no need to be hysterical. I will look at her myself and will have to call a physician if it is necessary.”
“Y-yes, Your Grace,” Gertie squeaked, but Kenneth could see that the maid had begun calming down.
Even as he maintained his composure, he did not walk toward Madeline’s bedchambers.
Instead, he strode quickly, using his long legs to cover the distance.
With each step, the fear inside him grew tighter and more suffocating.
He arrived almost instantly. He did not pause to fix himself or linger at the door.
Instead, he flung it open as soon as he arrived.
He threw the door open and stopped cold at what he found inside.