Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Explain this to me, Mrs. Redmond. Now.”
The Duke’s voice was low, but the weight of it made the air grow heavy. He stood before the portrait, his hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes hard as steel.
Mrs. Redmond lowered her gaze at once, fingers twisting in her apron. “Your Grace…”
He cut her off. “Do not falter. Who placed this here?”
She swallowed. “It... it was not I, Your Grace. I only followed instructions.”
Magnus’s gaze narrowed. He took one measured step closer. “Whose instructions?”
Her breath hitched. She dared not look up. “Her Grace… the Duchess. She… she saw it when she was in the room where the old portraits are kept. She remarked that it was finely done, and she thought it might look… agreeable here.”
Magnus’s jaw tightened. His gaze swung back to the painting, his voice sharpened to a blade’s edge. “She found it. Of all the things she might have left untouched, she found this and touched it.”
Mrs. Redmond clutched her apron tighter, her voice barely above a whisper. “She meant no harm, Your Grace.”
“No harm?” He let out a short, mirthless laugh. His eyes lingered on the painted features, a shadow crossing his face. “It was put away for a reason. My reason, and no one—no one—was given leave to move it.”
Silence pressed in, broken only by the faint ticking of the clock on the mantel. Mrs. Redmond lowered her head further, as though hoping the floor might swallow her.
Magnus turned sharply back to her. “Did she ask how it came to be hidden there?”
Mrs. Redmond hesitated. “No, Your Grace. She only insisted that it should not be shut away.”
His lips thinned. “Enough,” he said. “Leave me.”
She dipped in a quick curtsey and hurried from the room, leaving him alone with the portrait he had sought so long to forget.
The door closed softly behind Mrs. Redmond, and silence settled once more. Magnus remained where he stood, staring at the portrait as though it mocked him with its sudden reappearance.
He had hidden it for a reason. Hidden her for a reason.
The delicate brushstrokes captured his sister’s smile with cruel precision, each line a needle pressing into the armor he had built around himself.
He had thought the memories were buried, locked away with the dust and shadows of that forgotten room.
Yet here she was, her eyes following him across the chamber, pulling with them the echo of a past he refused to let live.
It was not only her face that he did not like to see. It was his father’s, too. The sharp lines, the same proud tilt of the head. Different reasons, different wounds. Both unbearable. He had fought to forget. He had bled to forget. Now… one careless act had dragged it all back into the light.
He knew what would follow. He always did.
When the past pressed in, when those faces stared at him unbidden, he became something else.
Harder, darker, more merciless than even the ton whispered him to be.
They called him ruthless. They were not wrong.
But it was in these moments, with memory gnawing at the edges of his restraint, that the name fit like a second skin.
Magnus exhaled slowly, his jaw clenched, his hands curled into fists behind his back. He turned from the portrait at last, though the image lingered in his mind, relentless.
Enough. If Dorothy believed she might rearrange his house as though it were a doll’s plaything, she would learn her mistake swiftly. Some matters were trivial, but this... this trespass cut far deeper.
He strode from the study, his steps echoing down the corridor with the weight of suppressed ire. The servants who glanced at him shrank back against the walls, lowering their heads, pretending sudden fascination with their errands. He saw them, but he ignored them.
At the foot of the grand staircase, he paused only long enough to draw a steadying breath.
Then he ascended, boots striking the polished wood, his gaze fixed forward.
Dorothy’s chambers lay at the end of the west wing.
The heavy silence of the corridor seemed to tighten as he approached, broken only by the soft thud of his own tread.
He reached the door, lifted his hand, and rapped once before turning the handle.
The hinges gave way with a muted groan, and he stepped inside.
There Dorothy was, seated by the tall window, her back straight, her figure calm against the spill of afternoon light. A book lay open in her lap, her head bent in quiet concentration. She had not yet looked up, unaware of the storm that had entered her room.
“Who asked you to touch it?”
His voice cut through the quiet like steel on stone.
Dorothy’s head snapped up. For a moment, she simply stared, wide-eyed, as though scarcely believing he stood there, in her bedchamber no less. The book slid from her lap as she rose swiftly to her feet. Surprise flickered across her features, softening into something like disquiet.
“Your Grace,” she breathed, smoothing her skirts. “I had heard the carriage pulling into the courtyard. I meant to come and greet you, but—”
“Who asked you to touch it?” he repeated, sharper this time, cutting her words in two.
She blinked at him, confusion chasing the color from her cheeks. “Touch what, Your Grace?”
His jaw tightened. He took a step nearer, though the fury that had driven him up the stairs now felt strangely caged in her presence, restrained by some unseen hand. Still, the demand burned in his eyes.
“You know very well,” he said, voice low. “Do not feign innocence.”
Her brows knit together, her gaze steady, though her hands clutched her gown. “I have no notion what you mean.”
“Why did you touch the painting?” he questioned.
Dorothy’s lips parted, her surprise giving way to a fragile steadiness.
“I found it in one of the rooms upstairs,” she began softly after taking a moment to think.
“It seemed such a pity to leave it hidden there. It is too beautiful a piece, Your Grace, far too fine to be gathering dust. It is a lovely painting of your sister, and I thought it might—”
“You had no right!” The words tore from him, fierce and final, striking the air between them like a whip.
Dorothy gasped, though her chin lifted a fraction, her composure fraying under the force of his anger.
She pressed on quickly, her voice trembling but earnest. “I only thought it would bring some brightness to the room… and I learned she was Eugenia’s mother as well.
I believed it best that such a face should not be forgotten–”
“It is my house,” Magnus said. “My home. Nothing within these walls is to be touched without my leave. Even the servants know better than to move so much as a chair without first seeking my permission. Yet you—” His voice hardened, his hand tightening at his side.
“You presumed to make changes as though you had any right.”
Dorothy’s lips parted, but he pressed on.
“Do not forget why you are here, Dorothy. You were brought into this house for one reason and one reason only. Eugenia. You are to look after her, guide her, and teach her. That is why you were married into this family. That is why I married you.” His gaze seared into hers, unyielding. “Your duties do not go beyond that.”
He stopped abruptly, the last words breaking sharper than he intended. A taut silence followed, the sound of his own voice still echoing in the chamber.
Magnus drew in a long and controlled breath, then stepped back, the fire in his expression dimming into something heavier. He had not meant to raise his voice... had sworn long ago that he would not become that man. Yet here he stood, anger ringing between them.
Dorothy did not move. She stood very still by the window, her book forgotten at her feet, her eyes fixed on him with a mixture of shock and hurt. The silence deepened, fragile, the storm of his fury giving way to the uneasy calm that followed.
For a fleeting moment, Magnus thought the heaviness of his words had silenced her.
That they had pressed her into submission as they did the servants.
.. as they did most who crossed him. He almost regretted them in that moment, seeing how still she stood.
The urge to say something to soften the blow tugged at him, even though he had little practice in such things.
But before he could speak, Dorothy stepped forward. Just one step, but it shifted the air between them.
“Contrary to what you think, Your Grace,” she said, “my duties go beyond Eugenia. At least, that is how others see it. The people who look to you as their duke, the people who now look to me as their duchess, they do not think my role begins and ends with Eugenia. Nor shall I let them think ill of me because you believe my place is so small.”
Her chin lifted a fraction, her gaze holding his. “I will not have my reputation diminished even if I have very little rein to do whatever I want in this capacity.”
Magnus stared at her, silent. He had expected trembling, perhaps tears, certainly retreat. But not this. Not the fire in her eyes, nor the steadiness in her voice. The defiance struck him, and he wasn’t certain how he was supposed to react.
Dorothy pressed on, her voice rising as she began to pace.
“I do not even know what to do in this place. I walk through these halls like a stranger, careful not to breathe too loudly, careful not to offend. Every step feels as though it treads upon some invisible rule, and when I try, when I dare to be comfortable, you tell me I have no right.”
Magnus sighed. “Dorothy—”
“No right?” she asked again, pausing in disbelief. “No right?”
His jaw tightened. “I gave you one order,” he said. “Take care of Eugenia.”