Chapter 13 #3
“Dorothy.” His interruption was gentle yet brooked no argument. “It is fine. You may make those changes.”
A long breath escaped her lips, almost a sigh, as she tried to hold her composure.
A ripple of frustration moved through her chest, not at his permission but at the contradiction of it.
Only hours before, he had all but thundered at her for touching so much as a portrait.
Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides before she gave voice to her thought.
“How is it you are fine with it now, Your Grace,” she asked, “when not long ago, you told me never to touch anything in this house?”
Magnus’s gaze shifted, the lines at his mouth tightening. “Perhaps it is only because I am tired,” he said at last.
Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “So then, does that mean tomorrow, when you are no longer tired, you will change your mind again?”
“No,” he returned at once. “I am not a man who changes his mind so easily.”
She let out a small breath, half incredulous. “But you are contradicting yourself. What is it you truly want, Your Grace? One moment you forbid me to alter anything, and the next, you tell me I may do as I please. Which is it to be?”
His jaw clenched, but before he could answer, she pressed on.
“I know why you brought me here. I understand that. I know you wish me to care for Eugenia, and I will continue to do so. Gladly. But what of the rest of it? What about what I said before? Do you not see that people—your people—already expect certain things of me? If I do not meet those expectations, if I do not act as they believe a duchess should, there will be whispers. Rumors.”
Magnus’s gaze lingered on her, steady, probing, his voice low. “I thought you did not care for rumors. I thought you were not bothered by whispers so much so that you were even comfortable starting one yourself.”
Dorothy drew in a breath, the sound uneven as she stepped back, away from his scrutiny.
His words struck too close. Once, she truly had not cared.
Once, she had embraced the thought of remaining single, of escaping all the demands that came with marriage, a household, and a title.
She had told herself that spinsterhood would grant her freedom, that it was a choice made in defiance but also in safety, for buried beneath that choice was a fear too large, too consuming, one she could never admit aloud.
As a spinster, there would have been no stage upon which to falter.
But now... now, everything was different.
The vows had been spoken, the Duke’s name was tied irrevocably to hers, and with it came expectations she could neither escape nor dismiss.
The fear pressed down upon her, heavier with each passing day, whispering that disappointment was inevitable.
What would her sisters think of her if she faltered?
Two Duchesses already, both assured in their roles, both radiant in their marriages.
Their disappointment would cut deeper than any rumor in London.
Her lips parted as though to speak, but pride clamped the words back down. She would not confess this to him. Not to Magnus. Better he believe her unyielding, better he never see how afraid she was starting to get.
The silence stretched between them until Magnus rose to his feet. The motion startled Dorothy, though she schooled her features quickly, lifting her chin as his shadow fell across her.
“You are hiding something.”
Her breath caught, but she met his eyes without wavering. “So are you.”
The corner of his mouth curved into the faintest smile, not of amusement but of recognition, as though she had confirmed something he already suspected.
He studied her a moment longer, then spoke.
“What is it that troubles you so much? A lady like you would hardly concern herself with whispers or duties pressed upon her by others. Yet now… something has shifted. Something weighs upon you.”
Her pulse quickened. She could feel his words pressing against the very walls she had built within herself, and for an instant, she longed to lower them, to tell him everything.
But instead, she drew herself straighter and countered, “I will tell you if you tell me why a single painting unsettles you so.”
His smile deepened, wry and almost fond, though there was no mistaking the shadows in his eyes. “Perhaps it is better we keep our secrets to ourselves.”
Dorothy inclined her head once. “Very well.” She turned towards the door. “Good night, Your Grace.”
She had nearly reached the threshold when his voice stopped her.
“Dorothy.”
She hesitated, then looked back.
“I asked your maid to place something in your room,” he said. His tone was careful, almost offhand. “A small token from my travels. I hope you like it.”
Something tightened in her chest, an ache she refused to let show. She forced her expression to remain composed, even as warmth threatened to soften her features. With all her strength, she held back the smile that tugged at her lips.
“Thank you,” she murmured, and without another glance, she slipped from the room. But as she walked down the corridor, her heart would not obey her resolve. It beat far too quickly, betraying her pride with every step.
Her steps were measured at first, slow, but the further she went down the corridor, the quicker her pace became. By the time she turned the corner, her composure had entirely deserted her. She was half-running, breathless with eagerness, desperate to see what it was he had thought to bring her.