Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“It is pretty,” Eugenia said softly, her eyes fixed upon the pin.
Dorothy froze. For a moment, she wondered if her imagination had conjured the sound. Her head snapped towards the little girl, her eyes wide. “Eugenia?” she whispered, scarcely daring to breathe. “Did you… did you just speak?”
Dorothy sat at the long breakfast table, her teacup resting untouched upon its saucer.
The morning sun streamed through the tall windows, catching the gleam of the delicate brooch pinned just above her bodice.
Every so often, her fingers brushed over it, as though to reassure herself it was still there.
The faintest hint of lavender and rose clung to her skin, mingling with the warm fragrance of the freshly baked bread that filled the room.
Her gloves, soft and faintly perfumed, lay folded beside her plate, tokens she could not help but display even in so simple a setting.
The brooch, the gloves, and the perfume she was wearing were some of the gifts Magnus had gotten for her.
Gifts that felt like an unspoken conversation between them, each one chosen with a thoughtfulness she had not expected.
He had also gotten her a book that remained upstairs, waiting on her desk.
The Duke had called for her and Eugenia to have breakfast together, and though her appetite was almost non-existent, her anticipation was keen.
She told herself she cared only that he saw she had not disregarded him.
Yet she knew, in the honesty of her thoughts, that it was something else entirely.
She wanted him to look at her and see that she carried his presence with her, even in these small tokens.
Dorothy had been adjusting her gloves on the table once more, her gaze caught upon the shimmer of the brooch when a small voice had broken the silence.
“Eugenia,” she called her again, still dazed.
Eugenia blinked back at her, calm as ever, her expression unreadable.
Dorothy leaned closer, her pulse racing in disbelief.
“Sweetheart, say it again. Did you speak?” She was half out of her chair now, desperate to catch the words a second time, to prove that the silence that had long shrouded the girl had been broken.
But before Eugenia could respond—or before Dorothy could press her further—the door opened.
Magnus stepped into the room with his usual composed presence, his gaze moving swiftly from Eugenia to Dorothy.
Dorothy snapped back in her seat, heart still thundering, her lips parted as though she might speak.
Yet she caught herself, unsure if she had imagined it, if it had been nothing more than the hunger of her hope to hear Eugenia speak.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said, steadying her voice as she rose slightly in greeting.
Eugenia dipped her head politely, silent once more.
Dorothy smoothed her skirts and forced her trembling hands to still. Whatever had just happened, she told herself, must wait.
Dorothy felt the warmth of his gaze settle on her in a way it never had before. It was softer, less commanding, more… attentive. She could feel it when his eyes traveled down ever so slightly, taking in the brooch at her throat, the gloves he had gifted her...
For a brief, impossible moment, she thought she saw the barest flicker of a smile tug at the corners of his mouth. She didn’t dare breathe a word of it aloud, but inside, she was half convinced that it had been there.
He broke the silence as he cut into his breakfast. “Do you like them?”
Dorothy’s heart skipped. She nodded, careful to keep her composure, though her fingers twitched slightly as they rested upon the table. “Yes, Your Grace, they are… most considerate,” she replied, forcing a calm that made her heart thrum beneath the restraint.
Dorothy shifted in her seat, trying to steady her hands around her teacup. “The perfume. It is quite fragrant,” she managed, her voice careful, almost hesitant.
Magnus glanced up from his plate, his expression unreadable. “It is not overpowering?”
“No, not at all,” she replied quickly, forcing a casual lift of her chin. Her gaze flicked to the brooch pinned at her breast, then back to him, but the blue of his eyes caught her again, and her heart betrayed her.
He raised an eyebrow. “You seem… distracted.”
Dorothy found it increasingly difficult to maintain his gaze.
Each time she looked at him, she felt the memory of the day before prickling along her skin.
The brief, impossible closeness when he had touched her face.
Her heart, she realized with a mix of alarm and fascination, began to race in a way that was entirely unfamiliar.
Dorothy swallowed, forcing herself to look away, toward the window. “I… I suppose I am considering the morning air. It is unusually crisp for this time of year.”
She tried to focus on her tea, on the delicate clink of the spoon against the cup, anything but the sharp color of his eyes that still fascinated her and the taut line of his jaw.
It puzzled her. Only the night before, in his study, she had been able to speak to him, even with the memory fresh in her mind.
Perhaps it had been the darkness of the room, the shadows that allowed her to avoid looking directly at him.
Here, in the full morning light, there was no such refuge, and her pulse betrayed her composure.
Dorothy shifted slightly in her seat, attempting a semblance of casualness, though every movement seemed amplified in her awareness.
Words came more slowly than usual, as if they had to pass through some unseen filter between thought and speech.
She caught herself glancing away whenever he stirred, each tilt of his head sending a jolt of something unfamiliar through her chest.
Yet, despite the confusion, she could not deny the stirrings of something welcome in that quickened heartbeat.
It was disconcerting, yes, and entirely out of place in the orderly rhythm of her life, but it made her feel alive in a way that quiet mornings and careful routines never had.
She puzzled over the timing, over how such a reaction had begun and whether it was truly the memory of his touch or something else.
Dorothy exhaled softly, forcing herself to shift her thoughts away from his gifts.
Perhaps if she concentrated on something else, her heart might slow to a normal rhythm.
She turned toward Eugenia, who was sitting very still, her eyes fixed on Magnus as though she were studying him for the first time.
“Eugenia, well, I was thinking,” Dorothy observed, choosing her words carefully as she watched the little girl, “you’ve been painting something new, haven’t you? Would you like, perhaps, for His Grace to come and watch you paint sometime? It might be rather… pleasant for him.”
Magnus’s fork paused mid-air, his eyes narrowing in the faintest crease of curiosity. “She’s painting?”
Dorothy glanced at Eugenia, who gave the smallest, almost imperceptible smile. “Yes,” Dorothy said to Magnus, smiling softly herself. “She is. I think it might be nice.”
Magnus cleared his throat, still holding the fork, clearly unused to such informal suggestions. “I… see. Very well.”
Eugenia’s smile widened just a fraction, and Dorothy felt a quiet satisfaction at the small victory. Even if Magnus didn’t speak in tenderness, she could see in that tiny shift that Eugenia’s heart had been heard, and that was enough for now.
“Eugenia,” Dorothy said gently, leaning forward on the edge of her seat, “what are you painting today? Is it a garden?”
The drawing room was quiet except for the soft scratch of brush on canvas. Eugenia’s little hands trembled slightly as she held the brush, her eyes darting from the paper to Magnus, who sat rigid in the high-backed chair opposite her, fingers folded neatly, gaze unwavering.
Dorothy could see it. The subtle tension in Eugenia’s shoulders, the tiny quiver in her fingers. The girl wanted to paint freely, but Magnus’s presence made her feel as though each stroke was being judged, and Dorothy felt the urge to lighten the air.
Eugenia blinked rapidly, pausing mid-stroke. She gave a small nod, her hand hovering over the page, hesitantly.
Dorothy smiled softly. “Do you have a favorite flower in this garden?”
Eugenia’s tiny hand lifted slightly, her fingers curling over the brush, and she pointed to a cluster of roses she had begun to paint, then nodded again, her eyes flicking nervously to Magnus.
Dorothy glanced at Magnus, hoping he might offer some encouragement, but his face remained carefully composed, his eyes still fixed on Eugenia. The girl’s shoulders tensed again, and Dorothy realized she needed to intervene, not with words but with a bridge.
Dorothy rose casually from her chair and made her way over to Magnus.
She lowered herself beside him, squatting just enough that her eyes were level with his though their faces were still separated by a polite, proper space.
She could see the faint surprise in his gaze, a flicker that softened the usual rigidity he carried.
The closeness made her chest thrum in a way she hadn’t expected, and for a moment, they simply looked at each other, the quiet between them charged with something unspoken.
“You should say something to her,” Dorothy whispered, nodding toward Eugenia, who was still absorbed in her painting.
“Say something?” he whispered back, lowering his gaze to the tip of her nose.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Magnus’s brows knitted. “I… don’t know what to say. There is nothing to say. She is doing well.”
“Well, you should tell her that,” Dorothy pressed gently, her tone light but teasing, as if daring him to argue.
“Does she need to hear it?” His voice was careful, measured, almost hesitant, as though the idea of speaking praise made him uneasy.
“Yes,” Dorothy said firmly, her eyes locking with his. “She should hear it from you.”