Chapter 12 #2
She thought about the freedom Theodore moved through the world with, the lightness of him, the way he found humor in everything and took nothing so seriously that it could wound him.
She thought perhaps that none of it was effortless.
None of it had simply arrived. Perhaps, he had worked hard to build that personality over the years, deliberately.
Perhaps, he had decided that although he grew up in a cold house, he had decided, somewhere along the way, that he would rather be in the warmth.
She thought about the freedom Theodore moved through the world with, the lightness of him, the way he found humor in everything and took nothing so seriously that it could wound him.
She thought perhaps that none of it was effortless.
None of it had simply arrived. Perhaps he had worked hard to build that over the years, deliberately.
Perhaps he had decided that although he grew up in a cold house, he would rather be in the warmth.
She sat with that for a moment.
She had judged him for it. That was the honest truth of it, and she was honest enough to admit it, at least to herself.
She had looked at his ease, his charm, his complete refusal to take anything seriously, and she had decided, very early and very confidently, that it was shallowness.
That a man who laughed that readily and moved through the world that lightly must not be carrying anything of substance underneath it.
She had found him exhausting precisely because he seemed unbothered by things she considered important, and she had taken that as evidence of a character that had never been required to develop any real depth.
She had been — she now suspected — spectacularly wrong about that. She was going to have to revisit that opinion.
There was something moving in her chest that felt odd. Not quite guilt, though guilt was part of it. Something more like an unsettling feeling of looking at something familiar and realizing you have been seeing it wrong the whole time.
She wanted to know more. That was the simplest way to put it.
She wanted to know how a boy in a cold house with a strict, joyless father had become the man who made every room warmer simply by walking into it.
She wanted to know what it had cost him.
She wanted to know which parts were real and which were armor, and whether he even knew the difference anymore.
She was curious about Theodore Merrick in a way she had not allowed herself to be before, and that, she thought, was perhaps the most surprising thing that had happened to her since she arrived at Carrowell.
“He has been like this since this afternoon,” Emily said, pressing the back of her hand to Frederick's forehead for the third time in as many minutes. She sat at the edge of Frederick’s bed, her eyes fixed on the boy’s flushed face.
“It is likely just a summer chill, Your Grace,” Peggy offered, though her brow was furrowed as she wrung out a fresh cloth.
“We should tell His Grace,” said Martha.
Martha was one of the younger housemaids, a practical, soft-spoken girl of perhaps nineteen who was attached to Emily's orbit within the first day of their arrival. She was standing at the foot of Frederick's bed now with a damp cloth in her hands, too, and an expression of genuine concern.
“His Grace is kind,” Martha continued. “He could send for a good physician.”
“No,” Emily said, shaking her head. “I can speak to Mrs. Holt for a recommendation... perhaps, she can send for a physician. Not the duke.”
Martha looked at her.
“He is busy,” Emily said, smoothing Frederick's blanket.
“I have not seen him properly in five days, and I am not going to interrupt whatever he is doing to tell him that Frederick has a fever that may well resolve itself by morning.” She looked at the boy's face, flushed and too warm against the pillow.
“We simply need to keep him cool and make sure he drinks enough and watch him through the night.”
“But Your Grace —” Martha began.
“Let us hope he is fine by morning,” Emily said.
Peggy, who had been watching this exchange from the corner of the room, made a small sound that was not quite a word.
Emily looked at her.
“I did not say anything,” Peggy said pleasantly.
“You made a sound.”
“I cleared my throat.”
“Peggy.”
“I simply think...” Peggy said, with great care. “... that the Duke would want to know. That is all I think. I am not saying anything further.”
Emily looked back at Frederick. His breathing was even, at least. Restless but even. She had sent down to the kitchen an hour ago for warm milk with a little honey stirred in, which was what she used to give him when he could not sleep, and it had not arrived yet.
She frowned at the door.
“How long ago did I send down for the milk?” she said.
“Perhaps twenty minutes, Your Grace,” Martha said.
“Twenty minutes.” Emily stood. “I will go and check.”
“I can go,” Peggy said immediately, moving toward the door.
“Stay with him,” Emily said, already at the door herself. “I need you here. I will be two minutes.”
She slipped out into the corridor before either of them could say another word and pulled the door quietly shut behind her.
The corridor was dark and still, lit only by the wall sconces at either end, their flames small in the airless silence of the house at night. Emily stood for a moment with her hand still on Frederick's door and thought about what Martha had said.
He could send for a better physician.
She knew that. She had known that for the last two hours while she pressed cool cloths to Frederick's forehead and told herself it was just a fever, that children had fevers, and that it would resolve by morning.
She had known it and chose not to act on it because doing so would have meant going to Theodore, and going to Theodore would have meant admitting that she needed something from him.
She had spent the last five days very carefully constructing a version of this marriage in which she did not need anything from him that she could not manage herself.
She set off down the corridor toward the stairs.
The house was quiet around her. She was walking through them in her dressing gown, with her hair half down, worrying whether she was making the right call by not bothering Theodore with Frederick’s condition.
She reached the top of the stairs and started down.
She was only a couple of steps down the stairway when she saw him, and a gasp slipped from her lips.
Theodore was ascending slowly, the flickering light of a single candelabra carving sharp angles into his jawline.
Emily hesitated at the landing, her first instinct to retreat.
He had his coat off, his cravat loose. He saw her at approximately the same moment she saw him, and they both slowed.
Emily kept walking down. He kept walking up.
They stopped two steps apart.
“Emily,” he said, his voice a low vibration in the hollow space.
She dipped into a quick, instinctive curtsey. “Your Grace.”
An awkward, heavy silence settled between them. The air felt thick, the kind of stillness that usually preceded a storm. Theodore looked at her for a moment. Then the corner of his mouth moved. He let out a soft, dry chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes.
“I find it remarkable,” he said. “That we have arrived here.”
She looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Here.” He gestured between them, at the staircase, at the silence.
“You and I. Standing on a staircase in the middle of the night, unable to find a single thing to say to each other.” He tilted his head.
“We have never in our lives had this problem before. I once watched you hold an entire argument with me using only your eyebrows. At the Pembourne dinner. Remember?”
Emily looked at him. “Well, our dynamic has changed.”
“Has it?”
“Before, we were simply two people in the Ton who could not stand each other.” She held his gaze evenly. “Now we are husband and wife.”
Something moved across his face when she said those words.
Husband and wife. Quick and unreadable… there and gone before she could figure out what it was.
She looked at it and decided, because it was safer, that it was uncomfortable.
That the words had landed awkwardly on a man who had never wanted to be anyone's husband and was now standing on his own staircase being reminded of it at whatever hour this was.
She moved to step aside, intent on fleeing the suffocating closeness, but Theodore reached out. His hand settled firmly against her waist — just below her navel — the heat of his palm seeping through the thin silk of her dressing gown.
“Wait,” he whispered, his thumb grazing the curve of her hip. “Don't go yet, we’re still talking.”
Emily jerked at the contact, a sharp gasp catching in her throat as a jolt of pure electricity raced up her spine. The charge was undeniable, and she hated that its effect was so obvious. A sudden, magnetic pull that left her breathless.
He seemed to realize the impropriety of the touch and pulled his hand away abruptly. “I am sorry,” he muttered, though he stepped up to stand on the very same step as her.
The closeness was dizzying. At this distance, she could see the faint stubble on his chin and the way his pupils were blown wide.
“You look troubled, Emily,” he said, his voice losing its mocking edge. “Is something wrong? Are you... Are you settling in nicely? Or is there a problem? Do you have everything you need?”
She stared at him, the truth about Frederick’s fever burning at the back of her throat. She wanted to lean into him, to let him carry the weight of the worry. But instead, she diverted.
“Are you all right, Your Grace?” she said.
He blinked.
“You,” she said. “Are you all right? Is there something you wanted to talk about?”
He was quiet for a moment. “No,” he said.
She looked at him.
“No,” he said again. “Everything is perfectly fine.”
“That is not true,” she countered, her old spark returning for a fleeting second. “And you know it.”
Theodore smiled then, a small, teasing glint that reminded her of the man she knew.
“So serious,” he murmured, leaning in just a fraction.
“You are always so terribly serious, Emily. Were you simply born with that frown on your face, or did you practice it in the glass until it reached this level of perfection?”
“I do not frown,” Emily said.
“You are frowning right now.”
“I am expressing considered disapproval. There is a distinction.”
“I disapprove,” he said.
“You bring it out of me,” she blurted, before she had quite decided to. “You simply have a terrible, great talent for bringing the frown out of me. It is astonishing how easily it appears the moment you enter a room, or when you talk to me. It is quite a feat, truly.”
“Oh? Well then, I suppose I should be immensely proud,” he countered, his grin widening in the flickering candlelight.
Emily rolled her eyes, the tension in her shoulders finally beginning to give way to the spark of the argument. “There is absolutely nothing to be proud of in making a lady look as though she has swallowed a lemon, Your Grace.”
“Of course there is,” he insisted, taking a half-step closer until the heat from him brushed against the silk of her dressing gown.
“Think of the exclusivity of it. If I am the only one who can provoke such a magnificent expression from you, then I must take that as a win. It is a reaction reserved solely for me. I should have it painted and hung in the gallery.”
She looked up at him, ready to snap back with something biting, but the words died in her throat.
This was the Theodore she knew, the one who knew exactly how to get on her nerves and pull her out of her own head.
In a sudden, crazy thought that she would never admit aloud, she realized she had missed this.
She had missed the friction of his words and the way he fought her with wit.
It was far better than the cold, polite silence they had endured for the past five days.
“You are impossible,” she whispered, though her voice lacked any real sting.
“And you,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips. “...are far too easy to provoke, Emily.”
The playful look in his eyes lingered, and for a moment, the heaviness of the house seemed to vanish. But as quickly as the spark had ignited, the reality of their situation rushed back in. She looked at him, her expression softening.
“Your Grace,” she said, her voice dropping to a low. “Perhaps... we truly do need to talk. About our... arrangement. Everything has happened with such speed, and we have yet to discuss our expectations. Or how we are to live within these walls together.”
Theodore groaned. “Emily...”
“Your Grace, it is paramount —”
“Theodore,” he corrected instantly. He took yet another step towards her, invading her personal space until she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “We are married now, Emily. You can call me by my name, especially in moments like this.”
Emily felt the heat rise to her cheeks, her pulse fluttering in the hollow of her throat. “Moments like this?” she breathed, the question barely a whisper.
Theodore didn’t answer with words. His gaze dropped back to her mouth, and the look in his eyes was replaced by a dark, simmering intensity.
He shifted closer, his hand twitching as if he meant to reach for her again.
The world narrowed down to the scent of cedar and the sound of their shallow breathing.
She could swear he was leaning in, that the distance between them was about to vanish.
Then, the rhythmic creak of a floorboard broke the silence. The heavy and hurried footsteps of a maid ascended the lower flight of stairs.
The spell shattered. Emily scrambled back, putting a frantic few inches of cold air between them. Theodore straightened himself, his face snapping back and the smirk returning to his lips, though his eyes remained dark.
She waited for him to walk up the remaining stairs, her heart still hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Only once he had reached the landing did she turn toward the girl approaching with the tray.
“There you are,” Emily said, her voice sharper than intended as she smoothed her dressing gown. “What took you so long? I have been waiting for the milk for nearly a quarter of an hour.”
“My apologies, Your Grace, I had an issue with the stove —”
“Never mind. Just bring it,” Emily interrupted, already turning away. She didn't look back at Theodore as she led the maid toward the nursery, the warmth of the hallway suddenly feeling very cold.