Chapter 10
“Good evening,” Madeline said, dipping into a small, proper curtsy as she entered the room with Tessa at her side, her hand hovering briefly at the girl’s shoulder as they crossed the threshold together.
Tessa surged forward at once, excitement carrying her several steps ahead before she caught herself with visible effort, remembering at the last moment that she was meant to behave with composure.
She slowed abruptly, smoothed her skirts with exaggerated seriousness, and continued toward her father with a careful, overly deliberate grace that was far more earnest than elegant, and the sight of it made Madeline’s lips twitch despite herself.
The Duke had already risen slightly from his chair. His gaze flicked to Madeline as they approached, lingering for a fraction longer than propriety allowed before he looked away again, as though he had chastised himself for the lapse, his expression settling back into controlled neutrality.
“Miss Watton,” he said, his voice cool and precise, the formality deliberate. His gaze remained steady on her as he continued. “You will join us.”
Madeline blinked. “Your Grace?”
“For dinner,” he clarified evenly. “My daughter has spent the day with you. It would be discourteous to dismiss you now.”
Tessa looked between them, eyes bright with anticipation.
Madeline hesitated, acutely aware of the expectation he had set when she first arrived. Meals alone, or with the servants, never here. She felt the weight of the room, of his attention, of the unspoken question beneath the offer.
“I was only bringing Tessa,” she said carefully. “I did not mean to intrude.”
“You are not intruding,” he replied, the words measured. “I insist.”
Something in his tone left little room for refusal. After a brief pause, Madeline inclined her head.
“Very well,” she said quietly.
She drew out the chair opposite him and took her seat just as Tessa climbed eagerly into hers beside him, her feet swinging beneath the table, as she settled.
Before either adult could speak further she blurted out, unable to contain her pride, “Papa, Miss Watton let me draw today.”
’The Duke’s brow rose slightly. “Did she?”
“Yes,” Tessa said, beaming. “And I drew fear, and then I made it smaller.”
’His gaze sharpened, flicking to Madeline again. “You encouraged her to draw fear?”
Madeline kept her expression composed. “I encouraged her to draw what she felt.”
Tessa leaned forward eagerly. “And then Miss Watton said I could draw courage too.”
’The Duke’s jaw flexed faintly, as if he were trying to decide whether this was foolishness or brilliance. “And was this exercise useful?”
Tessa looked affronted. “Of course it was useful. It made my chest feel less tight.”
Madeline’s throat tightened again at the honest simplicity of it.
The Duke stared at his daughter for a beat, then said, stiffly, “I see.”
Dinner was served. The staff moved smoothly around them, laying dishes, pouring wine for the Duke and water for Madeline and Tessa.
Madeline’s appetite, which had been fragile even in the best of circumstances, dwindled further beneath the weight of the Duke’s presence.
She tried to eat, but each bite felt too large, as though her throat had forgotten how to accept food.
The Duke asked Tessa questions with the air of a man who believed conversation at the table ought to have purpose.
“What did you read today?” he asked.
Tessa launched into an explanation, recounting scenes in such detail that Madeline, despite herself, had to listen.
The little girl spoke of the heroine, of bravery, of judgement, of courage, and Madeline watched the way the Duke’s gaze softened in small, reluctant increments, as though each word from Tessa chipped away at something hard inside him.
“Miss Watton says people are not always wise,” Tessa declared, nodding solemnly as if this were a great philosophy.
The Duke’s mouth tightened faintly. “Does she?”
“Yes,” Tessa insisted. “And she says I should not let other people’s opinions be worth more than mine.”
Silence fell for a beat. Madeline braced herself for disapproval, but when she glanced at the Duke, she found him staring at his daughter with a peculiar scrutiny, as though the words had struck somewhere he did not expect.
“And do you believe her?” he asked Tessa.
She nodded. “Yes.”
’The Duke’s gaze shifted to Madeline. “And you truly believe that is the correct lesson for a child?”
Madeline kept her hands folded neatly in her lap, though her pulse was beginning to race again. “I believe it is the correct lesson for anyone,” she said softly.
He held her gaze for a long moment, and Madeline felt that unwanted heat again, low and insistent.
Despite his handsomeness, the Duke’s appeal was in his severity, in the discipline that made him seem carved from something stronger than ordinary men, and it frightened her how deeply her body responded to it.
She lifted her fork, gathering a small portion as though out of habit, and raised it toward her mouth. Then she paused. After a heartbeat, she lowered it again, setting the fork carefully against the edge of the plate.
’The Duke’s eyes dropped briefly to her plate. “You are not eating,” he said.
Madeline’s stomach clenched. She lifted her eyes. “I am.”
“You have moved food around,” he corrected, tone quiet but precise. “You have not eaten.”
Her cheeks warmed. She could feel Tessa watching, could feel the staff’s quiet awareness moving like a shadow at the edges of the room.
She reached for the safest escape. “Tessa,” she said lightly, “tell your father the new method we used for sums.”
Tessa perked up at once, launching into her explanation with enthusiasm, and the attention shifted as Madeline had intended, but the Duke’s gaze remained fixed on her for the rest of the meal, as though he were not finished with their conversation.
When dinner ended, Tessa clambered down from her chair and hurried to Madeline’s side, slipping her small hand into Madeline’s with unquestioning certainty. Madeline’s chest tightened again, because it was impossible not to feel the child’s attachment, the trust she offered so freely.
Mrs. Hayward appeared, ready to usher Tessa away, and the girl pouted immediately. “Must I go now?”
“Yes,” the Duke said firmly.
Tessa scowled at him. “You are always sending me away.”
“It is bedtime,” he replied.
Tessa looked unconvinced, but Mrs. Hayward laid a hand on her shoulder, murmuring something about warm milk and a story, and eventually Tessa allowed herself to be guided toward the door, though she turned back twice, watching with suspicious intensity, as if determined to rescue Madeline should the Duke prove unreasonable.
When the door closed at last, the room felt larger, emptier, and far too quiet.
The Duke did not sit. Madeline remained standing as well, hands clasped at her waist, forcing her posture into steadiness even as unease pressed against her ribs. She had been disciplined in how to endure scrutiny. Her mother had made it an art.
He moved slowly, circling the table as though he did not quite know what to do with himself, then stopped near the sideboard where the firelight caught the sharp planes of his face. His features were controlled, but his eyes were too intense.
“You avoided my question,” he said quietly.
Madeline swallowed. “I did not think it required an answer.”
“It does,” he replied.
She lifted her chin. “Why?”
His jaw tightened faintly. “Because you are in my home,” he said. “And you are responsible for my child.”
“And you believe my lack of appetite threatens her?” Madeline asked, before she could stop herself.
His gaze narrowed, as though he did not appreciate being challenged, and yet something flickered in his eyes too, something that looked almost like reluctant admiration.
“I believe,” he said carefully, “that you are not well.”
Madeline forced a small laugh. “I am perfectly well.”
“You are pale,” he said. “And you eat as though dining at my table is a punishment.”
Her throat tightened. She tried to step around it. “That is not true.”
’The Duke’s voice sharpened slightly. “Miss Watton.”
The way he said her name made something shift in her, made her spine go too straight, made her breath catch as though he had reached out and touched her.
She hated that.
“I assure you,” she said, choosing each word carefully, “that I am not ill, Your Grace.”
Wilhelm studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then a thought flashed on his face.
“I asked Cook to prepare venison tonight,” he said at last, more evenly. “It has always been my favorite.”
Madeline looked up, caught off guard by the turn.
“I thought,” he continued, his voice quieter now, “that if you were to dine with us, it ought to be something worth sitting for.”
Heat touched her cheeks, though this time it was not embarrassment. “That was… thoughtful of you.”
He inclined his head slightly. “Is it not to your taste?”
She hesitated, then allowed herself a small, honest smile. “I am afraid I’ve never cared much for venison.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, faintly. “Then that is my error, not yours.” He glanced toward the sideboard. “If there is something else you would prefer, you need only say so.”
Madeline exhaled slowly, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. “It is enough to be asked,” she said softly. “There is no need for more.”
He took a step closer.
Madeline held her ground, though her body was suddenly too aware of the distance between them, of the memory of his mouth on hers, of the strength in his arms when he had pulled her close in his study and then let her go like she was something dangerous.
His voice lowered. “I will not have the woman caring for my daughter wither away in front of my eyes,” he said. “I will not have you faint during her lessons because you have decided to starve yourself.”
“I have not decided anything,” Madeline said, and her voice came out sharper than she intended.