Chapter 7
It was nearly midnight when Percival returned to Whitmore Estate.
The great iron gates groaned open as his carriage passed through. The estate stood proud beneath the moonlight, tall, silent, much like the man who called it home.
Inside, the warmth of burning hearths awaited him, but the cold outside had already sunk too deep into his skin for that.
The day had been long, filled with letters from Parliament, irritable bankers, and obstinate shipping contractors. His temples were already throbbing from fatigue.
He climbed the steps to his quarters, taking off his coat as he went. A footman offered his assistance, but Percival dismissed him with a wave of his hand. He wanted silence.
But silence was not what he received when he noticed that the door to his chambers was already ajar.
He took a deep breath as his hand hovered over the doorknob. There were only two people who had ever entered his rooms uninvited. One was his daughter. And the other…
“About time,” a voice called lazily from inside.
Percival sighed. Of course.
He pushed the door open fully and walked in.
Maxwell Turney, the Duke of Larcher, was resting in one of the armchairs with a glass of brandy in one hand and his boots shamelessly kicked up onto an ottoman that had witnessed three Whitmore generations.
He grinned when he saw Percival enter. “You’ve aged.”
“I’m beginning to,” Percival said flatly, tossing his coat over the back of a chair. “Thanks to moments like this.”
Maxwell let out a mocking chuckle before carefully asking, “Moments like what? Finding a bride?”
Percival didn’t dignify that with an answer. Instead, he moved toward the hearth to pour himself a drink.
“You look well.” He said, swirling his whiskey in the glass before taking a sip.
Maxwell didn’t fall for the distraction. “Don’t change the subject. When were you planning to tell me you were getting married?”
Percival sipped his drink. “I wasn’t.”
“You’re getting married.”
“Yes, so I’ve been told.”
“To Lady Aurelia Frid.”
Percival turned his head and arched a brow. “You seem well-informed.”
Maxwell set down his glass and crossed one leg over the other. His expression sobered. “I read about it in the papers, Percival. I thought I was your closest friend.”
“You are.” Percival turned slightly, lifting the glass to his lips again. “Which is why I assumed you wouldn’t require an invitation to a ceremony you would only complain about attending.”
“I would complain,” Maxwell affirmed, gesturing. “Loudly, and with dramatic flair. But I would still show up.”
“It’s an hour in a church,” Percival replied coolly. “Not a campaign to reclaim Normandy.”
Maxwell narrowed his eyes at him. “You really are the coldest man in Britain.”
“So I’ve heard,” Percival muttered without any trace of humor.
Silence fell between them for a moment, the only sound being the pop of the firewood.
Maxwell exhaled deeply. “You know this isn’t just about a wedding.”
“I’m aware.”
“She’s going to be your wife. This is… It’s a significant change, even for you.”
Percival caught the underlying message well enough. They both knew what Maxwell was hinting at: a significant change to the way the estate was run since his previous wife died ten years ago.
He didn’t answer right away. He turned back toward the fire and stared into the flames for a long moment.
“She’s not for me,” he finally said. “She’s for Lottie.”
“Charlotte?”
“She’s been… distant. More than usual. She hardly speaks anymore.
Refuses to eat at the table. Walks through the gardens alone.
I’ve spoken to doctors, governesses, and even a vicar.
They all say the same thing: that the child is lonely.
” He paused, his eyes still fixed on the flickering flames. “She needs a mother.”
Maxwell’s lips parted slightly. By now, all traces of mirth were gone. “So you’re marrying someone you barely know because of Charlotte.”
Percival shrugged one shoulder. “I am not the sort of man women fall in love with. I never expected companionship, let alone affection. What I can offer Lady Aurelia is a respectable title, financial security, and freedom from scandal. What she can offer me is companionship for my daughter.”
Maxwell reclined in his seat and folded his arms. “Romantic,” he scoffed.
“Realistic,” Percival countered.
Taking another moment to study his friend carefully, Maxwell asked, “You know that my friend Alexander married Aurelia’s older sister?”
“Yes,” Percival muttered.
“Celia,” Maxwell mumbled, barely audible. “At first, it was a scandal that caused quite a stir in the ton. But they’re happy now. Stupidly happy. In love, even.”
Percival scoffed. “That will not be the case for me and Lady Aurelia.”
But even as he said it, a certain memory flashed through his mind. The last time he had seen her. The doorframe. Her scent. The way she had looked up at him with bright brown eyes while trying her best to keep her blush under control.
He gritted his teeth. He had to shove down that thought deep, beneath all the other things he never allowed himself to feel.
Meanwhile, Maxwell eyed him narrowly. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend nothing gets under your skin.”
Percival paused, set down his drink, and turned to face his friend. “Because nothing does.” He raised an eyebrow.
Maxwell shot him the look that told him to keep up the pretense. Before he could speak again, a soft, hesitant knock sounded at the door, and a small figure appeared.
“Papa?”
Percival straightened at the sound of that voice. “Lottie?”
His blue eyes flicked to the girl as she entered the room. Her deep brown hair fell in loose, silken waves to her shoulders. Her cheeks were a little pink, not from exertion, but from nerves.
“Papa,” she repeated as she came to a halt. She was clutching something flat to her chest, wrapped in yellow cloth.
“There’s my favorite daughter.” Maxwell’s eyes lit up.
The little girl gave a small, shy smile. Her eyes flicked back to her father, and for a moment, she hesitated, unsure if she should stay.
She looked down at her boots. “I… I wanted to show you something, Papa.”
Percival’s blue eyes landed on the cloth bundle she extended toward him. He didn’t move at first or say anything.
He wasn’t used to her seeking him out or initiating something. Even now, it didn’t seem to come naturally. She didn’t look directly at him, her eyes fixed somewhere near his shoulder.
Quietly, he stepped forward, took the bundle carefully, and unwrapped it. It was a small painting of a garden scene, with roses and a little tabby cat resting beneath a mystical shrubbery.
Percival blinked.
“I—I copied the one in the morning room,” Lottie said quickly. “But I changed the colors. I wanted it to be… happier.”
Percival traced a finger along the edge. The brushstrokes were careful and purposeful, enough to show that she had spent time on the artwork.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d like it,” she added. “But… I thought maybe you could put it on your desk. Or somewhere.”
Percival cleared his throat. He was never good with words when it mattered.
“I see you’ve improved your strokes,” he said.
Lottie blinked. She looked up, her eyes searching her father’s face for something more. A smile? A pat on the head? Or even a nod of approval?
But that was all he offered. That she had improved her strokes.
Sensing the tension, Maxwell leaned over to take a look at the painting. “I daresay you’ve done a better job than most painters in the Royal Academy, Lottie. Truly.”
The girl smiled, but there was still a trace of disappointment on her face. Then, without thinking twice, she innocently asked, “Is it true that you’re getting married?”
Percival paused, his brows rising slightly. Although his expression didn’t show it, he was surprised that she was asking that. It was enough to let him know that she had lingered by the door before she had knocked.
“Yes, it is.” His voice was devoid of emotion.
The girl’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Is she nice?”
A pause.
He hesitated. “Yes.”
That wasn’t entirely true, not in the conventional sense.
Lady Aurelia wasn’t nice. She was… defiant. Clever. Too perceptive for her own good. She smelled like peaches. And worse, she had almost kissed him. Or rather, he had almost kissed her.
But Lottie didn’t need to know any of that.
“Will I like her?”
“I hope so.”
She clasped her hands in front of her, as though bracing herself for something she couldn’t name yet. “Will she stay?”
Percival heaved a long sigh. From behind, Maxwell shifted his gaze toward the window, tactfully silent.
“Yes,” Percival responded after a long moment. “She will.”
The girl nodded slowly. “I think that would be nice.”
The small, brave smile that curved her mouth was mysterious to Percival, as he couldn’t quite decide if it was genuine or not.
Silence fell over them, but it was quickly broken as Maxwell clapped his hands and rose from his seat.
“Well, my work here is done. I’ve teased you, insulted you, and witnessed a historic father–daughter moment. I shall take my leave before I ruin it.” He moved to the door, making sure to ruffle the little girl’s hair as he passed. “Goodnight, darling. Save me a painting next time.”
Lottie nodded with another small smile.
Maxwell nodded curtly to Percival, who was standing still like a statue, before walking out.
When the door clicked shut behind him, the room felt emptier.
Percival looked down at the painting again. “I shall put it in my study,” he said. “Where I work, so I see it every day.”
Lottie looked up at him. She seemed startled by his words. She hadn’t expected that.
“Thank you, Papa,” she squeaked.
She proceeded to bob a little curtsy before turning to leave.
When she reached the door, her father called after her, “Lottie.”
Lottie paused and turned back.
“You did very well.”
Her blue eyes lit up at those words. Then, with a quick nod, she disappeared down the corridor.
When the door closed behind her, Percival looked at the painting in his hands again.
He didn’t move for a long time. Something stirred within him, something old, buried under a mixture of responsibility and grief.
But he shoved the thought away. Like he always did.
He moved to his study then, setting the painting gently on his desk as he had promised, right in the center. Then, he lowered himself into his seat, determined to bury himself in the stack of documents—the comfort of the known.