Chapter 12
The carriage rolled to a stop before Whitmore Estate, its wheels quietly climbing over gravel. Almost immediately, the driver climbed down to open the door.
Percival hardly noticed him. He seemed lost in thought, pressed against the window as though the act of stepping out required armor.
When the driver cleared his throat, Percival started slightly before descending with practiced grace. With his rigid back and perfectly tucked cravat, he seemed like the unshaken, untouchable Duke of Whitmore.
But beneath his icy frown was a man dangerously aware of his own betrayal, and that troubled him. He had betrayed himself the previous night, betrayed his restraint, and cursed principles because of her.
Aurelia.
The very sound of her name rose like a flame in his chest. He had spent the better part of the day in a boardroom with nobles, discussing tariffs and trade routes. But not a single word had registered.
Each time he had tried to focus, her image would slip through. The way her lips had parted against his, trembling but certain, the way she had melted into his arms with a slight shiver still haunted him even now.
Worse? He had kissed her. He had kissed his wife.
A groan escaped his lips as he remembered.
It should not have happened. He had vowed that their marriage would be practical, untouched by romance, yet he had broken that vow. She was simply supposed to be a stepmother to Lottie, nothing more. A caretaker who was supposed to provide warmth that his presence couldn’t offer. That was all.
But then he had betrayed his own vows the moment her laughter had undone something within him. The moment her sweet vanilla scent stirred his senses. Uttering those goddamn words, “Get some rest, wife,” was his last resort before he did something more regrettable.
Wife.
The word had tasted like sin and salvation all at once. That was exactly what Aurelia’s presence was turning into—a confusing reality. One that bothered him. One that had him lost in search of a solution before it became too late.
His throat tightened as he entered the main hall. The servants bowed quietly before they went about their business. Everything was in its place, except for his mind.
As soon as he strode into his chambers, he closed the door with a decisive thud, wishing to be left alone. He stepped in front of the mirror, loosening this cravat in such a way that one would think it was choking him.
His reflection irritated him because all he could see was a man who let himself be possessed by desires. Even now, the softness of his wife’s lips still haunted him.
What the hell was I thinking?
When he closed his eyes, it only got worse. Because there she was again, gasping as he claimed what he should have resisted.
God help him, he had devoured her mouth like a secret he was never meant to know.
It hadn’t been sweet. It had been ruinous. The worst part of it all was that he would do it again.
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath.
He turned away from the mirror. He couldn’t bear to see what was written on his own face: longing.
“Control yourself, Percival,” he told himself, running a hand through his dark brown hair.
He needed control. Or at the very least, some cold or scalding water to shock some sense into him.
With a sharp exhale, Percival shrugged off his coat and stripped down with the air of a man ridding himself of sin. He stepped into the adjoining washroom and splashed cool water from the jug on his face.
The sharp coolness of the water against his heated flesh provided a momentary distraction, but as soon as the droplets began trailing down his neck to his chest, he was flooded with thoughts that made his blood simmer with lust.
He imagined his little wife doing her ablutions as well, with her lovely hair unpinned, her skin warmed by the steam. He swallowed as he imagined how her nipples would pebble under the water, aching for a touch she’d never ask for.
His hand clenched against the tile.
He would worship her if she let him. Devour her until the only name she remembered was his. He would kiss every inch of her with slowness and reverence.
“Enough.”
The word tore out of him. Yet even as he said it, he knew it was a lie.
He would never have enough of Aurelia if he were to lose control again and touch her the way he had.
And that terrified him more than anything else.
By evening, when the day had turned into a soft amber glow, Percival made his way to his study. A sanctuary where he could drown in paperwork and ledgers like a workaholic.
At least, that would leave him too busy to entertain sinful thoughts.
He stepped into the room that no one dared to enter without his permission. Or so he had thought.
The moment he opened the heavy oak door, a sound welcomed him. It was so out of place because his study was usually silent and ordered.
Pausing in the doorway, his eyes narrowed as he scanned the room. Then, he saw him. Sir Whiskerton.
The cat was sitting on his favorite armchair as though he owned it. His fur gleamed in the light of the setting sun as his tail swayed with regal arrogance.
Percival let out a sharp breath, torn between disbelief and annoyance.
“Of all the places in this house,” he muttered, stepping in and shutting the door, “you choose this room?”
The cat looked up and blinked slowly at him, unbothered.
Percival moved toward his desk, shaking his head as he took another look at the animal. “Sir Whiskerton, my foot. You’re no more noble than a sewer rat,” he muttered.
The cat hissed at him, as if he understood the insult.
Percival’s lips curved slightly with a ghost of amusement he would never confess to. He settled behind his desk and gathered a stack of papers.
The cat made an odd, rustling sound, and Percival looked back at him. “If you haven’t noticed, I need absolute silence.”
Sir Whiskerton simply stretched leisurely in response, before jumping down with a grace that was almost mocking. He padded toward the tall windows, where the last sun rays painted the glass gold.
“Majestic nuisance,” Percival muttered, forcing his attention back to his work.
Numbers. Contracts. Correspondence he had put off for weeks. He took a deep breath, ready to dive into the workload.
Well, until his peace was disturbed once again with the sound of laughter.
He froze, his pen halting mid-word.
What is that sound?
It was not polite. It was unguarded and alive, echoing through the quiet estate, sounding so foreign that it almost seemed forbidden.
And undeniably hers.
The sound made his brows draw together. Laughter had no place here, especially the kind that sounded so unguarded as it pierced the quietness of the estate.
Soon, he stood up, irritation quickening his movements. But something else, something hotter, drove him. He crossed to the window, and then he saw them.
Aurelia and Lottie.
They were in the garden, standing before a wooden easel. Lottie was holding a paintbrush with a seriousness that made her tiny hands clumsy, and Aurelia was laughing again.
Her head was tipped back, her loose hair catching the light like honey. The soft curve of her neck, the way she leaned toward his daughter…
God help him, it undid him. Even from a distance, he marveled at her beauty.
She was undeniably alive in a way that made the air cling to her like a lover. When she bent to guide Lottie’s hand, her dress fluttered at the mercy of the breeze, brushing against her thighs and tugging at her waist.
His throat went dry. The furrow between his brows softened before he realized it.
Lottie was grinning with delight. It had been years since he had seen that expression on her face, since he had heard her laugh so freely.
And it was Aurelia who had coaxed it from her. That same laugh that had stirred something primitive inside him moments ago. Now, it felt like healing as it drew his daughter out of her shell.
That realization made the ache in his chest unbearable.
However, the purrs of Sir Whiskerton snapped him out of it. He glanced down to see the cat rubbing against his leg.
Percival scowled, though there was no heat in his gaze. “You approve, don’t you?” he muttered.
The cat purred louder and headbutted him for some affection.
Percival rolled his eyes. “Don’t you even think about it, rat,” he growled.
But then the cat flickered his tail in a way that even Percival could not deny was adorable.
He cleared his throat and extended a hand. Reluctantly, he reached down and brushed the soft fur, and the cat arched into his touch as though it had claimed him.
“You are insufferable,” Percival huffed, though his fingers continued stroking the creature’s back. “I should throw you out of this room.”
The cat only blinked up at him, smug as a king.
Percival looked back out the window. His jaw tightened again, though for a different reason this time. Lottie’s white dress was now smudged with paint and dirt from their play.
“She’ll catch a chill,” he muttered.
However, the cat’s steady purring suggested otherwise.
Still, the sight of Aurelia and Lottie together unsettled him in a way he could not name. He disapproved of the mess, of course, and the lack of order. But beneath that…
Beneath that was a longing to be the one who made them laugh. To feel some warmth without pretense. To be let in.
He closed his eyes briefly, feeling that ache again.
When he opened them, Aurelia had placed a hand on Lottie’s shoulder and whispered something to her. The girl nodded, and together they began gathering their things and headed back to the manor.
Percival stepped back from the window immediately. “Best they come inside.” His voice was a low, clipped murmur.
But his gaze lingered on the spot where they had been, and no matter how he had tried, the sinful sound of her laughter refused to leave his ears.