Chapter 15
It had been days since the kiss, and the manor seemed to have grown colder. Or maybe it wasn’t the manor. Maybe it was the distance Percival had put between them. Like armor. She so rarely saw him that he almost felt invisible.
And though part of her burned with frustration, another part refused to let his coldness get to her. If the Duke of Whitmore wished to maintain his silence, she would not spend hours pacing like a restless beast.
She was a duchess, and it was time she started acting like one.
That morning, Aurelia sought out the housekeeper and demanded to be introduced to the staff.
Mrs. Withers raised her brows at the request. “Most ladies would be content to let me handle such matters,” she said, folding her arms delicately.
Aurelia smiled softly. “And most ladies, I imagine, are not me. I would like to get to know the people who keep this house alive. Surely they deserve to be seen.”
The woman’s mouth opened, but then closed. She studied Aurelia for a long moment. Eventually, her gray eyes softened a little.
“You are determined,” she murmured, a faint smile curving her lips. “Very well. Come, then. Let me introduce you.”
Together, the women walked across the long corridors.
She introduced her to the footmen, the maids, including Linda, who would serve as her Lady’s maid, and the kitchen staff.
They all were startled and delighted that their new mistress cared enough to ask for their names and remark on the polished banisters and the scent of baking bread.
Aurelia listened to their concerns with patience, offering little words of encouragement that made their eyes light up.
“You have a way with them,” Mrs. Withers said as they left the kitchens.
“I only speak to them as I would wish to be spoken to,” Aurelia replied. “It costs nothing to be kind.”
“It is… not what I expected, Your Grace. I find myself pleased.”
Although Aurelia’s response was simply a smile, the words had warmed her more than she cared to admit.
By afternoon, she was wandering through the servants’ quarters with the lovely woman when raised voices reached them.
Two maids stood facing each other in the narrow hall. They seemed to be in a heated dispute, one clutching a pile of linens to her chest while the other pointed an accusatory finger.
“You’ve assumed my duties again! You have no right to go into my rooms without leave!” the one pointing her finger protested.
The other let out a frustrated sigh. “I only meant to help.” She rolled her eyes.
“Help? By making me look careless in front of Mrs. Withers?!”
The quarrel was drawing more attention. Aurelia even spotted footmen sneaking glances from the doorways.
Seeing no sign that the maids would cease arguing anytime soon, she turned and stepped forward before Mrs. Withers could speak.
“That is enough.” Her voice came out calm, but sharp enough to cut through the tension.
Both maids turned around at her voice, and their eyes widened.
Aurelia immediately softened, wanting to ease the fear written all over their faces.
“You meant to help?” she asked, looking at the smaller maid clutching the linens.
She hesitated, then nodded timidly.
“And you,” Aurelia continued, turning to the accuser, “felt your job was threatened?”
The other maid swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Grace.”
Aurelia paused, letting the silence settle, before speaking again.
“In this house, there is no need for fear where there is honesty. Help offered in good faith should be welcomed, but each one must also respect the pride another takes in their work.” A smile touched her lips. “Do you both understand?”
The taller maid dropped her finger with a sigh, a rueful look on her face. “I just hope she will ask me next time before taking my place,” she muttered.
The shorter maid sighed, but the worry on her face had faded. “I will.”
“Alright,” the taller one said with a smile, then she turned to Aurelia. “We apologize for causing a scene, Your Grace.”
Aurelia smiled, waving them off, glad the argument was over.
The two maids apologized to each other and soon moved along to carry on their duties.
The other servants also left, but positive whispers about the new mistress could be heard flitting about as they moved.
No doubt the quarrel had drawn eyes, and they had all wanted to see what the new duchess would do.
Mrs. Withers had to issue a reprimand before they all scurried back to their duty posts.
“You handled that well,” Mrs. Withers stated with a hint of wonder. “Most ladies would have meted out punishment. You… de-escalated the situation.”
Aurelia shrugged a shoulder. “My father always says that quarrels are like fires. Feed them, and they grow. Remove the fuel, and they die.”
The housekeeper nodded, and they resumed walking.
They found themselves in the study, where she guided Aurelia through the estate ledgers. Aurelia listened as Mrs. Withers told her about the renovations that had been made to the manor. Several times, Percival’s name came up with discipline and control.
“His Grace keeps everything in order,” she stated. “He values precision above all else.”
“And happiness?” Aurelia asked softly, trailing her finger down a list of expenditures.
The older woman hesitated. “Happiness is… not often a word spoken here.”
Her words cut deep. Although Aurelia had smiled faintly, her heart ached.
The next morning, Aurelia broke her fast alone. Lottie was away for a week, as she had joined other noble girls for a week-long etiquette training, while Percival was… doing his best to avoid her.
But luck was on her side that morning, for she found him near the stables, issuing orders to a footman.
The sight of him stopped her mid-step.
He stood tall in his dark riding coat, the morning sun catching in his hair. The breadth of his shoulders, the easy command in his voice, and the masculine grace he always held… He was magnificent.
They lived under the same roof, but it felt like she hadn’t seen him in months.
Aurelia forced herself to move toward him, even though her heart fluttered with each step.
“Your Grace,” she called, her voice steady.
Percival turned, and their eyes met. The cold look in his blue eyes dredged up a certain memory.
“I wish to speak about the estate,” she quickly added.
She wanted him to know that she had been carrying out her duties as the duchess. She wanted to prove that he didn’t have to run away when they could discuss improvements to the estate.
“Some of the rooms… have grown too dull. I thought perhaps—”
Percival cleared his throat, cutting her off. “Not now.” He tugged on his gloves and looked past her. “There are urgent matters that require my attention.”
And just like that, he was gone, striding away with decisive steps that made her heart ache.
Aurelia was rooted to the spot. She felt her chest heave with fury. But beneath it, there was something worse—desire.
She could still smell the faint spice of his cologne in the air. Could still hear his voice, which sounded like silk made of steel.
And the way he kept his distance? She hated to admit it, but it left her trembling, wanting, and starved.
She took a deep breath, composing herself. If he would not listen, she would not remain idle.
She planned to start small, ordering the maids to draw back the curtains to let in sunlight and dust abandoned rooms.
One of the tasks led her to the half-forgotten attic. The door creaked as she pushed it open, dust welcoming her into the abandoned space.
She didn’t intend to stay long, just to pass some instructions to the maids. But something large caught her eye.
A big canvas was propped against the wall, covered with dust and linen. Curious, Aurelia stepped closer, hesitating before reaching out her hand. When the linen slid to the floor, her breath seized in her lungs.
It was the portrait of a woman.
She was dressed in silk, with her dark hair flowing down her shoulders. There was warmth in her painted eyes and a softness in the curve of her lips.
Aurelia’s throat tightened. She didn’t need a name. She knew. She could sense something.
“Who is she?” she whispered.
Linda, her new lady’s maid, stepped forward. “The late duchess, Your Grace.” Her voice was quiet and careful.
Aurelia turned to face her maid, who stood with her arms folded in front of her apron.
“His Grace had her portrait moved up here after…” Linda trailed off, her gaze dropping to the wooden floorboards.
After.
The word echoed in Aurelia’s mind. Something about it hinted at a history she had yet to learn about. A wound that was still bleeding.
She turned back to the painting, her eyes stinging. So this was the woman who had once held Percival’s heart.
The realization hit her like a boulder. Her heart ached. It wasn’t from envy, but from the fact that she could never be what her husband truly wanted.
Percival would never want her the way he wanted the late duchess. Because she was a substitute. A mere solution. A wife on paper and nothing more.
“Why would he hide her?” Aurelia couldn’t help but ask, but the question was more to herself than anyone else.
“Shall I cover it?” Linda’s voice broke through her thoughts.
“No,” Aurelia replied, her voice sharpening. She straightened her spine, steadying herself. “Bring it down. It deserves some light.”
The maid looked uncertain. “But His Grace—”
“The duke is not here.” Aurelia forced a small smile, even though her heart still ached. “And it is decided.”
Without further objection, Linda called in another maid to help her. They carried the portrait downstairs and hung it in a long corridor where the sunlight could touch it.
Aurelia stood there long after Linda had retreated. The painted woman stared right back at her, her eyes so kind that Aurelia couldn’t look away.
How could she ever match that grace? The woman must have been the perfect wife. The kind that made Percival love without restrictions, without reservations.
As for Aurelia, what did she have, truly? A mere title. A husband who wouldn’t meet her eyes. A marriage sealed with ice and duty.
And yet the memory of Percival’s mouth on hers burned through her like flames. She could still feel his fingers sliding up her thighs, his body pressed against hers in that desperate, reckless moment. And then he had left her like he wanted to forget.
What exactly did he want from her?
She pressed a hand to her lips, trying to suppress the tremor there. It didn’t work. The bitter truth was that she had fallen already, and he was not there to catch her.
You came for Lottie, she reprimanded herself. Not for love. You know better.
But it was no use. Something inside her was growing stubborn and starved.
She stared up at the painting again. “You had his heart,” she whispered. “I only have his name.”
She took a deep breath. If that was all Percival was going to offer to her, then she would put it to good use.
Her resolve hardened. If she could not win his heart, then she would claim what she could. She would give him what even memory could not—a future, an heir.
Not out of calculation. Not for power or prestige. But because she wanted to give him a piece of her that could not be erased or stored away in an attic.
“I may never be the wife he cherishes,” she said quietly, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. “But I will be the wife who gives him something to live for.”