Chapter 31
The Scovells had departed hours ago, but her mother’s words had not left her.
Aurelia stood in the dim corridor, absentmindedly staring at a vase with her hands folded behind her back. Her chest rose and fell with heavy thoughts she could not silence.
The grand estate was quiet now, but the questions in her mind bounced around restlessly.
What if Percival kept refusing to claim her? What if she could never convince him, not even once? What if she failed to give Lottie a sibling?
Her throat tightened.
And what if… What if the real reason was that he had never moved on from his first wife? His only… love.
Her nails dug into her palm. That possibility alone turned her stomach, dread coiling deep inside her. If that was the case, she was afraid she would never be able to bear it.
Then, she spotted him.
On the stairwell in the distance, a tall figure appeared. Percival. Her husband. His figure was outlined by the low candlelight before he disappeared into the library.
Aurelia drew a deep breath. There went the man who was driving her mad. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind again, still reprimanding her.
All she wanted was to ask him a question. Not because her mother’s scolding was ringing loudly in her ears, but because she needed answers too. She wanted to know.
So without a second thought, she pushed herself forward.
The only noise that could be heard in the library was the faint crackle of the fire. The Whitmore library was majestic, with high shelves, shadowed alcoves, and a large carved desk occupying the center.
Percival sat there, the lamplight casting a golden glow over his sharp features. He held a book in his hand, but when she entered, he looked up.
For a moment, silence reigned between them.
Dressed in a loose robe, with her hair pulled into a messy knot that let loose strands brush her cheeks, Aurelia had never looked more beautiful to him.
Though his composure did not waver, a dull ache pulsed in his chest.
“You should be asleep, Duchess,” he said calmly, masking the torturous need to cross the room and whisk her to his room. “Do you miss your family already?”
She smiled softly, almost conspiratorially, as though he had spoken a jest.
A soft chuckle slipped past her lips, and she shook her head. “No, not tonight.”
Her feet carried her further inside, the delicate hem of her gown brushing against the Persian rug. She let her eyes sweep over the room; she rarely visited the library.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured. “How many hours have you spent in here?”
His lips twitched faintly. “Enough that I’ve stopped counting.”
Her eyes lingered on him for a moment before they drifted over the tall shelves. “And yet you are not asleep either.”
“For the same reason, perhaps. Restlessness.” The mirth in his voice was evident.
Summoning her courage, she moved forward and stopped before his desk, where she could catch the faint scent of ink and his musk.
Silence fell again.
Aurelia lowered her gaze. She knew she was supposed to say something. She had to give a reason for intruding on his privacy. But her heart was pounding so hard that she was certain he could hear it.
That wasn’t her fault, however, because she had too much to ask. Too much she wanted to know. Yet, which question would not shatter the fragile peace between them?
In the end, she settled on the safest question.
“I was wondering,” she began, her hands brushing nervously against her gown. “If we could sponsor Nora’s debut. And if—if you would let me accompany her to some events.”
At that, his attention sharpened. Slowly, he closed the book in his hand, the sound echoing strangely through the room.
“Of course,” he replied, holding her gaze. “And Aurelia…” He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. “You need not ask me about money. Do as you please.”
Her lips parted, and she couldn’t help the surprise that flashed across her face.
“Do as you please.”
He usually detested the idea of making changes to the estate. But now? He didn’t mind whatever she planned to do.
For a moment, she could only stare, her heart swelling with warmth. To be given that freedom… it felt like trust, like respect, like a gift she had not known she craved until it was handed to her.
Her cheeks flushed, and she tucked a loose strand behind her ear. A soft laugh escaped her lips. “Thank you.”
His eyes traced the pink hue on her face. His lips twitched, as if he were suppressing a smile, before giving a quick nod and returning to the book in his hand.
Aurelia’s smile faltered as quickly as it came. Her mother’s words stole the light from it, dragging her back into doubt.
Ask. Don’t ask. Say nothing. No, say it. Speak for yourself.
Her thoughts raced as she stared at him. The words were choking her, wanting to be let out. To reveal her desire to lie with him tonight.
She drew a breath, then another. “I…” She paused when his blue eyes narrowed on her. “I am worried about something.” Her fists clenched at her sides. “I am not sure if I should ask you…”
For a moment, nothing moved. Percival said nothing, quietly watching her, waiting for her to continue. But when she didn’t, he rose.
The chair scraped softly across the rug as he unfolded his tall frame proudly. The firelight danced across his broad shoulders as he rounded the desk and crossed to her.
His proximity made her breath catch. She could never get used to it. The faint scent of sandalwood and leather clung to him, and his shadow enveloped her, along with every inch of space between them.
Her heart thudded painfully. She did not move. Could not move.
Her lips parted to speak, but no sound emerged.
A part of her—a wild part—did not want to say anything at all. She only wanted to stay there, caught in the charming pull of his gaze, with her doubts dissipating beneath his nearness.
For a long, breathless moment, she only stared up into his eyes, caught in their shimmering blue depths.
“What is it?” he asked lowly, unable to contain his curiosity. “Ask me, Duchess.”
Her lashes fluttered. The way he addressed her made her feel like she was the only woman in his world.
Rather than answering, she found herself staring at his lips and the hard line of his jaw.
What would he do if I leaned forward and kissed him first?
As though reading her mind, as though sensing how badly she wanted to feel his touch, his hand rose. A calloused thumb brushed along her cheek.
It was feather light, as though he couldn’t help himself. As though his thumb had been itching, and touching her was the only cure.
“Are you well?” he murmured.
For once, his composure faltered, softened by something raw. And that tenderness made her still.
It was the sort of touch that stole her breath. And yet she saw the flicker in his eyes. Like a question he hadn’t voiced. Was our intimate moment too much last night? Did I hurt you somehow?
No, she wanted to tell him. No, I want more.
When she unconsciously clenched her fists again at her sides, he noticed. His gaze darkened at the crescents her nails dug into her palms.
She was hurting herself, and he hated it. He couldn’t bear the sight.
Before he knew what he was doing, he took her hands. His hands wrapped around hers, and he unfurled her fingers, wanting to lessen any pain she might have inflicted upon herself.
She watched him, the knot in her stomach loosening. He looked so worried, as though he was preventing something more ghastly than just holding her hands.
Then, as though sensing her stare, he looked at her.
“Don’t hurt yourself. I told you that before,” he whispered, his breath brushing her hand.
Before she could utter a word, he kissed her palm softly, delicately.
Her breath whooshed out of her. The intimacy of the gesture, her distant husband kissing the palm of her hand, broke her defenses. Heat crawled up her neck.
And in that fragile, dangerous moment, the request escaped her.
“I… I wondered if—if we might sleep in the same room again.”
It was as if the words froze everything else.
At first, confusion flickered across Percival’s face. Then, when realization dawned, it was as though a shutter slammed down over his eyes. In an instant, all the warmth in his expression vanished.
His jaw tightened. His gaze cooled. Then, he released her hands.
“No.”
Her stomach dropped, and her breath stuttered.
“No?” She blinked rapidly, her lips parting.
“I told you before,” he said, his tone clipped. He had already stepped back. “I will not have that conversation.”
Her throat burned, but she wasn’t sure with what. Perhaps anger. But it was wounded, flaring hot behind her ribs.
It seemed like they were about to have the same conversation over and over again.
“You chase me away at every turn,” she burst out, her voice trembling. “I cannot understand you. Y—You were on the verge of—of making love to me last night! Why are you doing this, Percival?”
The sound of his name cracked between them.
Percival stiffened, and his eyes darkened as if he were stung. His hands were flexing at his sides, as restless as his frantic heartbeat.
“Nothing changes.” He settled for that, even though his heart had a thousand other answers. “My decision is final.”
“Final?” Her voice rose, strengthened with disbelief that turned into frustration. She shook her head, causing some strands of hair to tumble loose. “Why must you be so cruel? Why hold me in your arms, only to turn me away? Why give me a taste, only to starve me again?”
“Because,” he bit out, “it must be this way.”
She stared at him, her mouth opening and closing.
It was maddening, trying to understand this man. Because if she did, she feared that would confirm a particular suspicion—that he had never truly gotten over his first wife.
“When then?” she still dared to ask, though her voice had lowered. “When will I be your wife in every sense of the word?” Her voice cracked into a softer, broken plea. “When will you let me be that for you?”
When will you let go of the past, Percival? she wanted to add.
He read the unspoken question in her eyes and gritted his teeth. She seemed to think she had a good grasp of her emotions, but the questions she had already posed were enough to make his face twist violently. They cut him to the quick.
She is already my wife.
Percival didn’t have to lie with her to prove that point. Her purpose wasn’t only to satisfy his sexual desires. Already, she was entirely, utterly his. Nothing could make her more so.
But he couldn’t say it. He couldn’t explain, not without bringing up the past. So he chose the only shield he had left—coldness.
“Never.” His voice rang through, hoping he was able to convey his finality on the subject. “You will never bear my child. I do not want an heir. I will never lie with you.”
She staggered, as if she had been slapped and he knew then that his words had hurt her. She stared at him, and her trembling lips struggled to part. “You mean…” Her voice faltered, then hardened, trembling with fury born of heartbreak. “You mean I will always be a failure.”
That last word tore through him. Once again, he had allowed himself to be misunderstood.
A lump formed in his throat, his chest tight with something dangerously close to regret as he watched her go cold. He never wanted to hurt her but if hurting her would keep her alive then he was willing.
“I want to have a child, Percival. I want to give you a child. I want to give Lottie a sibling.” She pressed on, her hand rising to her chest. “It is not only duty; it is my heart. And you—” Her voice broke with the confession, unshed tears brimming in her eyes. “You are stealing that from me.”
His face hardened. Those words had struck too close, and he knew he had to shield himself.
“Leave.” He looked away.
She blinked, stunned. “What?”
“I will not have this conversation with you again.” His voice was a growl now, leashing something darker. “Leave, Aurelia.”
“No, I will not leave.” She shook her head, the words tumbling out, pleading and angry all at once. “Not until—”
“Leave!” he thundered before he could help it.
It was maddening. It was suffocating, acting like that, hurting someone he cared about so much. He couldn’t even look her in the eyes.
He was nothing but a coward.
The ensuing silence was crushing. His order echoed through the room, leaving no room for argument.
Her breath turned ragged. Clearly, she was fuming, but with her head held high, she turned on her heel and left the room.
The soft rustle of her skirts filled the silence as she walked away, each step firm in her haste to get away from him.
When the heavy door shut between them, Percival stood there, his fists clenched, his back rigid.
The silence roared louder than any storm.