Chapter 33
Whitmore Estate had never felt so empty.
For a week now, its halls had echoed with silence. Even the warmth had dimmed, as though the fireplaces had been misplaced. Servants whispered in corners, their voices low and cautious.
But Percival heard them.
He was walking through the corridor, his boots clicking against the marble floor. As usual, the hushed tones made him pause.
“… His Grace has barely spoken a word since Her Grace left,” a young maid murmured, clutching a basket of linens. “He dines alone, he works alone. Even Lady Charlotte looks so lost without Her Grace.”
Another voice, older but gentler, answered, “He misses her. Anyone can see it. He just doesn’t know how to show it properly.”
Percival’s jaw tightened. He held his breath.
The younger maid whispered again, bolder this time. “But if he loves her so much, why won’t he show it? Why hold it all in? Her Grace adores him. She would do anything for him, and yet…” A sigh. “He keeps himself shut away. Cold as stone. Doesn’t he know that she only wants him?”
Something sharp pierced through his chest.
“I think he knows and I think the duke loves her as well,” the other maid answered, “Love is not always an easy thing to confess and you must understand our duke has not had an easy life...”
Percival walked away not wanting to hear more as guilt and vulnerability warred for supremacy inside him.
He had noticed the longing in his wife’s eyes when she looked at him.
Noticed how she tried to fix his relationship with Lottie.
He had noticed how she took up her duties if only to not be a burden to him yet…
For a fleeting second, Percival almost turned around, almost barked, How the hell am I not showing it?
! Do you think I don’t know how much she loves me?
! Do you think I don’t crave her more than air? !
His hands twitched at his sides. His tongue burned with words he would never let out.
So he exhaled slowly, his shoulders stiff, and resumed walking.
He could not lose control. Not here. Not like this.
The study was waiting for him, with shelves of untouched books and the faint scent of parchment and ink. He sank into the leather chair behind his desk, and the quiet of the room surrounded him.
But his thoughts were far from quiet.
No matter how hard he tried, Aurelia’s face flashed through his mind. He could still see her face contorting with anger. The way her brows had drawn together, her lips trembling with fury and something else.
Something he had recognized.
He had seen it beneath her glare. The silent plea, the desperate scream for him to do the right thing. Hold me. Tell me to stay. Don’t let me go.
He had seen it in her eyes.
And he had ignored it.
A groan tore from his chest. He dragged a hand through his hair, leaving it messy. Nothing like the polished image he showed the world.
He braced his elbows against the desk and buried his face in his hands.
A week. It had been only a week, but it felt like years.
He hadn’t realized—couldn’t have realized—how much her presence had shaped his days. The way her laughter softened the cold, the way her voice moved within the silence of his home, the way simply seeing her brought him something dangerously close to joy.
And now, without her, all that was left was emptiness.
He had thought himself a man who preferred solitude. But solitude without Aurelia was unbearable.
His chest rose and fell sharply, his throat burning with words he had never allowed himself to say.
I miss you. I need you. I am nothing without you.
Percival pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He was losing himself.
Suddenly, a familiar voice rang out. Smooth. Mocking. Infuriating. It cut through the thick silence like a blade. “You might want to get a hold of yourself, Whitmore.”
Percival didn’t bother raising his head. His hands were pressed against his temples as he muttered, “I want to be alone.”
That earned him a soft chuckle. Then, footsteps crossed the room, bold and careless.
“When,” the voice drawled, “have you ever known me to care about that?”
Percival finally looked up at his friend.
Maxwell Turney, the Duke of Larcher, looked charming as ever, his coat unbuttoned, his smile infuriatingly playful. He leaned casually against the desk as though it were his own.
“You look terrible,” he remarked cheerfully, his eyes flicking over his best friend. “Like a man wrestling with his demons and losing dreadfully.”
Percival’s jaw clenched. He reached for the quill on his desk and opened a ledger as if the inked lines could shield him. “Go home, Maxwell.”
But Maxwell didn’t move. Instead, he cocked his head, his grin softening into a sly smile. “What—or, should I say, who—is making the great Duke of Whitmore lose his focus like this?”
Blue eyes met green ones.
Percival kept his mask fixed in place, but his friend knew him too well.
“Oh.” Maxwell chuckled low. “So it is about her.” He straightened before he began pacing leisurely around the study.
“The duchess. I noticed she wasn’t here.
When I arrived, I asked for both of you, and the servants told me that she had left.
‘For a while,’ they said.” He paused deliberately, watching Percival’s shoulders tense. “Imagine my surprise.”
She had left.
The words landed like a knife to the gut.
The pain lingered for a while, because hearing those words forced him to confront reality. That Aurelia was truly gone. And with her, the fragile light that brightened his days.
Percival said nothing. He dipped his quill in ink, pretending to focus, though the page blurred before him.
Maxwell’s smile faltered. “What happened?”
No answer. Only the faint scrape of quill against paper.
Even the sound seemed forced.
He sighed before coming to stand directly across from Percival. “You are not as unreadable as you think, old friend.” He placed his hands on the desk. “You are walking around this estate like a ghost, scaring your servants half to death, and meanwhile, your wife is nowhere to be found.”
Still no answer.
“What about Lottie?” Maxwell pressed.
Percival’s quill froze at the mention of his daughter.
“I saw her when I arrived,” Maxwell continued, his voice somber now. “She came running toward me, nearly in tears. She asked for the duchess, and then she asked for you.”
Percival’s grip on the quill tightened until the shaft bent.
“What is happening here, Percival? You are colder than I have ever seen you. Lottie is desperate for the duchess. You are avoiding everyone. You think this is strength? You think this is control?”
At this point, Percival dropped his quill. His chest rose and fell slowly before he swallowed hard. “I will speak to my daughter.” He forced his voice to remain calm and steady.
And then he fell silent again.
But his mind was nothing but chaos. Aurelia’s face, her voice, her trembling lips when she had asked him when he would claim her. The way he had shut her down cruelly because he couldn’t bear giving her what she wanted.
Because giving her what she wanted meant surrendering. Meant breaking the chains of his past.
And he was terrified of it.
Maxwell studied him. Saw the cracks. Saw the man behind the mask. He knew him too well, had known him before his first marriage, before the tragedy, before Percival had built an icy fortress around his heart.
“Aurelia is not your first wife.”
The words struck Percival like thunder.
He froze, his mask breaking. His eyes betrayed him for one brief moment. He allowed the raw pain, guilt, and longing to slip through.
His best friend saw it all. He always did.
But then, in the next breath, Percival’s face hardened again. He looked away, shutting himself off, burying his emotions deep where no one could reach them.
“Leave,” he said coldly.
Maxwell’s lips pressed into a thin line. He straightened, his green eyes narrowing as though debating whether to push him further. But in the end, he nodded.
“Fine. But think on it, Percival. Because if you don’t, one day soon, it won’t just be your wife walking away.”
With that, he turned and left, leaving behind only silence and truths that Percival refused to face.
Alone again, Percival’s hand hovered above the ledger. His carefully cultivated restraint felt as though it might shatter at any moment.