Chapter 1 #2
The words struck her like a physical blow.
She thought of Margaret, who had loved this boy with a fierceness that had bordered on the divine.
Of Nicholas, whose laughter had filled whatever room he occupied.
Of all the aunts and uncles and cousins who should have claimed this child and hadn’t, because grief was inconvenient and orphans were expensive and reputation mattered more than a four-year-old boy who had lost everything.
“I am here now,” she said, her voice rough. “And I am not leaving.”
“Lady Maribel.”
The voice cut through the moment like a blade—cold, controlled, carrying the absolute authority of a man who expected obedience as his birthright.
Maribel looked up.
Thaddeus Blackwood stood at the top of the grand staircase, his tall frame silhouetted against the grey light filtering through the windows above. He descended with deliberate slowness, each step measured and precise, and Maribel felt Oliver shrink against her as the Duke drew near.
The child’s fear was palpable. She could feel it in the tension of his small body, the way his fingers curled into her gown, the quickening of his breath. And something inside her—something she had fought to keep carefully banked—ignited into flame.
“Your Grace.” She rose to her feet, keeping one hand on Oliver’s shoulder. “I apologise for arriving without notice.”
“Do you.” It was not a question. Thaddeus came to a halt several feet away, his sharp features arranged into an expression of polite neutrality that did nothing to disguise the displeasure beneath.
Up close, he was precisely as she remembered—tall and imposing, broad-shouldered, with an angular face that might have been handsome if it ever softened into anything resembling warmth.
His dark hair was swept back from his brow, and his eyes, grey as the October sky, regarded her with thinly veiled suspicion.
“I came to see Oliver,” she said. “To assure myself of his wellbeing.”
“His wellbeing is not your concern.”
“He is grieving. He has lost both his parents within the span of a fortnight. Someone must—”
“Someone must what, Lady Maribel?” Thaddeus’s voice remained level, but she heard the edge beneath it—the warning of a man whose patience was already worn thin. “Coddle him? Encourage his attachment to women who will disappear the moment sentiment becomes inconvenient?”
Oliver made a small, wounded sound, pressing closer against Maribel’s legs. She felt her own temper flare, hot and dangerous.
“I have no intention of disappearing.”
“You have no intention of remaining either. You are a visitor, Lady Maribel—an uninvited one, I might add—and whilst I appreciate your... concern, Oliver’s care is now my responsibility. I will manage it as I see fit.”
“And how do you see fit, Your Grace? Through rules and schedules and the careful avoidance of anything resembling affection?” She heard her voice rising and could not stop it.
“He is four years old and he is more than a mere responsibility, he is a child. He does not need discipline. He needs comfort.”
“What he needs,” Thaddeus said coolly, “is stability. Not the indulgence of every passing emotion.”
“He needs to know he is loved!”
The words echoed through the entrance hall, ringing against the marble and the stone and the vast cold emptiness of this house that felt more like a mausoleum than a home. Oliver had gone very still against her, and when Maribel looked down, she saw tears sliding silently down his cheeks.
Something in her chest cracked open.
She knelt before him, heedless of her gown, heedless of the Duke watching with that infuriating composure. She took Oliver’s face in her hands, wiping the tears with her thumbs.
“Listen to me,” she said softly. “You are the bravest boy I know. And I am so, so proud of you. Your mama would be proud of you too.”
Oliver’s breath hitched. “I want to go home.”
“I know, sweetheart. I know.”
“The boy needs to rest.” Thaddeus’s voice had lost some of its coldness, though Maribel could not tell whether he was moved or merely inconvenienced. “Mrs. Allen will take him to the nursery.”
“No!”
Oliver’s cry was sharp and desperate, his small hands fisting in Maribel’s gown. “No, please, I don’t want to go, please don’t make me—”
He was trembling violently now, his whole body shaking with the force of his distress, and when Thaddeus stepped forward, Oliver flinched backward so sharply that he nearly fell.
The Duke froze.
Maribel saw it happen—the way the colour drained from his face, the way his outstretched hand fell slowly to his side. His face grew pale, a muscle leaping beneath the skin, and for one unguarded moment she glimpsed the ache of a man realising that a child was afraid of him.
The moment stretched, taut and terrible.
Then Maribel gathered Oliver into her arms and rose, the boy clinging to her neck like a drowning thing. “I will take him,” she said quietly. “If you will show me to the nursery, I will settle him myself.”
Thaddeus did not move. His hands clasped behind his back with white-knuckled precision, and when he spoke, his voice emerged stripped of all inflection—flat and hollow as an empty room.
“Mrs. Allen will show you. You may remain until the boy is calm.”
He turned and walked away without another word, his footsteps echoing through the hall until they faded into silence.
Maribel held Oliver tightly in her arms as she followed Mrs. Allen to the nursery.
It was warm, at least, she granted when she entered.
Maribel sat down on the edge of Oliver’s bed, stroking his hair as his breathing slowly steadied.
The room itself was adequate—clean, well-furnished, stocked with books and toys that looked untouched—but it possessed the sterile quality of a space that had been prepared rather than loved.
Nothing of Oliver inhabited it. Nothing of Margaret or Nicholas.
Just the careful provisions of a man who understood duty but not devotion.
“Will you stay?”
Oliver’s voice was small, muffled against her shoulder. Maribel’s heart ached.
“I will stay as long as I can,” she said. “I promise.”
“He doesn’t like me.”
“The Duke?” She chose her words with care. “I think... I think he does not know how to show it. Some people find it difficult to express what they feel.”
“Papa always told me he loved me. Every day.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“Mama too.”
“Yes.”
Oliver was quiet for a long moment. Then, in a voice that was barely a whisper: “Why did they leave me?”
Maribel closed her eyes against the burn of tears. There were no words for this—no explanation that could make sense of such loss, such sorrow, to a child who had done nothing to deserve it.
“They didn’t want to leave you,” she said at last. “They loved you more than anything in the world. And if they could be here—if they could hold you and kiss you and tell you how much you mean to them—they would. They would give anything to be here.”
“But they’re not.”
“No.” Her voice cracked. “They’re not.”
Oliver curled closer, his small body heavy with exhaustion. Maribel held him as his breathing slowed, as the tension drained from his limbs, as sleep finally claimed him with the mercy it had denied for too many nights.
She did not move. She sat in the gathering darkness, her hand resting on his back, and thought of Margaret. Of the sister who had loved this boy into existence and entrusted him—however inadvertently—to a man who treated affection as a threat.
I will not leave him, she swore silently. Whatever it costs me, I will not leave him to this.
A soft knock drew her attention. The door opened to reveal the housekeeper Mrs. Allen once more.
“His Grace requests your presence in the study, my lady,” she said quietly. “If you are able to leave the young master.”
Maribel looked down at Oliver, peaceful at last in sleep. Then she rose, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, and followed the housekeeper into the corridor.
The route took them past a window overlooking the grounds, and Maribel paused despite herself. Below lay what must once have been a formal garden—she could see the bones of it still, the geometric paths, the stone benches, the iron trellises. But everything was overgrown now, wild and tangled.
“That was Her Grace’s garden,” Mrs. Allen said, noticing her gaze. “The late Duchess. No one tends it now.”
The garden carried the marks of something that had been beautiful once before. Something that had been loved dearly and planned with care. And now it stood forgotten.
“It must have been beautiful,” she said softly.
Mrs. Allen’s face softened. “It was, my lady. Her Grace spent every spare moment there, especially after—” She stopped herself, pressing her lips together. “Forgive me. I speak out of turn.”
“Not at all.” Maribel turned from the window, though the image lingered—that garden, overgrown and wild, much like the heart of the man who had ordered it sealed away. “Thank you, Mrs. Allen.”
She continued walking, her thoughts circling this new piece of the puzzle that was Thaddeus Blackwood. A man who could not tend his mother’s garden. A man who locked away the parts of his home that held memory and meaning who could not cope with any emotion that was not perfectly controlled.
She hastened her steps to his study and froze at the sight.
Behind a massive oak desk, Thaddeus Blackwood sat like a king holding court. His eyes followed her every movement with coldness.
He did not rise when she entered. He did not offer her a seat. He simply watched her approach with those winter-grey eyes, and Maribel felt the weight of his scrutiny like a physical thing—assessing, measuring, searching for weaknesses.
She refused to give him any.
“The boy is settled?” he asked. His voice was clipped, businesslike, as though they were discussing accounts rather than a child’s shattered peace.
“He is sleeping. Finally.”
“Good.” Thaddeus gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”