Chapter 12
When my eyes opened again, Sylum was already half dressed, his white shirt open at the throat, the dark fall of his hair damp from washing. He stood near the hearth, fastening the cuff at his wrist, the faintest smile curving his lips when he saw me stir.
“Good morning,” he murmured.
I stretched languidly beneath the coverlet, feeling the ache of the night before in every warm, secret place. “It’s far too early for you to look so handsome.”
He chuckled, crossing the room to press a kiss to my forehead.
I wanted to freeze the moment right there—his gentle expression, the sound of our laughter, the fragile illusion that the house itself had grown merciful.
But mercy never seemed to linger long at Blackthorn.
A thunderous knocking shattered the quiet.
It wasn’t the polite tap of a servant’s hand, but the commanding rap of someone who owned the air they breathed.
Voices rose beyond the door—Mrs. Ashby attempting to bar someone’s way, and another voice, shrill and venomous, slicing through the air with each syllable.
Sylum went utterly still. His jaw clenched. His eyes closed in brief, pained resignation before he muttered under his breath, “God help us.”
I sat up, clutching the blanket to my chest. “Who—”
“My aunt,” he said grimly. “The Dowager Duchess of Havenshire.”
Before I could respond, the bedroom door burst open, and in swept a woman as formidable as a storm.
Her Grace Isolde Thornton, widow of the late Duke of Havenshire, entered like a queen accustomed to bending worlds to her will. She was draped head to toe in emerald silk, her posture rigid, her chin high. A sharp, imperial perfume clung to her like a weaponized aura.
I squirmed beneath the blanket, trying desperately to shield my naked body.
“Sylum Deveroux,” she seethed, her voice cutting through the air like glass. “I cannot believe the scandal you have forced upon this family!”
“Aunt…” Sylum began, his tone controlled as he inclined his head.
She held up a gloved hand, silencing him.
“Do not Aunt me,” she snapped. “Do you have any idea how it looks? A secret wedding, a woman of questionable parentage, and barely out of mourning no less. Society is baying like hounds, Sylum.”
Her piercing gaze fell upon me then, assessing, dissecting, and finding fault in every inch of my being.
“And you,” she breathed, the words weighted with contempt. “You managed to snake your way into our family after all.”
I swallowed around the lump in my throat. Heat rushed into my face. I wanted to speak. I wanted to defend myself and deny her accusations, but my voice withered before it found breath.
Her perfectly manicured brows lifted, impatient for a fight she already knew she would win.
“Aunt Isolde,” Sylum exhaled sharply, stepping forward. “That’s enough.”
“Enough?” she hissed. “Do you know what the paper called her this morning? The Madwoman of Mayfair.”
My heart dropped into my stomach.
Sylum moved toward her, a dark fury darkening his features. “Leave it.”
“I most certainly will not,” she spat, her gloved hands tightening around her fan. “You’ve disgraced the Deveroux name once with tragedy. I will not watch you do it again.”
“Get out,” he ordered, his voice low, dangerous. “Now.”
She froze—not because fear had touched her, she was too imperious for that—but because of the rare fire blazing in his eyes. She recalibrated swiftly, schooling her mouth into an elegant, venomous smile.
“Very well,” she snapped. “I’ll have Mrs. Ashby prepare the blue guest chamber. I shall remain for a week.”
And with that, she turned on her heel and swept from the room, lifting her chin as she passed Mrs. Ashby. I’d barely noticed the housekeeper still there in the doorway until that moment. She inclined her head to Sylum, murmured something too soft to catch, then quietly closed the door behind her.
Sylum pressed his palms to his temples and let out a long, weary breath. “Welcome to the family,” he muttered darkly.
I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry… or perhaps I could simply slip through the floorboards and vanish forever.
“Well,” I murmured under my breath. “This should be fun.”
He glanced at me—half exasperated, half amused—and the smallest, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You have a remarkable gift for understatement.”
But before I could think of something clever to say in return, another thought seized me. I gasped softly, pressing a hand to my chest.
“Oh! I nearly forgot Poe!”
Sylum blinked, clearly thrown. “I beg your pardon?”
“The raven,” I said hurriedly, scooping the edge of his sheet around me as I moved toward the adjoining door. “He was here last night… or rather, this morning. He was on my bedside table when I woke.”
A muscle ticked in Sylum’s jaw. “You’ve… befriended Poe?”
“Yes,” I laughed, already stepping into my room. “I rather think he likes me.”
He followed me, watching with that bemused, slightly wary expression men often wear when they’ve lost all control of a situation. “He doesn’t like anyone.”
“That’s not true,” I answered over my shoulder. “He called me his Lenore.”
That earned me a startled laugh. “His what?”
“Lenore,” I repeated, crouching beside the small table where the bird had perched only hours before. The wood was bare now. There were no feathers, not even a stray claw mark to prove he’d ever been there. “He must have flown out the window…”
“Or,” Sylum offered dryly, leaning against the doorframe, “you were dreaming.”
I stiffened, his words calling back the dream I’d had of him coming to my room. “Perhaps.”
“He’s probably in the garden,” he assured, more gently this time. “He’s free to roam the grounds, but he’s never gone long if he does.”
I turned to him, frowning. “Should I be worried for him… you know… with your aunt?”
He smiled faintly, coming to stand closer to me. His eyes raked down my body, barely concealed by his rumpled sheet.
“Poe can take care of himself,” he replied softly, pressing his lips to mine. “It’s me you should be concerned about.”
“Is that so?” I asked, arching a brow.
“Mmm. My aunt is going to burn me at the stake for marrying you,” he murmured, his eyes softening.
I laughed, shaking my head, though a small unease coiled quietly in my stomach. “I could send her away. I am the lady of the manor.”
Sylum reached up to tuck a curl behind my ear. “Ignore my aunt,” he said softly. “She thrives on anger. I’ll have Mrs. Ashby send breakfast to your rooms. And after that—”
“You’re leaving,” I finished for him, smiling despite myself.
He sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. But I’ll be back before supper.”
He leaned down then, his lips brushing the top of my head with tender reassurance. “Try not to befriend any more ravens while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” I replied sweetly.
He chuckled, the sound warm in the chill morning air, before slipping from the room.
I lingered a while at the hearth, then with a sigh, I rang for Nelly.
She arrived promptly, rosy-cheeked and breathless, as though she’d run the length of the corridor. Her cheeks flushed as she took in my appearance—wrapped in nothing but a sheet—but she made no comment.
“Your Grace,” she curtsied, “Mrs. Ashby said you might wish to bathe.”
Her diligence was endearing, and I smiled faintly. “Thank you, Nelly. I should like that.”
Steam filled the adjoining washroom, curling through the air with the faint scent of lavender and soap. For a short time, I allowed myself the comfort of it—the warmth of the water, the gentle clink of porcelain, and the sound of Nelly quietly humming under her breath as she laid out my gown.
When I emerged, wrapped in a robe of pale silk, another knock sounded at the door.
A second maid entered, carrying a silver tray laden with tea, toast, and fruit. Her pale golden hair was pinned in careful curls beneath her cap, her features sharp and pretty. The sort of prettiness that drew notice and trouble.
“Breakfast, Your Grace,” she said, setting the tray down on the small table by the window. Her tone was polite but brisk, and though her curtsy was deep, her eyes never quite met mine.
“Thank you,” I replied, studying her more closely. “You’re not one of the usual maids.”
“No, Your Grace. Mrs. Ashby asked me to bring your tray this morning while she’s occupied with the Dowager Duchess.”
Nelly’s smile faltered just slightly as she moved to tidy the wardrobe. “Lydia helps wherever she’s needed,” she explained quickly. “She’s usually in the kitchens.”
Lydia offered the faintest smile, but it was thin and uneasy. I noticed the smallest hint of something between them—not quite animosity, but discomfort—before Lydia bobbed another curtsy and excused herself, leaving the scent of rosewater and starch in her wake.
When the door closed, I could have sworn Nelly made a quiet sound of disapproval.
I turned to Nelly, who was still smoothing a fold of fabric that didn’t need smoothing. “She seems…” I began carefully, “quite efficient.”
Nelly hesitated, her fingers stilling. “She’s been here longer than I have, Your Grace.”
“I confess, I feel like I know very few of the staff,” I said casually, sipping my tea. “There’s so many, yet I feel as though I never see anyone save you and Mrs. Ashby.”
Nelly moved across the room, fluffing the pillows vigorously. “The house is so large, Your Grace. Can’t say that I know them all either.”
“And Lord Blackthorn? Does he know them all?”
Her eyes darted toward the door. “We don’t… not really, no. Mrs. Ashby doesn’t allow us to speak to him directly unless he comes to us.
I frowned. “You’re not allowed?”
Nelly shook her head. “It’s always been that way. His Grace is private, and Mrs. Ashby says it keeps order. Only the senior staff are permitted to approach him—the butler, his Valet, the footmen, and Mrs. Ashby herself.”
I tilted my head, feigning casual interest. “No one else?”
Her voice lowered, barely above a whisper. “Well… and her.”
She motioned toward the door with her head as she neatly tucked the folds of my sheets. There was a noticeable distaste sticking to her words as she said them.
I sipped my tea again, then set the cup down carefully. “Oh?”
Nelly made a face, lost in her task of making the bed. “The others say His Grace is… fond of her.”
The words landed like cold water.
Nelly’s face blanched as she realized what she’d said. “Oh, forgive me, Your Grace. I shouldn’t have… I didn’t mean…”
“It’s quite alright,” I replied softly, though my throat constricted. “There are many reasons why my husband might be fond of a particular maid.”
Even as the words left my mouth, bile rose in the back of my throat.
Fond of her.
Nelly’s cheeks flushed, but she only nodded.
“I should help you dress,” she murmured quickly. “Lady Havenshire will be expecting your company soon.”
I sighed, finishing the last of my tea. Though Nelly’s words lingered in the back of my mind, I didn’t have time to dwell on them.
The dragon lady was waiting for me.