Chapter Four
“Have ye gone mad, milady?”
Cecilia paused mid-pin, a red curl dangling rebelliously from her tight bun. “That’s rather a blunt thing to ask for the ungodly early hour, don’t you think?
“’Tis half-past six, milady. The rest of London’s been awake for an hour already.
” Velma crossed her arms, her expression carved from stone.
“And I’ll ask it again—have ye lost yer wits entirely?
Observin’ the Duke is one thing… but sneakin’ into his private study to rifle through a locked drawer is another entirely! ”
“I’m not going to rifle… I’m merely going to… to… investigate.”
“Ye’re goin’ to get caught, is what ye’re goin’ to do. And then what, milady? The Duke will dismiss ye on the spot—or worse—he’ll discover who ye really are!”
“He won’t catch me, Velma. He has a meeting—I heard him mention it to his cousin yesterday. He’ll be gone for hours.”
Velma threw her hands up. “And how do ye even ken about this locked drawer?”
“I noticed it two days ago when Lady Flora asked me to fetch a book from his study. The Duke was standing near his desk, sorting through some correspondence, and when I approached, he moved quite deliberately to block my view of the bottom drawer in his desk… almost as though he’s hiding something.
” She turned to face Velma. “It’s locked with a small, brass lock.
It has to contain something significant if he’s that paranoid about it. ”
“Perhaps because ‘tis private, milady!”
“The Duke,” Cecilia muttered, jabbing another pin in with perhaps more force than strictly necessary, “will be entitled to his privacy once I’ve successfully determined whether I’m willing to be contractually obligated to marry said Duke under circumstances that would make a Greek tragedy look like comedic fanfare. ”
Velma blinked. “That was… quite somethin’, milady.”
Cecilia smiled impishly at her.
It had been a week. She’d survived an entire week as Clara Vale, and the strain showed in every line of her maid’s worried face.
“Well, you did have the gall to call me mad, though I think I prefer… determined.” Cecilia turned from the mirror where she’d been perched. “And it’s workin’, isn’t it? I’ve learned more about the Duke in seven days than I could have managed in months of courtship.”
“And what exactly have ye learned?” Velma began fastening the grey dress that had become Cecilia’s second skin. “That he’s colder than a witch’s nose? That he treats everyone like furniture? That he—”
“That I’m not certain I can marry him.” The words emerged quietly, honestly. “He’s so… cold, Velma. Not just reserved—solidly frozen. And I keep thinking… What kind of life would that be? Being married to a man who looks through everyone as if they’re made of glass?”
Velma’s hands stilled on the buttons of the dress. “Then tell yer father ye willnae do it.”
Cecilia laughed, but there was no joy in the sound. “Father would lock me in my chambers until the wedding day.”
“So what’s yer plan then, milady? Keep pretendin’ to be someone ye’re not? Fer how long?”
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Cecilia admitted. “But I do know I need more time. I need to understand if there’s anything worth reaching for underneath all that frost… or prepare to shackle myself to a man incapable of any real feeling.”
Twenty minutes later, she found herself inside Lady Flora’s bedchamber. The elderly woman was having a good morning—Cecilia could tell the moment she stepped into the bedchamber, finding her surrounded by books and embroidery, her silver hair gleaming in the sunlight.
“Clara! Oh, I am so glad you’re here, my dear,” she whispered behind her hand. “Mrs Whittaker keeps fussing over me as though I’m made of spun sugar. Do sit down before I expire from boredom.”
Cecilia laughed, settling into the chair beside Lady Flora. “What shall we read today? More Wordsworth?”
“Blast Wordsworth!” Lady Flora waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s talk instead. Tell me—do you think my nephew is handsome?”
The question caught Cecilia mid-breath. “I… that’s hardly inappropriate for me to—”
“Pish. I’m old. I can ask what I like.” Lady Flora’s eyes—so like the Duke’s might be if they ever held warmth—sparkled with mischief. “Between you and me, I think he’s terribly lonely. He needs someone to remind him how to laugh.”
Cecilia’s throat tightened. “He must have…options? A duke of his standing—”
“Oh, yes. Plenty of eager mamas throw their daughters at him.”
Lady Flora’s expression turned conspiratorial, her voice dropping to a stage whisper that likely carried across the entire room.
“You know what his problem is? He thinks emotion is a weakness. Ridiculous man. I told him—I said, ‘Adrian, dear boy, a heart isn’t like a waistcoat you can simply button up and forget about.’ But does he listen? No. He just gives me that look.”
She demonstrated—a severe, withering stare that bore an uncanny resemblance to her nephew’s trademark expression.
Cecilia couldn’t help but laugh. “What look is that, Lady Flora?”
“The ‘you’re being irrational, and I’m too dignified to acknowledge such nonsense’ look. He’s been perfecting it since he was twelve.” She sighed dramatically. “Though between you and me, I think he secretly enjoys being mysterious. Makes him feel important. Men are such silly creatures.”
“All men, Lady Flora?”
“Every last one of them, dear. Even the dukes. Especially the dukes, actually. But Adrian…” Lady Flora’s eyes teared up.
“He’s been hurt terribly, you see. Lost too many people.
His mother, his brother, then there was that dreadful business with Lady Nicole.
He’s resolved himself to feeling nothing at all, it seems.”
“Lady Nicole?” Cecilia leaned forward before she could stop herself.
But Lady Flora’s attention had already shifted to the garden outside. “Ah! Look at those roses. Weren’t they pink yesterday? I’m certain they were pink…”
The moment of lucidity had passed. Cecilia gently redirected the conversation to safer waters, but her mind churned with questions. Who was Lady Nicole? And what had happened between her and the Duke?
She needed to know. Needed to understand what had managed to freeze the Duke’s heart so completely.
And that wretched locked drawer in his study had been taunting her all week.
Cecilia slipped down the corridor toward the Duke’s private domain.
He’d left an hour ago for some business meeting—she had watched his carriage depart from the morning room.
The house had fallen into a peculiar quiet when its master was absent—servants moving slower, voices rising slightly above whispers.
She shouldn’t be doing this, but if she could just understand, maybe she’d know how to reach him.
The study door stood ajar. Cecilia glanced down the empty corridor once, twice, then slipped inside.
The space smelled of him—leather and ink and that faint woody scent she’d come to recognise. Books lined the walls in neat rows, papers squared on his desk in neat piles. Everything ordered, controlled, revealing nothing personal.
Except the drawer. Bottom right of his massive desk, secured with a small brass lock that glinted like an accusation in the afternoon light.
Cecilia knelt beside it, her heart hammering. The lock looked old. Perhaps if she just—
“Looking for something?”
Cecilia’s heart performed an acrobatic feat worthy of the circus. She shot upright so fast she knocked against the desk, sending pain radiating through her hip. The Duke stood in the doorway, perfectly still, watching her with an expression that could have melted steel.
“Your Grace!” Her voice emerged too high. “I didn’t… I thought you’d left—”
She straightened her spine with as much dignity as she could muster whilst being discovered on one’s knees before a gentleman’s desk’s locked drawer.
“Meeting was cancelled.” He closed the door with a soft click that made her pulse spike. “I find it interesting that my absence creates such opportunity for… exploration.”
“I wasn’t exploring, Your Grace… I … dropped my earring.” She touched her ear reflexively, feeling the small pearl stud she wore as Clara Vale. “It must have fallen when I delivered your tea earlier… I thought perhaps it had rolled underneath the desk.”
“Did you find it?”
“No, Your Grace.” She fought to keep her voice steady. “It’s… it must have rolled elsewhere. Or perhaps I lost it on the stairs…” Heat climbed up her neck. “I apologise for the intrusion. It was improper of me to enter without permission, even to search for a lost personal item.”
The Duke studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment. She could see him weighing her words, deciding whether to believe her. The silence stretched taut as a bowstring.
“That drawer,” he finally said, his voice carefully neutral as he gestured to where she’d been kneeling, “contains private correspondence. Family matters. Nothing that would concern you.”
“Of course not, Your Grace. I wasn’t—”
“I know what you weren’t doing, Miss Vale.” He moved closer, each step deliberate. “Just as I know what you were doing when I walked in.”
Her breath caught. “Your Grace, I swear—”
“You were on your knees.” He said, his eyes darkening. “On the floor, searching. But whether for an earring or something else entirely, I cannot say with certainty.”
It was almost a reprieve. He was giving her the benefit of doubt—barely, but enough, and Cecilia seized it.
“It was a gift from Lady Margaret, Your Grace. One of the few valuable things I own. I… I panicked when I couldn’t find it.”
Something flickered across his expression—not quite belief, but perhaps a willingness not to push further. “Miss Vale. I find myself rather precariously caught between believing you and dismissing you.”
The truth hovered on her tongue—that she wanted to understand him, to discover what had wounded him so deeply he’d constructed walls high enough to block out the sun. But Clara Vale, humble companion, had no right to such curiosity.