Chapter Six
“The marriage is merely a business arrangement, Henry. Nothing more, nothing less.”
It had been two days of carefully-maintained distance, of Cecilia arriving early and leaving promptly, of avoiding him in corridors and keeping conversations strictly about Lady Flora’s needs. Two days had passed since the Duke had nearly kissed her in his study.
Two days of remembering the heat in his eyes before he’d pulled away.
Now, she found herself hovering outside the drawing room on her way to collect Lady Flora for her morning reading, only to freeze when voices drifted through the partially open door.
Cecilia’s hand froze mid-reach toward the drawing room door. The Duke’s voice carried through the narrow opening with devastating clarity—each word perfectly enunciated, perfectly cold.
“Come now, cousin.” Henry’s tone held amusement. “Are you not even a little bit curious? You’re to spend your life with her, after all.”
“I feel precisely what any rational man should feel about a necessary transaction—pragmatic acceptance of terms.” A pause, then the Duke continued with clinical detachment that made Cecilia’s chest tighten.
“The Earl’s daughter will provide legitimacy and capital.
I will provide title and social position.
It’s an equitable exchange requiring no emotional entanglement whatsoever. ”
“How perfectly romantic,” Henry drawled.
“Romance is irrelevant. One well-bred young woman serves as adequately as another for the purposes of this arrangement.”
The casual dismissal landed like a physical blow.
Cecilia stepped back from the door, then another step, her vision blurring at the edges.
She’d known that this marriage was arranged for practical purposes.
Her father had used nearly identical language describing the match.
But hearing the Duke reduce their future to cold calculation, after the other day’s charged moment when he’d touched her face and looked at her mouth with something that had seemed like hunger...
Interchangeable. That’s what she was to him. A ledger entry in his perfectly ordered life.
“Miss Vale?”
Mrs Whittaker’s voice made Cecilia spin guiltily. The housekeeper stood three feet away, disapproval radiating from every line of her rigid posture.
“Lady Flora requires your presence. She’s having one of her difficult mornings.”
Cecilia fled toward the stairs, grateful for escape even as humiliation burned through her veins.
Lady Flora sat rigid in her chair by the window, hands clenched in her lap, eyes wide with the particular confusion that presaged her worst episodes.
“Where am I?” The elderly woman’s voice trembled. “This isn’t—I don’t know this place. Why have you brought me here?”
“You’re home, Lady Flora.” Cecilia knelt beside the chair, taking those trembling hands in hers with gentle firmness. “You’re at Ravenscar House, in your own chambers. See? There’s your favourite shawl over the chair, and the painting of roses that the Duke gave you last Christmas.”
“The Duke?” Tears spilt down Lady Flora’s cheeks. “But my nephew is dead. He died in that horrid duel business. Why are you lying to me?”
Cecilia’s heart clenched. She had learned pieces of the Duke’s history over the past weeks—fragments gathered from Mrs Whittaker’s gossip, from Lady Flora’s lucid moments, from overheard conversations between servants.
His brother, Edward, had died in a duel—years ago—a scandal that nearly destroyed the family.
Some said the Duke had tried to stop it; others whispered he’d arrived too late.
Either way, from what she could gather, the loss had carved out something essential from him—leaving only ice in its wake.
Understanding this didn’t make his coldness hurt any less. But perhaps it explained why a man capable of such tenderness with his aunt could reduce his future bride to an interchangeable commodity.
“Adrian is alive and well, Lady Flora,” she said, his name feeling strange on her tongue. “He’s probably downstairs right now, scowling at estate accounts.” Cecilia kept her voice gentle but firm. “It was Edward who passed away—your other nephew. But that was many years ago, my lady.”
“Edward.” Lady Flora’s expression crumpled. “My beautiful boy. He was so young, so full of life… so reckless. And Adrian blamed himself afterwards, though it wasn’t his fault. Edward made his own choices.”
Another piece of the puzzle that was Adrian Ravenscar—another wound he’d cauterised with cold pragmatism. Cecilia’s heart clenched with unwanted sympathy.
“I’m certain no one could have stopped Edward once he’d made up his mind,” Cecila said softly, repeating words she’d heard Mrs Whittaker whisper to another servant. “Adrian did all that he could.”
“I know. But Adrian doesn’t believe it. Never has.” Lady Flora’s gaze suddenly sharpened, lucidity returning with abruptness. “Oh dear. I’m being difficult again, aren’t I? Confusing the past with the present.”
“You’re never difficult.” Cecilia squeezed her hands reassuringly. “And all your memories are still there—they just get a bit jumbled sometimes.”
“You’re very kind to humour an old woman’s failing mind.” Lady Flora’s smile was tremulous but genuine. “Adrian is fortunate to have found you. You’ll be good for him, I think. Help him remember how to thaw out all that ice.”
Before Cecilia could correct this misunderstanding, the door opened.
The Duke filled the doorway, concern tightening his usually impassive features. “Mrs Whittaker said my aunt was distressed. Is she—”
He stopped mid-sentence, taking in the scene before him: Lady Flora, peaceful now, breathing deeply in sleep, and Cecilia still holding her hand.
It had been two days since he’d nearly kissed her in his study, and now here they were yet again, alone except for his sleeping aunt, the very air between them charged with something neither of them was ready to acknowledge.
“She’s better now,” Cecilia said quietly, rising to her feet.
The Duke’s shoulders relaxed fractionally. He crossed the room to kneel where Cecilia had been. “Are you all right?”
“Well enough, dear boy. Just my silly mind playing tricks again.” Lady Flora patted his cheek with obvious affection. “But Miss Vale has been wonderful, as always. You really should give her a raise.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” The Duke’s tone carried that particular softness he reserved exclusively for his aunt. Then his gaze shifted to Cecilia. “Thank you for your care of her.”
“It’s my pleasure, Your Grace.” Cecilia kept her voice steady through sheer force of will. “Lady Flora is a delight to care for.”
“She speaks highly of you as well.” The Duke rose, offering his hand to help Cecilia stand—a courtesy he needn’t have extended to a mere servant.
His fingers closed around hers with firm warmth, and despite her best efforts, electricity sparked up her arm at the contact. She pulled away, perhaps too quickly, busying herself with smoothing her skirts.
“Aunt Flora, you should rest,” the Duke said. “You’ve had an exhausting morning.”
“I suppose I am rather tired.” Lady Flora yawned. “But will you both stay until I fall asleep? I don’t like being alone when I’m muddled. It frightens me.”
“Of course we will.” The Duke helped his aunt to the bed, settling her against the pillows with surprising tenderness.
Cecilia sat in a chair opposite the Duke, watching as Aunt Flora’s breathing gradually evened into sleep.
“You handled that well,” he said quietly once Lady Flora was fully asleep. “Her confusion, I mean. Most people panic when she forgets.”
“My mother suffered similar spells near the end of her illness.” The confession slipped out before Cecilia could stop it. “I learned that gentleness and patience work better than argument. The truth finds its way back eventually.”
“Your mother.” The Duke’s gaze sharpened. “What did she die of?”
Dangerous territory. But exhaustion made her careless.
“Consumption. It took her slowly, over nearly two years.” She kept her eyes on Lady Flora’s sleeping form. “By the end, she barely knew who I was.”
“How old were you when you lost her?”
“Seventeen.”
“I’m sorry.” The simple condolence, absent of empty platitudes, made Cecilia’s throat tighten.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
“You needn’t be so formal when it’s just the two of us. Adrian will suffice.”
Her gaze snapped to his, shock overwhelming caution. “That would be entirely inappropriate, Your Grace. I’m your employee, not your—”
“Not my what?” He leaned forward slightly. “A friend? An equal? Someone capable of intelligent conversation?”
“All of those things,” Cecilia said carefully. “The gulf between our stations is rather significant.”
“And yet you speak like someone who’s forgotten that gulf exists entirely.” The Duke’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you really, Clara Vale?”
Panic fluttered in Cecilia’s chest. He was circling too close to the truth. She needed to distract him, redirect his attention.
“Perhaps I’m simply a woman who believes that wisdom and worth aren’t determined by the accident of one’s birth,” she said, lifting her chin with deliberate defiance.
The Duke’s expression shifted—surprise flickering before being replaced by something that might have been appreciation. “You’re too educated for your supposed position.” He rose, moving closer. “Too confident. Too articulate. Too... everything for a simple companion.”
“Perhaps,” Cecilia whispered, her back now pressed against the bookshelf, “that says more about your narrow assumptions than it does about my actual nature.”
“Does it?” He stopped mere inches away. “Or perhaps you’re simply accustomed to a very different life than the one you’re currently pretending to lead.”
“Your Grace—”
“You’re trembling.” His observation was quiet, almost gentle.
This was her opportunity—confess everything, explain her desperate need to understand him before committing to marriage. But the memory of his voice from earlier stopped the confession in her throat.