Chapter Twelve
“Clara, dear, you’ve read that same page three times now.”
Cecilia’s gaze snapped up from the book of sonnets in her lap.
Lady Flora sat across from her in the sun-drenched drawing room, a mischievous smile playing at her lips and her embroidery lying forgotten in her hands.
The afternoon light caught the silver threads in the older woman’s hair, turning them to spun moonlight.
Cecilia forced lightness into her tone, though her chest felt hollow. “I suppose my mind is elsewhere.”
“Your mind has been elsewhere since you married my nephew.” Lady Flora set aside her embroidery with a decisive motion. “Though I confess, I don’t quite remember the ceremony itself. Was it lovely?”
The innocent question landed like a stone in still water. “It was... adequate.”
“Adequate?” Lady Flora’s laugh was bright, untouched by the fog that sometimes claimed her memory. “What a perfectly dreadful word for a wedding. Though knowing Adrian, I suspect he treated it like a business transaction. The boy inherited his father’s tendency toward emotional constipation.”
Despite everything, Cecilia’s lips twitched. “That’s rather indelicate, Lady Flora.”
“I’m old. I’ve earned the right to be indelicate.” Lady Flora leaned forward conspiratorially. “Tell me truly—has he been beastly to you?”
The word didn’t quite capture the excruciating politeness of their interactions.
The way Adrian’s eyes slid past her at breakfast—on the rare occasions he appeared for breakfast at all.
The formal nod in passing. The careful distance he maintained, as though she carried some contagion he might catch if he ventured too close.
“He’s been... absent,” Cecilia said finally.
“Coward,” Lady Flora pronounced with satisfaction. “Running from his own feelings like a fox from hounds. The Ravenscar men have always been hopeless at confronting matters of the heart.”
Before Cecilia could respond, the drawing room door opened. Mrs Whittaker entered bearing a tea tray, her expression as warm as winter stone. The housekeeper’s gaze swept over Cecilia with the kind of polite contempt one might reserve for an alley cat that had wandered uninvited into the parlour.
“Your Grace.” The title emerged clipped, correct, devoid of any genuine deference. “Fresh tea.”
“Thank you, Mrs Whittaker.” Cecilia kept her spine straight, her voice level. She would not allow this woman’s disapproval to diminish her, no matter how it stung.
The housekeeper set down the tray with movements so precise they bordered on aggressive. Each clink of porcelain against silver seemed designed to convey displeasure.
“Will there be anything else?” The question held no genuine inquiry, only the barest veneer of civility.
“No, thank you.”
Mrs Whittaker’s curtsey was technically flawless and utterly insulting—a brief dip that suggested obligation rather than respect. She swept from the room with her spine rigid as a poker, disapproval radiating from every line of her retreating figure.
“Don’t mind the old dragon,” Lady Flora said airily, apparently unconcerned by the housekeeper’s obvious rudeness. “She’s just protective of Adrian. We all are, after everything he’s endured.”
The words, kindly meant, twisted something painful in Cecilia’s chest. Because Lady Flora was right. Adrian had trusted Clara Vale. Had hired her, allowed her into his home, permitted her to care for the aunt he cherished. And she’d repaid that trust with lies.
Later that evening, Cecilia stood before her chamber mirror whilst Velma worked through the tangles in her hair with practised efficiency. The reflection staring back looked pale, shadows beneath green eyes; a testament to three nights of fitful sleep and restless thoughts.
“Ye’ve that look about you,” Velma observed, her Scottish burr rich with suspicion. “The one that says ye’re about to do somethin’ reckless.”
“I need to speak with him.”
The brush paused mid-stroke. “With His Grace?”
“He’s my husband, Velma. We cannot continue this... this silent war of avoidance.” Cecilia met her maid’s eyes in the mirror. “The coldness is unbearable. I’d rather face his anger than endure another day of being invisible.”
Cecilia waited in her chambers, every nerve strung tight as a violin string.
She’d changed from her afternoon dress into something simpler—a pale green shawl over her nightgown, her hair loose about her shoulders.
She sat by the window, watching the square below grow dark, listening to the sounds of the household settling for the night.
The staff’s footsteps faded. Doors closed. Silence descended like a heavy blanket.
Then, finally—she heard it. The front door opening, followed by footsteps in the entrance hall. Adrian’s tread, unmistakable in its purposeful rhythm.
Cecilia’s heart began to hammer against her ribs.
She waited until his footsteps reached the second floor, heading toward his chambers. Then, before courage could desert her entirely, she slipped from her room and moved down the corridor.
His door stood slightly ajar, warm firelight spilling into the darkened hallway. Cecilia knocked softly, then pushed the door open before he could refuse her entry.
And froze.
Adrian stood before the hearth, his back to her, removing his shirt.
The linen pulled free of his trousers, revealing a muscled back illuminated by firelight.
Broad shoulders tapered to a lean waist, every line sculpted with the kind of strength that came from riding and fencing, not idle leisure.
His skin gleamed bronze in the flickering light, shadows playing across muscle and bone in ways that made her mouth go dry.
He glanced over his shoulder, completely unbothered by his state of undress. One dark brow rose in sardonic inquiry. “Did you need something, or did you simply come to stare, Duchess?”
Heat flooded Cecilia’s cheeks. “I…” Her voice emerged strangled. She forced herself to meet his eyes rather than let her gaze wander across that magnificent expanse of bare skin. “I came to speak with you.”
“At this hour?” Adrian turned fully, pulling the shirt completely off and tossing it carelessly onto a nearby chair.
Muscles rippled beneath skin, drawing her attention to the breadth of his chest, the dark hair that arrowed down toward his waistband.
He made no move to cover himself, watching her with those black eyes that missed nothing.
Cecilia lifted her chin, “We cannot continue like this.”
“Like what, precisely?” He moved to the sideboard, pouring himself a generous measure of brandy.
“Like strangers.” She forced herself further into the room, though every instinct screamed at her to maintain distance.
“You’ve spent three days avoiding me. Leaving before I wake, returning after I’ve retired.
We share meals in silence when we share them at all.
This is not a marriage, Your Grace. It’s barely even civil cohabitation. ”
“Ah.” He took a slow sip of brandy, his gaze never leaving her face. “And you’d prefer... what, exactly? Perhaps you’d like me to pretend you didn’t deceive your way into my household?”
“I would prefer honesty. Anger, even. Anything but this cold indifference.”
“Cold indifference?” Adrian’s laugh was harsh, devoid of humour. He set down his glass and moved toward her with predatory grace. “You think me indifferent?”
Cecilia’s breath caught as he approached, forcing herself not to retreat. The scent of him—sandalwood and leather and something uniquely masculine—invaded her senses. He stopped mere inches away, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his bare skin.
“I think,” she managed, her voice steadier than she felt, “that you’re punishing me. And I understand why. I should have trusted that you would—”
“Trust?” The word emerged soft, dangerous. “You dare speak to me of trust?”
“I know I have no right—”
“No. You don’t.” He stepped closer still, forcing her to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. “You lied to me, Cecilia. You made a fool of me in my own household.”
“I never meant to humiliate you—”
“And yet you succeeded admirably.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered there in a way that made heat pool low in her belly.
Adrian reached out, his fingers catching a strand of her loose hair.
“Tell me, wife…how do I separate truth from manipulation when you’ve already proven yourself a convincing actress? ”
The nearness of him was overwhelming, and her body responded with traitorous eagerness—pulse quickening, skin growing warm, awareness sparking along every nerve.
“I suppose,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady, “you’ll have to decide whether my actions from this point forward speak louder than my past mistakes.”
Adrian’s thumb brushed her cheekbone, the touch feather-light and devastating. “And what actions did you have in mind?”
The question hung between them, charged with possibility. Cecilia’s heart hammered so loudly she was certain he must hear it. “I came here to apologise,” she managed, though her voice had gone breathy. “To earn back your trust, even if it takes years.”
His laugh was low, almost bitter. “How noble. How devoted.” He pulled her closer—not roughly, but inexorably, until her body pressed against his.
The shock of bare skin against fabric, of hard muscle against soft curves, stole her breath entirely.
“And what if I told you that no amount of time will change what you’ve done? ”
Cecilia’s hands came up instinctively, pressing against his chest to maintain some semblance of space between them.
The touch was meant to be protective, defensive.
Instead, it became something else entirely—her palms absorbing the heat of him, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath skin and muscle.
The crisp hair against her fingers, the sheer masculine solidity of him.
“Then I would say,” she whispered, “that you’re lying. To me, and to yourself.”