Chapter Twelve #2
His eyes darkened further, if such a thing were possible. “Careful, Duchess. You’re in dangerous territory.”
“I know.” She did know. Could feel it in the tension coiling through his body, in the way his fingers tightened fractionally at her waist. “But I’m tired of being careful. Honesty, however painful, feels like the only path forward.”
His voice dropped to something almost dangerous. “Here’s truth for you—I am furious with you.”
“Then be angry,” she whispered. “Rage at me. Anything but this terrible silence.”
For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—heat, hunger, some emotion she couldn’t quite name. His hand tightened fractionally at her waist, his gaze dropping to her mouth and lingering there in a way that made her pulse race. The air between them thickened, charged with possibility.
Then, as if a door had slammed shut, his expression went blank. Cold. He stepped back deliberately, breaking all contact. The loss of his warmth left her suddenly chilled despite the fire crackling nearby. “You’re forgiven,” Adrian said flatly.
The words hung in the air between them. Cecilia blinked, uncertain she’d heard correctly. “I... what?”
“You asked for forgiveness. You have it.” His tone was utterly neutral, devoid of emotion. He moved to retrieve his shirt, pulling it on with efficient movements that covered that magnificent expanse of bare skin. “You may consider yourself absolved of guilt, if that brings you comfort.”
Something cold and hollow opened in Cecilia’s chest. This was worse than anger. Worse than accusations. This was... nothing. “That’s it? You simply forgive me, and we move on?”
“What else did you expect?” Adrian fastened the buttons of his shirt with precise movements, not meeting her eyes.
“You could at least let me explain why—”
“I know why.” He drew a deep breath, forcing his voice to steady. “You were terrified of repeating what happened in Scotland. You didn’t want to bind yourself to a stranger without knowing what type of man you’re marrying.”
Cecilia blinked at him, her eyes wide. “You… understand that?”
“I do.” Adrian finally met her gaze, and what she saw there wasn’t cold indifference—it was controlled pain.
“But you could have simply asked to know me, Cecilia. You could have requested more time before the wedding, even chaperoned visits. Instead, you chose to lie your way into my home, into my confidence, into…” He stopped, his throat working. “Into a place I don’t let anyone.”
Tears burned behind her eyes. “I know… it was awfully wrong of me, Adrian. But you have to understand… for ladies, when we marry, we lose everything. Everything. All our rights. All our money. It becomes our husbands’.
So what I did--while it was wrong--came from desperation.
I could not just ask you if you were a good man in chaperoned visits.
That is not how you really get to know a person.
And I could not enter another marriage blindly. Not again.”
Adrian stared at her for a long moment, and she thought she saw something in his expression soften.
“I would never hurt you,” he murmured after a moment.
Then he seemed to realise how intimate this sounded, because he cleared his throat, his jaw tightening.
“That being said, do you have any idea what it felt like? Discovering that the woman who’d become—” he stood abruptly, turning away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.” Cecilia moved closer, though she didn’t dare touch him. “Tell me. Please?”
He took a deep, slow breath.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, quietly, “The woman who’d become the first person I wanted to talk to each morning. Who looked at me like I was simply Adrian, not a title.” His hand tightened on the sideboard. “Discovering she never existed...” he shook his head.
Cecilia’s breath caught. “Clara was just a name, Adrian. That was me. That’s still me.”
He poured himself a measure of brandy, his movements controlled but no longer relaxed. “How do I know this isn’t just another role you’re playing?”
“You don’t,” she admitted, the honesty costing her. “I broke your trust. I can’t simply demand you hand it back. But I can promise you this—no more deception. No more schemes. Just... me. Imperfect and terrified and trying to make this marriage into something more than a business arrangement.”
Adrian took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving hers. Something shifted in his expression—perhaps the beginning of something like understanding.
“I need time,” he said finally. “To... adjust to all this. To figure out what’s real between us and what was performance.”
“How much time?”
“I don’t know. But… You’re right that I’ve been... harsh. Unfair, even. Your fear about repeating Wexford—I understand it better than you might think.”
“You do?”
A ghost of something that might have been a smile crossed his face.
“I was terrified of this marriage, too. Of binding myself to a stranger who might be using me for her own purposes.” He set down his glass.
“We were both afraid. You just had the courage to do something about it, however misguided.”
The acknowledgement settled between them, and Cecilia felt a rush of gratitude.
“What happens now?” Cecilia asked quietly.
“Now?” Adrian moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He looked back at her, and for just a moment, his expression was unguarded. “Now we try to build something real. No deception. No performance. Just... whatever this becomes.”
“I’d like that.”
“So would I.” The words emerged barely above a whisper. Then his walls slid back into place—not impenetrable, but present. “Good night, duchess.”
“Good night, Adrian.”
She left, closing the door with careful quiet.
Cecilia stood alone in the library, pressing her hand to her chest where her heart still raced. This wasn’t the passionate reconciliation she’d dreamed of. Wasn’t the grand declarations or tearful embraces.
But it was honest. Real. A foundation, however fragile, on which they might build something lasting.
And for the first time since he’d discovered her deception, she felt genuine hope.