Chapter Seventeen #2
Adrian caught her, sweeping her into his arms before she could hit the marble floor. She was light—too light, trembling violently against his chest as the tears finally came in great, gasping sobs that tore something in his chest he hadn’t known could still feel pain.
“I’m sorry.” The words tumbled out broken, desperate. “I’m so sorry, Adrian. I’ve ruined everything. Your reputation, your standing… God, what have I done?”
“Hush.” He carried her swiftly down the corridor, away from the ballroom’s glittering carnage. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”
“I lied to you. I deceived you. I—”
“You were brave.” His arms tightened around her. “You were clever and resourceful and utterly magnificent. This—” he gestured sharply back toward the ballroom “—this is not your fault.”
“Then whose fault is it?” She looked up at him, tears streaking through the careful cosmetics Charlotte had applied hours ago. “Who would do this? Who hates me enough to—”
“Not you.” The realisation settled into Adrian’s gut like lead. “Me. This was aimed at me, Cecilia. You’re simply...” He couldn’t finish. Couldn’t say the word collateral.
Cassian appeared ahead, opening a door to what Adrian recognised as his private study. They entered, and Adrian finally set Cecilia down on a leather settee. She immediately curled into herself, arms wrapped around her middle as though physically holding the pieces together.
Charlotte knelt beside her, producing a handkerchief and making soothing sounds. Adrian turned away, unable to watch, unable to bear the sight of his wife—his brilliant, fierce wife—reduced to this by someone’s calculated cruelty.
“Someone in my household.” Adrian’s voice was flat, emotionless. The kind of calm that preceded violence.
Cassian closed the door, locking it. “Almost certainly. The timing, the detail…” he poured brandy into a glass, pressing it into Adrian’s hand. “But unearthing the snake will take time. They’ve been careful.”
“Time.” Adrian stared at the amber liquid. “All the while, my wife’s reputation is shredded in every drawing room in London.”
“Which is precisely what they want—for you to act rashly, without thought.” Cassian’s voice turned hard. “To lash out and confirm every rumour about your unstable temperament and questionable judgement. Don’t give them that satisfaction, Adrian.”
Adrian looked at Cecilia, still crying silently, whilst Charlotte murmured comfort. Something inside him—something he’d thought frozen beyond thawing—cracked completely.
“They’re expecting me to choose,” Adrian said quietly, “between protecting my reputation and protecting my wife.” He met Cassian’s gaze “But there is no choice.”
“Adrian—”
“Prepare the carriage. We’re leaving.”
He moved to Cecilia, crouching before her and taking her hands in his. They were ice-cold despite the room’s warmth. “Look at me.”
She raised her head slowly, eyes swimming with tears and something worse—shame.
“I won’t let them destroy you,” he said, each word a vow. “I don’t care what it costs me. My reputation, my standing, my place in society—none of it matters. Do you understand?”
“It should matter.” Her voice broke. “You’ve worked so hard to rebuild everything, and I—”
“—are my wife.” He cut off her protest. “The only thing that matters. Everything else is just noise.”
For a moment, she simply stared at him. Then fresh tears spilt over, but these were different—softer, somehow, carrying less pain and more of something else. Something that made Adrian’s chest constrict.
“Come.” He helped her stand, supporting her weight when her legs proved unsteady. “Let’s go home.”
The carriage ride passed in heavy silence.
Cecilia sat pressed against the far corner, face turned toward the window, though Adrian doubted she saw anything beyond her own reflection.
He watched her profile in the darkness—the way moonlight caught on wet cheeks, the rigid set of her jaw, the small tremors that still ran through her frame.
When they finally reached Ravenscar Hall, he helped her down and into the house, waving away the servants’ curious stares. He guided her upstairs, past her chambers, straight to his own.
She didn’t protest. Didn’t speak at all until he’d closed the door behind them and she stood in the middle of his private sanctuary, looking lost and small and utterly defeated.
“I should go.” The words emerged flat, emotionless. “To bed. This has been... enough scandal for one evening without adding—”
“Stay.”
She looked up sharply.
“Stay,” he repeated. “Please.”
The word seemed to surprise them both. Adrian couldn’t remember the last time he’d asked rather than commanded, requested rather than dictated.
But watching Cecilia now—his brave, brilliant wife who’d disguised herself as a servant to uncover his secrets, who’d faced down scandal with her head high until the weight of it finally crushed her—he found he couldn’t bear the thought of her alone in the darkness with only shame for company.
“Why?” she whispered.
He wanted to say, Because I can’t protect you if you’re not here.
Because someone in this house hates me enough to destroy you.
Because when I held you in that corridor, broken and sobbing, something in me recognised you as mine in a way that has nothing to do with marriage contracts or social convenience.
“Because,” Adrian said instead, “we need to talk. About everything.”
Cecilia’s hand moved to her reticule, fingers trembling. She withdrew a folded piece of cream-coloured stationery, holding it out to him like a confession.
“Then you should probably start,” she said, “by reading this.”
Adrian took the paper, unfolding it to reveal a neat script that made ice flood his veins anew. He looked up sharply. “When did you receive this?”
“Three days ago. I found it on my vanity.” Her voice had gone hollow. “Someone was in my chambers, Adrian. Someone who knows exactly who I am. Someone who’s been watching. Waiting.”
The rage that flooded through him was ice and fire both—glacial on the surface, molten beneath. His hands didn’t shake. His breathing remained steady. But something fundamental had shifted, clicking into place with the finality of a pistol being cocked.
“Adrian?” Cecilia’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Say something.”
His eyes met her frightened gaze. She flinched at whatever she saw in his face—probably wise of her. Adrian could feel his expression settling into something carved from stone, smooth and cold and utterly immovable.
“I’m going to find out who did this,” he said quietly. Too quietly. The sort of quiet that preceded violence. “And when I do...”
He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.
Because whoever had done this—whoever had violated his home, threatened his wife, destroyed her reputation as casually as one might swat a fly—had made one catastrophic miscalculation.
They’d assumed the Ice Duke would choose his reputation over everything else.
They were about to learn exactly how wrong they were. And how permanent the consequences of that mistake would be.