Chapter Eighteen
“Another scandal, cousin? How unfortunate.”
Henry stood in Adrian’s study doorway, newspaper folded to display the headline like a trophy. The morning sun cut through the windows, sharp and unforgiving, illuminating the threatening note spread across Adrian’s mahogany desk.
“What do you want, Henry?”
“To offer my condolences.” Henry settled into the chair without invitation, draping himself across the leather with theatrical ease.
“The papers are quite brutal this morning. ‘Ice Duke’s Judgement Questioned—Again.’ Rather poetic, don’t you think?
History repeating itself.” He set the newspaper on the desk, angling it precisely so Adrian couldn’t avoid the headline.
“They’re drawing delicious parallels to Lady Nicole’s scandal.
Ten years of careful reputation management, undone by one impulsive marriage. ”
Adrian set down his quill with deliberate precision. “Your point.”
Henry leaned back, fingers steepled. “I warned you about marrying her so quickly. Though I suppose the dowry blinded you to the obvious risks.”
The barb landed exactly where Henry intended. Adrian’s jaw tightened fractionally.
“I’m not interested in your retrospective wisdom.”
“An annulment.” Henry delivered it casually, as though discussing the weather. “Your solicitor could have papers drawn up by week’s end.” He paused, examining his fingernails. “Unless, of course, you’ve grown attached to playing house with a woman who spent weeks lying to your face.”
Adrian’s hands flattened against the desk. The threatening note crumpled slightly under his palm. “You’re suggesting I abandon my wife.”
“I’m suggesting you salvage your position before she drags you down completely.” Henry’s voice dropped to something almost paternal.
“Out.”
“You’re not listening—”
Adrian stood, six feet of controlled fury. “Out of my house. Now.”
Henry rose slowly, something cold flickering behind his sympathetic mask before he smoothed it away.
“You’re making a terrible mistake. When everything collapses—and it will, cousin—remember I tried to save you from yourself.
” He moved toward the door, paused at the threshold. “Give the Duchess my regards.”
Adrian found Cecilia in her chambers an hour later. Afternoon light filtered through gauze curtains, turning the room soft gold, but she stood rigid at the window like a statue carved from ice and fury.
Something tightened in his chest at the sight of her. Even furious, even wounded, she was breathtaking.
“We need to talk.”
“Do we?” She didn’t turn. “Or did you come to tell me you’re accepting Henry’s suggestion? I heard him in the corridor, you know.”
“You were listening.”
“I was existing in my own chambers when your cousin decided the entire household should hear his opinions on my unsuitability.” Now she turned, and Adrian saw sleeplessness etched in the shadows beneath her eyes, the tight set of her jaw.
But her eyes blazed green fire, and her cheeks were flushed with colour that made his blood heat despite everything.
“Nothing says ‘welcome to the family’ quite like public recommendations for divorce.”
“Cecilia—”
“You’ve been avoiding me.” Her voice cracked. “Since that ball. Since Henry’s visit this morning. You’ve barely looked at me, barely spoken to me except to tell me we need to ‘talk.’ As though I’m another problem to manage rather than your wife.”
“I was protecting you.”
“Were you?” She moved toward him, chin lifted, eyes blazing.
The movement brought her close enough that Adrian caught the scent of her—lavender and something uniquely her that made his hands ache to reach for her.
“Or were you protecting yourself? Planning your strategy, calculating your next move, deciding how to handle the scandal without consulting me?” She laughed, sharp and bitter.
“You defended me at that ball, I’ll grant you that.
But since then? You’ve treated me like porcelain that might shatter if handled too roughly. ”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair?” The word exploded from her. “You listened to Henry suggest annulment this morning, and you didn’t immediately throw him out. You considered it, Adrian. For even a moment, you wondered if abandoning me might be the easier path.”
“I got rid of him—”
“After hesitating!” She closed the distance between them, and Adrian could see her hands shaking with fury she was barely containing.
Could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the pulse hammering in her throat.
“After weighing your options. After calculating whether I’m worth the damage to your precious reputation.
And you couldn’t even give me the courtesy of an immediate ‘no.’”
The air between them crackled with something volatile—fury and hurt and that damnable pull that had existed since the first moment he’d caught her spying in his study.
“I didn’t hesitate.”
“You married me out of duty, Adrian. Tolerated me because I came with a convenient dowry and useful estate agreements.” She wrapped her arms around herself, and the gesture drew his attention to the way silk draped over her curves, to skin he’d touched in darkness, tasted in stolen moments. “Just like Wexford.”
“I am nothing like that coward.”
Her eyes glittered with tears she refused to let fall.
“You married me because your friend needed business connections, and my father needed to erase my humiliation. A transaction. Obligation dressed up in vows and a ring. We had some pleasant moments—some quite spectacular ones, if I’m honest—but when it mattered, when I needed you to stand beside me whilst the world burned, you chose the world. ”
Her words sent heat flooding through him at precisely the wrong time. Adrian’s hands clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to cross the remaining space, to pin her against the wall and prove with his mouth and hands just how wrong she was.
“That’s not true.”
“Prove it, then.” She stepped closer—close enough that her skirts brushed his legs. “Stand by me when it costs you something.” Her voice dropped to something raw, vulnerable, intimate. “Show me I’m worth fighting for, Adrian.”
Adrian opened his mouth. The words stuck in his throat like shattered glass—wanting to come out, needing to come out, but trapped behind walls he’d built so carefully they’d become prison bars. His gaze dropped to her lips against his will. He forced them back up to meet her gaze.
“I need to find who did this,” he said finally, hating how hollow it sounded. “I need proof, evidence—”
“Of course you do.” She turned back to the window, dismissing him with the rigid line of her spine, and the loss of her proximity felt like cold water. “Go on, then. Protect your reputation. Manage the scandal. I’ll be here when you’re finished, playing the dutiful wife.”
“Cecilia—”
Her voice cracked. “Please leave.”
Adrian stood frozen, everything in him screaming to cross to her, to pull her against him and kiss her until neither of them could think straight.
He left. Closed the door with careful softness. Stood in the hallway with his eyes shut, hands clenched, throat tight, body aching with want he had no right to feel.
***
“Henry’s behind it.”
Cassian poured brandy in his study that evening, the crystal decanter catching firelight. Rain lashed the windows—a summer storm that had rolled in with the darkness, turning London’s streets to rivers. Adrian stood by the hearth, still wearing his coat, too restless to sit.
“You’re certain?”
Adrian turned the brandy glass without drinking. “He knows details he shouldn’t. He suggested an annulment before I’d even considered my options, as though he’d already planned my response.” He met Cassian’s gaze. “It reeks of calculation.”
“Suspicion isn’t proof.” Cassian settled into his chair, legs crossed, expression thoughtful. “And Henry’s too clever to leave obvious trails.”
Adrian set down his untouched glass. “The rumours originated somewhere. Someone fed the scandal sheets—”
“Lady Margaret Denholm.” Cassian smiled grimly. “She’s London’s most reliable gossip—which makes her either the origin point or the distribution channel.”
“Can we convince her to reveal her source?”
“If we appeal to her vanity.” Cassian stood, moving to his desk where papers lay in neat stacks.
Adrian’s jaw tightened. “When can we see her?”
“I will send word that we require an audience on urgent business. But Adrian—if it is Henry, confronting him will tear your family apart. Your reputation will suffer more damage before it improves. Are you prepared for that?”
“My wife has already suffered enough for my family’s sins. Whatever it costs, it’s worth it.”
Adrian couldn’t tell her. Not yet. Not when she’d looked at him with such wounded fury, convinced his pause meant he was considering Henry’s suggestion. In truth, that pause had been the tipping point: realising Henry orchestrated everything.
But Cecilia deserved more than circumstantial suspicions.
She deserved proof, justice, and the vindication that would come when he destroyed the man who’d tormented her.
Until then, Adiran would shoulder this particular burden alone—just as he always had.
***
Lady Denholm received them the following afternoon in a drawing room that seemed purpose-built for extracting and distributing secrets.
Chairs arranged in intimate clusters that encouraged confidence.
Mirrors positioned to catch every expression, every reaction.
Acoustics that carried whispers like caresses.
She sat enthroned in the centre, a woman in her fifties with eyes like flints and a smile that suggested she knew everyone’s secrets and enjoyed collecting more.
“Your Graces.” She inclined her head with theatrical courtesy. “Do sit. Tea?”
“We’re here about your recent publication regarding my wife,” Adrian said without preamble, remaining standing. “Not for tea, Lady Denholm.”
“My publications are based on reliable sources, Your Grace. I never print unverified gossip.” Her smile sharpened. “My reputation depends on accuracy.”