Chapter Twenty-Three
“What in God’s name were ye thinkin’, Cecilia?”
The Earl of Bedford’s voice echoed through the drawing room with enough force to rattle the teacups. Cecilia stood frozen near the window, her fingers twisted in her skirts, whilst her father loomed before her—his face ruddy with fury, his Scottish burr thick with disapproval.
“Father, I can explain—”
“Explain?” He barked a laugh devoid of humour. “Explain how ye’ve managed tae disgrace this family twice? First there was the humiliation in Scotland, now ye’ve become the laughingstock of London society!”
“That’s not fair—”
“Fair?” His eyes blazed. “Every drawin’ room in Mayfair is gossipin’ about ye, Cecilia. About yer past, about yer deception, about how the Duke of Devonshire was tricked intae marriage!”
The words struck like physical blows. Her throat closed, hot tears burning behind her eyes that she refused to let fall whilst he was watching.
“The scandal at the ball wasn’t my fault,” she managed, hating how her accent thickened with emotion. “Someone deliberately spread lies about me to—”
“And whose fault is that? Ye brought this upon yerself with yer foolish schemes. Disguisin’ yerself as a servant? Infiltratin’ the Duke’s household? What respectable lady behaves in such a manner?”
“I needed to know who I was marrying, Father!”
“Ye needed tae obey!” His voice cracked like a whip. “Tae dae yer duty to this family instead of chasin’ romantic notions! Now look at what ye’ve done—made this family a laughingstock, embarrassed a powerful duke, destroyed any chance at—”
“Enough.”
Adrian’s voice cut through the tirade—quiet, controlled, absolutely lethal. He stood in the doorway, black eyes burning with barely leashed fury.
“Your Grace.” The Earl turned, attempting a conciliatory smile that looked more like a grimace. “I didnae realise ye were—”
“Listening to you insult my wife in her own home?” Adrian moved into the room, each step deliberate. “Unfortunately for you, I was.”
“I was simply expressin’ my disappointment—”
“You were attacking her for circumstances entirely beyond her control.”
The Earl blinked. “But the deception—”
“Was my business to forgive or condemn. Not yours.” Adrian took another step forward. “Lady Cecilia is my wife. The Duchess of Devonshire. And you will address her with the respect that position demands, or you will leave this house immediately.”
Cecilia’s chest tightened. No one had ever defended her like this—not against her father, not against anyone.
“Your Grace, I meant no disrespect—”
“Then you failed spectacularly.” Adrian’s jaw was granite.
“My wife has shown more courage, more intelligence, and more grace under pressure than most men I know. She saved my aunt’s life.
She’s earned the respect of every servant in this household.
And she’s endured threats and attacks with remarkable strength, whilst I was too blind to see the danger. ”
“Adrian—” Cecilia whispered.
He didn’t look at her, keeping his attention fixed on her father with unwavering intensity.
“You have two choices, my lord. You can apologise to your daughter for your appalling behaviour and leave with whatever dignity remains to you. Or you can continue insulting her and be forcibly removed from my property.”
The silence stretched taut as a bowstring. The Earl’s face had gone from red to purple to an unhealthy grey. Finally, he turned to Cecilia with what might have been contrition—or simply defeat.
“Cecilia.” The word emerged stiff, formal. “I… the scandal worried me, ye understand.”
It wasn’t an apology. Not really. But it was as close as her father had ever come.
“I understand, Father.” Her voice came out steadier than she felt. “Thank you for your concern.”
Adrian’s hand found the small of her back—a brief, grounding touch that said everything words couldn’t.
The Earl gathered his coat with jerky movements. “I’ll take my leave, then. Your Grace.”
The door clicked shut behind him with terrible finality.
Cecilia stood perfectly still for three heartbeats. Then a sob escaped before she could trap it, followed by another. She pressed her hands to her mouth, but it was useless—weeks of fear and shame came pouring out in helpless gasps.
“I’m sorry.” The words came out broken. “He’s right, I’ve brought nothing but shame and scandal, I’ve—”
“Stop.” Adrian turned her to face him, his hands framing her face with devastating gentleness. “None of that was your fault. Do you hear me? None of it.”
“But if I hadn’t—”
“Then we never would have truly known each other.” His thumbs brushed away her tears with infinite care. “You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met, Cecilia. Don’t let him make you doubt that.”
She couldn’t speak. Could only lean into his touch whilst tears streamed down her face—all the fear and exhaustion pouring out.
“Come.” He guided her gently toward the door.
He led her to a small sitting room off the main corridor—one she’d claimed as her own refuge. She sank onto the settee whilst Adrian built up the fire, giving her space to collect herself.
A knock came at the door. Mrs Whittaker entered with a tea tray, her usually stern face soft with concern.
“Milady.” The housekeeper set down the tray. “I thought you might need this.”
“Thank you,” Cecilia managed, her voice still thick with tears.
Mrs Whittaker hesitated, then reached out to squeeze Cecilia’s shoulder briefly before withdrawing. Moments later, another knock—Sarah, one of the housemaids, with cushions and a shawl.
“Thought you might be cold, milady.” Sarah draped the shawl around Cecilia’s shoulders with gentle hands.
One by one, they came, even after Adrian had left. The butler with a respectful nod. Another maid with extra wood for the fire. They didn’t crowd her. Didn’t fuss. Just... stayed. A quiet show of solidarity that meant more than any grand gesture could.
“I’ve caused so much trouble,” Cecilia whispered to the room at large. “The scandal, the gossip—”
“Begging your pardon, milady, but that’s nonsense.
” Jenkin’s voice was respectful but firm.
“You’ve been nothing but kind to every person in this household.
The way you cared for Lady Flora when she took ill?
The way you treat us like people and not furniture?
That means more than we can ever convey. ”
“And anyone with eyes can see you love His Grace.” Mrs Whittaker’s expression was knowing. “Anyone with sense knows you’re good for him. For all of us.”
Cecilia’s vision blurred again, but with something warmer than grief. These people—these near-strangers who’d watched her stumble through her new role—they were choosing her. Supporting her.
“Thank you,” she managed. “All of you. It means more than I can say.”
They stayed whilst she sipped tea and slowly collected herself. Eventually, they filtered back to their duties with gentle pats and murmured reassurances. Only Velma remained.
“Ye should rest, milady,” Velma said softly. “‘Tis been a terrible day.”
“I will. But first—” Cecilia stood, straightening her spine. “I should check on Aunt Flora. She gets confused so easily, and after all the noise...”
Lady Flora’s chambers were warm and quiet, the fire crackling softly in the grate. The elderly woman sat in her chair by the window, staring out at the darkening gardens with unfocused eyes.
“Lady Flora?” Cecilia approached gently, settling onto the footstool beside her chair. “How are you feeling?”
For a long moment, Lady Flora didn’t respond. Then her head turned, and her eyes—surprisingly sharp, surprisingly aware—fixed on Cecilia’s face.
“I need to tell you, Cecilia,” Lady Flora said abruptly. “He… he means you harm.”
Cecilia’s pulse quickened. “Lady Flora, do you mean Henry?”
“Poison hidden behind pretty words.” Lady Flora’s fingers gripped Cecilia’s hand with unexpected strength. “He wants what isn’t his. Always has. Even as a boy, taking Edward’s toys, Adrian’s books, claiming them as his own.”
“What does he want now?” Cecilia asked softly, even though she already knew.
“Everything.” Lady Flora’s gaze was unnervingly lucid. “The title. The wealth. You gone. Adrian alone and vulnerable.” Her grip tightened. “Don’t let him win, child. Don’t let him take my boy from me again.”
“I won’t,” Cecilia promised fiercely. “I swear it.”
Lady Flora’s eyes drifted closed, the moment of clarity fading as quickly as it had come. But her words lingered—a warning, a confirmation of everything.
Cecilia stayed until Lady Flora’s breathing deepened into sleep, then made her way through the darkening corridors. The house had settled into evening quiet—servants finishing their duties, lamps being lit, the day drawing to a close.
But Cecilia’s mind wouldn’t settle. Her father’s words. Lady Flora’s warning. The investigator’s disappearance. It all swirled together into a knot of anxiety that tightened with each step.
She found herself outside Adrian’s study, lamplight visible beneath the door. Her hand hovered over the handle before she knocked softly.
“Come.”
She entered to find him at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, hair dishevelled from running his hands through it. Documents spread before him—evidence of Henry’s treachery, no doubt. The smell of leather and ink filled the air, familiar and grounding.
He looked up as she closed the door, and something in his expression shifted. Softened.
“You should be resting.”
“So should you.” She leaned against the door, suddenly uncertain. “But neither of us is very good at following sensible advice.”
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Fair point.”
She crossed to him slowly, drawn by something she couldn’t name. He watched her approach with dark eyes that tracked every movement, setting the papers aside.
“Your father—” he started.
“Was wrong.” She stopped before the desk, holding his gaze. “About everything. And you... what you did. Defending me like that.” Her voice caught. “No one’s ever done that before.”
He stood, rounding the desk to stand before her. “You deserve to be defended. Protected. Cherished.”
The word hung between them—impossibly tender, impossibly intimate.
“Adrian—”
He kissed her. Gentle at first, almost tentative—so different from the raw hunger of the stables. This was softer, sweeter, layered with emotion that made her ribs ache.
“I need you,” she breathed against his mouth. “After today, after everything...”
“You have me.” His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him. “Always.”
She kissed him harder, pouring all her fear and gratitude and desperate need into it. He responded in kind, backing her against the desk with controlled urgency.
“Here?” His voice was rough, questioning.
“Anywhere.” She was already reaching for his shirt, pulling it free.
He groaned and lifted her onto the desk with one smooth motion, scattering papers to the floor. His mouth found her throat, her collarbone, the curve of her breast through her gown, whilst his hands worked the fastenings with increasing desperation.
“You undo me completely,” he murmured against her skin, voice raw. “Make me forget every principle I’ve ever held.”
“Good.” She pulled him closer, wrapping her legs around his waist. “I don’t want your principles. I want you. Inside me.”
His control shattered.
He rid them both of clothing with shaking hands—each revealed inch of skin claimed with mouth and fingers until she was trembling beneath him. When he finally pressed himself into her, they both gasped at the sensation.
“Look at me,” he commanded roughly, his hand cupping her face. “I need to see you.”
She met his eyes as he moved inside her—slow at first, then harder as desperation overtook them both. His free hand gripped her hip hard enough to bruise, anchoring them together whilst the desk creaked beneath them.
“Adr… Adrian!” His name came out broken, pleading.
“I know.” He buried his face in her hair, his breathing ragged. “I know, love. I’m with you.”
When she shattered, it was with his name on her lips and his arms holding her like she was the only solid thing in a spinning world. He followed moments later, her name torn from his throat.
After, they lay tangled together across the desk—breathing hard, hearts hammering in tandem. His forehead rested against hers, his weight pressing her into the solid wood in ways that should be uncomfortable but felt perfect.
And there, sprawled across his desk with the evidence of Henry’s betrayal scattered at their feet, Cecilia finally believed it.
They would face whatever came next together.
And they would win.