The hinges gave way with a muted groan, and he stepped inside.
There Dorothy was, seated by the tall window, her back straight, her figure calm against the spill of afternoon light. A book lay open in her lap, her head bent in quiet concentration. She had not yet looked up, unaware of the storm that had entered her room.
“Who asked you to touch it?”
His voice cut through the quiet like steel on stone.
Dorothy’s head snapped up. For a moment, she simply stared, wide-eyed, as though scarcely believing he stood there, in her bedchamber no less. The book slid from her lap as she rose swiftly to her feet. Surprise flickered across her features, softening into something like disquiet.
“Your Grace,” she breathed, smoothing her skirts. “I had heard the carriage pulling into the courtyard. I meant to come and greet you, but?—”
“Who asked you to touch it?” he repeated, sharper this time, cutting her words in two.
She blinked at him, confusion chasing the color from her cheeks. “Touch what, Your Grace?”
His jaw tightened. He took a step nearer, though the fury that had driven him up the stairs now felt strangely caged in her presence, restrained by some unseen hand. Still, the demand burned in his eyes.
“You know very well,” he said, voice low. “Do not feign innocence.”
Her brows knit together, her gaze steady, though her hands clutched her gown. “I have no notion what you mean.”
“Why did you touch the painting?” he questioned.
Dorothy’s lips parted, her surprise giving way to a fragile steadiness. “I found it in one of the rooms upstairs,” she began softly after taking a moment to think. “It seemed such a pity to leave it hidden there. It is too beautiful a piece, Your Grace, far too fine to be gathering dust. It is a lovely painting of your sister, and I thought it might?—”
“You had no right!” The words tore from him, fierce and final, striking the air between them like a whip.
Dorothy gasped, though her chin lifted a fraction, her composure fraying under the force of his anger. She pressed on quickly, her voice trembling but earnest. “I only thought it would bring some brightness to the room… and I learned she was Eugenia’s mother as well. I believed it best that such a face should not be forgotten–”
“It is my house,” Magnus said. “My home. Nothing within these walls is to be touched without my leave. Even the servants know better than to move so much as a chair without first seeking my permission. Yet you—” His voice hardened, his hand tightening at his side. “You presumed to make changes as though you had any right.”
Dorothy’s lips parted, but he pressed on.
“Do not forget why you are here, Dorothy. You were brought into this house for one reason and one reason only. Eugenia. You are to look after her, guide her, and teach her. That is why youwere married into this family. That is why I married you.” His gaze seared into hers, unyielding. “Your duties do not go beyond that.”
He stopped abruptly, the last words breaking sharper than he intended. A taut silence followed, the sound of his own voice still echoing in the chamber.
Magnus drew in a long and controlled breath, then stepped back, the fire in his expression dimming into something heavier. He had not meant to raise his voice... had sworn long ago that he would not become that man. Yet here he stood, anger ringing between them.
Dorothy did not move. She stood very still by the window, her book forgotten at her feet, her eyes fixed on him with a mixture of shock and hurt. The silence deepened, fragile, the storm of his fury giving way to the uneasy calm that followed.
For a fleeting moment, Magnus thought the heaviness of his words had silenced her. That they had pressed her into submission as they did the servants... as they did most who crossed him. He almost regretted them in that moment, seeing how still she stood. The urge to say something to soften the blow tugged at him, even though he had little practice in such things.
But before he could speak, Dorothy stepped forward. Just one step, but it shifted the air between them.
“Contrary to what you think, Your Grace,” she said, “my duties go beyond Eugenia. At least, that is how others see it. The peoplewho look to you as their duke, the people who now look to me as their duchess, they do not think my role begins and ends with Eugenia. Nor shall I let them think ill of me because you believe my place is so small.”
Her chin lifted a fraction, her gaze holding his. “I will not have my reputation diminished even if I have very little rein to do whatever I want in this capacity.”
Magnus stared at her, silent. He had expected trembling, perhaps tears, certainly retreat. But not this. Not the fire in her eyes, nor the steadiness in her voice. The defiance struck him, and he wasn’t certain how he was supposed to react.
Dorothy pressed on, her voice rising as she began to pace. “I do not even know what to do in this place. I walk through these halls like a stranger, careful not to breathe too loudly, careful not to offend. Every step feels as though it treads upon some invisible rule, and when I try, when I dare to be comfortable, you tell me I have no right.”
Magnus sighed. “Dorothy?—”
“No right?” she asked again, pausing in disbelief. “No right?”
His jaw tightened. “I gave you one order,” he said. “Take care of Eugenia.”
