It was not a feeling she despised. No... if anything, it unsettled her by being too welcome. Her days had been quiet, one much like the other, marked by stillness and dutiful silence. But in that brief instant, she had felt something stir awake, something sharp and alive, as though she had been reminded she was not merely a figure seated in another man’s house, playing her role for appearance’s sake. She had felt.
“I…” Her breath trembled, but she lifted her chin. “I needed to speak with you.”
For a long moment, he said nothing. His gaze held hers, searching and unflinching. Then he looked back down at the hearth and let out a soft sigh. “You must forgive me,” he said softly. “I should not have spoken to you like that.”
Dorothy’s hands clasped together at her waist, her knuckles pale against the folds of her gown. “The painting has been taken down,” she replied quietly. “It is back in the room where I found it. Perhaps I should not have touched it at all. It was not mine to move, and I do not know the history behind it. I see now it was not my place.” Her gaze flickered to the fire, then back to him. “For that, I apologize.”
She hesitated, then pressed on. “I also made some changes around the house. You may have noticed them. But you need not worry, Your Grace. I understand that not everyone likes change. If it displeases you, I can undo what has already been done.”
Magnus stepped away from the hearth, the firelight leaving his face in shadow as he crossed the room. He moved with theheaviness of a man weary of his own thoughts, and when he lowered himself into the chair behind his desk, he rested his hands upon the arms as though to steady himself. For a while, he seemed content to let the silence stretch, the crackle of the fire filling the distance between them. Then, at last, he spoke.
“The painting,” he said. “I only wanted it gone. That was all. As for the other changes you’ve made about the house, they do not concern me.”
Dorothy blinked, uncertain she had heard him correctly. “But… I thought you disliked change. That is what you said.”
He leaned back, eyes fixed upon her. “It doesn’t matter. I am… accustomed to far worse. If you wish to arrange the rooms, then do so.”
She tilted her head, studying him in surprise. “Would you like to see the changes? I had the parlor curtains let down for more light, and I shifted the furniture in the music room, so Eugenia might have more space to dance. Even the gallery has?—”
“Dorothy.” His interruption was gentle yet brooked no argument. “It is fine. You may make those changes.”
A long breath escaped her lips, almost a sigh, as she tried to hold her composure. A ripple of frustration moved through her chest, not at his permission but at the contradiction of it. Only hours before, he had all but thundered at her for touching so much as a portrait. Her fingers tightened slightly at her sides before she gave voice to her thought.
“How is it you are fine with it now, Your Grace,” she asked, “when not long ago, you told me never to touch anything in this house?”
Magnus’s gaze shifted, the lines at his mouth tightening. “Perhaps it is only because I am tired,” he said at last.
Dorothy’s eyes narrowed. “So then, does that mean tomorrow, when you are no longer tired, you will change your mind again?”
“No,” he returned at once. “I am not a man who changes his mind so easily.”
She let out a small breath, half incredulous. “But you are contradicting yourself. What is it you truly want, Your Grace? One moment you forbid me to alter anything, and the next, you tell me I may do as I please. Which is it to be?”
His jaw clenched, but before he could answer, she pressed on. “I know why you brought me here. I understand that. I know you wish me to care for Eugenia, and I will continue to do so. Gladly. But what of the rest of it? What about what I said before? Do you not see that people—your people—already expect certain things of me? If I do not meet those expectations, if I do not act as they believe a duchess should, there will be whispers. Rumors.”
Magnus’s gaze lingered on her, steady, probing, his voice low. “I thought you did not care for rumors. I thought you were not bothered by whispers so much so that you were even comfortable starting one yourself.”
Dorothy drew in a breath, the sound uneven as she stepped back, away from his scrutiny. His words struck too close. Once, she truly had not cared. Once, she had embraced the thought of remaining single, of escaping all the demands that came with marriage, a household, and a title. She had told herself that spinsterhood would grant her freedom, that it was a choice made in defiance but also in safety, for buried beneath that choice was a fear too large, too consuming, one she could never admit aloud.
As a spinster, there would have been no stage upon which to falter. But now... now, everything was different. The vows had been spoken, the Duke’s name was tied irrevocably to hers, and with it came expectations she could neither escape nor dismiss. The fear pressed down upon her, heavier with each passing day, whispering that disappointment was inevitable. What would her sisters think of her if she faltered? Two Duchesses already, both assured in their roles, both radiant in their marriages. Their disappointment would cut deeper than any rumor in London.
Her lips parted as though to speak, but pride clamped the words back down. She would not confess this to him. Not to Magnus. Better he believe her unyielding, better he never see how afraid she was starting to get.
The silence stretched between them until Magnus rose to his feet. The motion startled Dorothy, though she schooled her features quickly, lifting her chin as his shadow fell across her.
“You are hiding something.”
Her breath caught, but she met his eyes without wavering. “So are you.”
The corner of his mouth curved into the faintest smile, not of amusement but of recognition, as though she had confirmed something he already suspected. He studied her a moment longer, then spoke. “What is it that troubles you so much? A lady like you would hardly concern herself with whispers or duties pressed upon her by others. Yet now… something has shifted. Something weighs upon you.”
Her pulse quickened. She could feel his words pressing against the very walls she had built within herself, and for an instant, she longed to lower them, to tell him everything. But instead, she drew herself straighter and countered, “I will tell you if you tell me why a single painting unsettles you so.”
His smile deepened, wry and almost fond, though there was no mistaking the shadows in his eyes. “Perhaps it is better we keep our secrets to ourselves.”
Dorothy inclined her head once. “Very well.” She turned towards the door. “Good night, Your Grace.”
She had nearly reached the threshold when his voice stopped her.
