He was silent for a long moment, his gaze steady on her as if weighing her words, measuring them. Dorothy’s fingers tightened just slightly around his hand, betraying her own fluttering nerves. Then, through the corner of her eye, she caught the barest curve of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
Magnus’s eyes flicked away, scanning the dancers around them before settling back on the floor. “Everybody gets nervous sometimes, Dorothy,” he said quietly.
Dorothy’s eyes narrowed slightly, unconvinced. “That’s not entirely the truth,” she murmured, her tone teasing but earnest. “I’ve never—never seen you nervous before.”
Magnus’s hand shifted slightly on her back, not enough to be intrusive but enough to remind her of his presence. “Tell me,” he said, his gaze locked onto hers. “Do you get nervous? What makes you nervous?”
Dorothy’s throat tightened at the question. For a moment, she felt the blush creep up her neck. She could not, would not, tell him the truth. Not that lately, the mere thought of him, his nearness, the feeling of his gaze, unsettled her completely. So instead, she answered cautiously.
“There are many things,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost swallowed by the music. “But… dancing for one. I used to be a wallflower,” she added, glancing up to meet his eyes briefly before looking away. “I didn’t have a voice of my own, so I would just blend in, hide. I never imagined that this life, this role I have now, even just caring for Eugenia. Stepping into society as a duchess would place me so squarely in the spotlight. I don’t always know how to manage it.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around his, seeking an anchor in the warmth of his hand. She was speaking honestly, yet cautiously, and as if in answer, Magnus’s grip on her back shifted. Just slightly, so subtle she could almost have thought it imagined, as he drew her closer.
Dorothy’s breath caught. She felt the press of his chest, the warmth of him close enough to make her heart hammer. Her body instinctively inched toward him, startled by the intimacy of the movement, the simple, commanding reassurance of it. Then she felt his hand tighten on hers, firm, grounding her.
“Yesterday, in the carriage,” he murmured, leaning just enough so that the words brushed her ear, “I told you a secret about my sister… her love for the hyacinth.”
Dorothy’s pulse skipped as she looked up at him.
“It’s your turn,” he said softly, tilting his head so that his eyes met hers again. “To share a secret with me. The day we spoke about the painting on the wall, we both realized we were keeping secrets from one another. We agreed to keep them to ourselves, but now, I think it’s only right that you give me one in return. Tell me.”
Dorothy’s throat tightened again. She felt the electric tension of the moment, the closeness, the heat, the tension in his gaze that seemed to strip away her defenses. She could feel the thrum of her own heartbeat against the rhythm of the dance, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them.
He was right. If she wanted to make the marriage work, the least she could do was be agreeable about some things. Although she hesitated, letting the words simmer on the tip of her tongue, unsure if she could actually voice them aloud, she decided it was best to be vulnerable for once.
“I… I have a fear,” she began softly, her voice barely above the hum of the orchestra. “A fear I’ve carried for years, one I never dared admit to anyone.” Her chest tightened as she continued, but Magnus remained quiet, his presence patient. “It’s the reason I thought I would remain a spinster all my life. I did not want to marry anyone. I thought I could not.”
Her eyes flicked momentarily to the crowd in the room as she pressed on. “My sisters, Emma and Cecilia, found love, real love. Marriages that seemed to overcome obstacles before they evenbegan. I watched them, and I hoped—I dared hope—that I might find something like that too. A love that was all-encompassing, one where my heart would be treated as though it were the entire world.”
“But time passed,” she said, her voice faltering for a moment as a pang of bitterness crept in. “The more I engaged in society, the more I realized… perhaps that was not for me. I tired of the endless conversations with gentlemen that led nowhere, the polite flirtation, the endless etiquette. It became exhausting. So over time, I began to feel… inadequate. That I would never live up to what my sisters had achieved, that I could never find happiness like theirs. The fear of failing grew so large that I thought it safer not to try at all.”
She swallowed, her pulse quickening. “It was easier to remain in the shadows, to keep to myself, than to risk disappointment, than to risk failing in front of the world, and before my sisters, whose lives seemed so complete. I convinced myself that by avoiding the chance altogether, I would at least not fail. I thought it was the only way I could live without shame.”
Dorothy finally lifted her eyes to meet his. “That’s my secret, Your Grace. My fear of failure. For some reason, the thought of not living up to my sisters always saddened me.”
His closeness unsettled her more than she could ever admit. His hand at her back, his gaze steady and unflinching, the faint warmth of his breath near her cheek—it all left her feeling cornered, unable to retreat. Her heart stumbled painfullyagainst her ribs, and before she could stop herself, the words slipped out.
“What is it?” she whispered, her voice laced with both curiosity and a trace of defiance. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
Magnus’s lips curved, faintly, almost imperceptibly. “Because I just realized that you must hold your sisters in the highest reverence,” he said. “It explains why you reacted so strongly when I insisted they address you with the respect due to your title. I see now that your bond with them is… central to you. Perhaps the most important thing of all.”
Dorothy blinked, startled at the perceptiveness in his words. Her throat tightened, but she managed, “And you… understand that?”
His expression did not shift, save for the faint hardening of his jaw as he held her gaze. “No,” he said at last, evenly. “I do not understand it. I did not have that kind of relationship with mine.”
Her breath caught, and instinct urged her to ask, to press about the sister she knew had once been, the one he never spoke of. But she faltered. The shadow in his tone, the finality of his words, warned her that he was not ready to share more. So instead, she lowered her eyes, choosing silence, though her heart ached with unspoken questions.
“It does not matter how others feel about you anymore,” Magnus said, his gaze fixed upon her. “Frankly, I don’t think it matterswhat anyone thinks of your achievements or failures. Opinions don’t quite matter.”
The statement startled her, and before she could think better of it, she let out a quiet, nervous laugh. “So, only my husband’s opinion matters now?” she teased.
But he did not smile. His hand at her back pressed more firmly, drawing her closer. “No. Only your opinion matters now.”
Magnus’s gaze did not waver. Her breath faltered. Heat flooded her cheeks, her blush impossible to contain. Her heart stumbled against her ribs again, and she could scarcely breathe, for the truth was plain. She had never felt so present, so exposed, as she did in that moment with him.
Then, as though he had plucked the very thought from her mind, his voice came low, almost gentle. “Would you like to go out for some air after this dance?”
Had he noticed the flush on her cheeks? The restless rise and fall of her chest? She prayed he had not, though some part of her knew he must have. Perhaps he thought her overwhelmed by the heat of the room or the crowd, or perhaps—though she dared not believe it—by him.
