Page 32 of The Duke’s Caught Bride

He held her gaze for three heartbeats. Then he turned away and walked off toward the house.

Alice stood alone by the ruined pond. The water had settled, its surface smoothing over the disruption, and a single water lily floated intact near the far bank, its white petals open to the afternoon light as though nothing had happened at all.

The rest of the day passed in quiet. As the boys stayed in their chambers, Alice stayed in her own, electing to take supper there rather than the dining room, though she did not want to face her motives for doing so.

When morning came, concern plagued her, and she made her way to their chambers. The door stood ajar. She paused on the threshold. It was eerily silent within.

She knocked softly and pushed the door wider.

Freddie lay on his stomach on the window seat, his chin propped on his fists, staring at the distant tree line with the concentrated gloom of a prisoner surveying the walls of his incarceration.

Charlie sat at the small desk beneath the bookshelves, a primer open before him, though his finger had stopped moving down the page some time ago and now rested motionless beside a column of sums.

Neither boy looked up when she entered.

“Good morning,” Alice greeted, moving to the armchair near the hearth. She settled into it with a deliberation that suggested she intended to stay.

Freddie’s response was a grunt directed at the windowpane. Charlie turned a page without reading it.

“I brought scones.”

She produced a napkin from her pocket, unfolded it on the low table between the armchair and the window seat, and arranged three scones in a neat triangle. They were still warm from the kitchen, the scent of butter and currants rising between them like a small flag of truce.

Freddie’s gaze slid sideways. His resolve lasted approximately four seconds before his hand darted out, claimed a scone, and retreated to the window seat where he consumed it in three bites.

Charlie accepted his with a murmured “Thank you.”

“The head gardener says the water lilies will recover,” Alice said, brushing a crumb from her skirt. “Apparently, they are more resilient than they appear. He’s already replanted the ones that were salvageable, and the others will be replaced from the cutting garden. The pond will look exactly as it did within a fortnight. Possibly better, as he’s taking the opportunity to thin the crowding near the eastern bank.”

Freddie scoffed. “A fortnight… like our punishment.”

“Your father’s punishment is… severe,” Alice sighed. “I won’t pretend otherwise. But it comes from a place of concern, not cruelty. He wants you to understand that actions have consequences. That the world beyond this castle operates on rules, and those rules are not always negotiable.”

“Rules,” Freddie huffed, flopping onto his back to glare at the ceiling. “Rules about the water, rules about the boat… Nobody cared about those silly flowers until yesterday! Then Papa’s yelling like we destroyed Grandfather’s prized treasure. It’s not fair!”

“It’s not about the lilies.” Charlie’s voice was quiet. He had set his scone down half-eaten, his fingers tracing the edge of the primer’s cover. “It’s about us not listening. We never listen. That’s what he’s angry about.”

Alice looked at him. The observation, delivered in that soft tone, carried more accuracy than she’d expected.

“Your father… He was raised to believe that authority must be absolute, that discipline is the highest form of love, because anything less is indulgence, and indulgence leads to weakness.” She paused. “It is not the only way to raise children. But it is the way he knows. And he is trying, in his fashion, to prepare you for a world that he believes will not forgive weakness.”

“Does he love us at all?” Charlie asked.

The question sent what felt like a rock to the pit of her stomach. Freddie had gone very still on the window seat, holding his breath.

“Of course he loves you.” Alice leaned forward. “He loves you with every fiber of his being. He would tear this castle apart brick by brick if either of you were in danger. He works from dawn until midnight to ensure that you have every advantage, every security, every opportunity that his position can provide.” She reached for Charlie’s hand across the desk. “The difficulty is not that he doesn’t love you. The difficulty is that he has never learned how to show it in the way you need to see it.”

Freddie sat up. “He shows it by taking away riding? By locking us in the nursery for a fortnight? That’s not love.”

“He shows it,” Alice said, “by doing hard work. By providing a roof, food, education, and the absolute certainty that whatever happens, you will never want for the essentials of survival. That may not feel like love now, but it is the foundation upon which all other forms of love are built.”

The silence that followed was thoughtful rather than sullen.

Freddie had picked up his second scone and was turning it over in his hands, studying it as though it contained some message hidden in the currants. Charlie’s finger had resumed its path down the primer’s page, as if he were using mathematics as an anchor.

“Well, in any case, I came here to ask for your help,” Alice added.

Both heads snapped up.