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I creep up to her door, the white-painted wood carved into a hundred filigrees. Despite the way the rest of the house is cleaned from top to bottom, at this end of the ladies' wing, the intricate designs on the Duchess's door are— they're dusty. I runmy fingers along them, a soft smear of dust collecting along the tips.
Holding my breath, I turn the handle, and the door opens inward, swinging into darkness. Silence greets me, and I can see in the dim light that comes from behind the curtains and spills in from the hall.
The furniture is all covered in sheets. The air is stale in here. The curtains are pulled back, with only the gauzy inner sheer curtains covering the windows in a way that wouldn't be if someone were sleeping in here.
My stomach settles. I knew there wouldn't be anyone here. I don't even know why I worried about stumbling upon some sleeping Duchess in her bed tucked away for the night.
I leave the door, bravery swelling in my chest, and walk into the middle of the room.
It's huge. Twenty feet long, or more, with a large four-poster bed at one end, all covered in heavy sheets. There's a sitting area set up, more sheets dragged over the couches and chaise, and a fireplace at the other end of the room, with what looks like a covered piece of art hanging above it.
The windows beckon me, and when I look outside, I can see the lake glistening in the moonlight. Lanterns light the path around it, and it must be beautiful to sit here and watch the moon rise and fall over it, with a book in your lap.
But none of this tells me where the missing Duchess is, and why I've been lied to this whole time.
A voice behind me clears, and I jump, my heart slamming into my ribcage, setting off a firework of adrenaline through mynerves and veins. I whirl around.
"She's not here." It's the duke. He stands there, dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, barefooted like I've only seen him in Tahoe. He's not frowning at me like he usually does, his hair not smoothed to the side but soft and relaxed.
"Your grace," I say, trying to find a good excuse for why I'm here. I hadn't expected to be discovered, let alone by him. If anyone was going to catch me out, it would have been one of the hall boys or a maid.
Now I'm caught. And stuck.
But the duke doesn't look angry. He looks tired, almost resigned.
"I don't need to ask why you're here," he says, like he's reading my mind. "My brother told you there was some great mystery, some secret reason the Duchess was never around, and you wondered, didn't you? Of course you did."
He walks into the room, and I stand there like an idiot, shifting my weight as subtly as possible and wondering if he can see the way my throat tightens as I swallow my internal freak-out down.
He looks around the room with a long sigh and then glances at me.
"She left us. She left us without granting me a divorce or an heir, and of course, my brother would love the world to know it. It places him directly next in line to inherit." The duke smiles, but it's a grim, angry one. He looks out the window, his jaw going tense and tight. "And so he pokes and prods, hoping that my secret will spill out into the daylight."
I have no idea what to say. Benedict doesn't hide his frustration at his brother from me, but I hadnoidea this was the truth. Thatthe Duchess was actually gone.
"I thought she just hated people," I say. The duke lets out a derisive sound.
"You thought I'd had her killed and hidden the body, didn't you?" His gaze cuts to me, and his mouth twists into a mocking smile. "This isn't 1920s England. There's no murder mystery to solve. If you can find my wife and bring her back, I'd reward you handsomely but not because I love her." His eyes burn, and there's that anger again. It isn't aimed at me, though. He's furious at his ex, and my curiosity is burning up. I want to know why. This whole world he inhabits is full of mysteries, even if he wants to deny it. It's like catnip, and I need more. The burning sensation in my chest will only be satisfied if I finally get the real answers.
"I think since I am taking care of your child, I deserve to know, at least as much as you can tell me." It's a risk, making a bold demand like this, but from the glower on his face, then the resignation that flashes across it a moment later, it's the right move.
"You're not what I had intended for my daughter's care-giver," he says, his tone twisting to the sardonic. With a glance around the room, he reaches for one of the sheets covering a chaise. He pulls at it slowly, a puff of dust emerging from the cotton as he does so. "Sit," he demands, and my knees nearly fold themselves to do so, my butt hitting the chaise. The command in his voice is so strong. I guess that's what happens when you have decades of other people obeying you. The expectation that you'll be listened to, without question, forms the ability to require obedience immediately. His gaze slides over me, to the bed at the end of the room, lingering there, and he's quiet for a long moment. I wonder if he's going to sit too, or just hover there, a dark spectre.The two brothers are so different. Where Benedict is flash and light, the duke is quiet fury, the shadows running deep in him. He's so still that when he clears his throat, I feel myself jumping slightly, moving forward in my seat.
"Ours was not a love match," he says, "I think if anything, it would have been more akin to a match of extreme hatred. I am shocked a child even emerged from our union, although she cursed me the day she discovered she was pregnant, and I'm certain that her rage made her give me a girl instead of a boy." He's not even looking at me as he speaks, his eyes resting on some spot above my head. He also sounds detached, like he's telling a story that belongs to someone else.
Not him.
What's it like to be so far removed from reality that you don't even feel attached to your own life's experiences? I'm watching it in real time. For me, I feel every single moment of my past, swelling up behind me like a tidal wave threatening to take me out at any moment. How he can forget about his own, speak dispassionately of his wife— It has me sitting there, still as he is, holding my breath. I'm waiting for him to break. I realize it, he's a branch bent too far, and either it'll whip right around and blind me, or it'll snap.
"I thought that all of the high-born had some say in their marriage. Why did you marry someone whom didn't love you?"
"Who," he corrects my grammar, so quickly and suddenly it's like a slap, and I blink at him. He rolls his eyes. "My apologies. Old habits with Benedict and…" He shakes his head. "Never-mind." He looks at me directly. "What you don't know of this way of life could fill my entire library. You think that our families would risk the bloodline, the estate and house, to just anyone?For the sake of love?" The tone of his voice tells me thinks my assumptions are absurd. "She was selected for me from a good family that my mother approved of. She could bring in a decent enough dowry that my father was satisfied with. And that was enough. All else did not matter."
"So like, not even being sexually attracted to each other?" I blurt it out before I can censor myself, and he coughs.
"Of course not," he says, "I would do my duty no matter what." His eyes half-close and he looks at me with an intensity that has my skin tingling. The way he says duty sounds sexy. It rolls in his throat. "But it is hard to find someone attractive when you suspect they'd rather cut your heart out than ever accept you."
I sit there, confused. The duke is strict, complex, and even unpleasant at times, but how could any woman truly hate him? I don't. Even when he is demanding and stubborn with Madeline's care, I know he means the best for her. He loves his daughter even if she isn't a proper heir and can't carry on the line on his behalf. It's obvious in how he talks to her; those rough edges of his soften.
