“She is a child,” Cecilia continued. “You asked me to be a mother figure to her, did you not? Then permit me to know her...to understand what makes her laugh, what soothes her. I cannot do that with strictness alone.”
Valentine’s brows furrowed. “This household has rules, Duchess.”
“I am not breaking them,” she answered, lifting her chin. “I am merely trying to bring a bit of warmth into a house that, frankly, feels like it hasn’t known it in a long while.”
Valentine’s expression didn’t soften. “You are to follow the rules that have been laid down, Duchess,” he said. “Running about the estate with Abigail may seem harmless, but it encourages behavior that is…unrefined. She needs structure. Discipline. We want her to grow up properly, in a good home. A complete one.”
“Oh?” she asked, lifting her head. “Is that what this is? A complete home?”
Her gaze held his, steady and unflinching.
“If this is your idea of a whole and proper household,” she added. “Then I fear we do not share the same understanding of what that means.”
Valentine’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t offer a reply. For the first time since they’d begun speaking, he looked more conflicted than he was angry.
“I’ll clean myself up,” Cecilia added. “If that’s permitted.”
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and walked off, skirts dragging damply behind her.
Duchess. Miss Lockhart.
That was all he ever called her. Never Cecilia. Not once had her name crossed his lips, and now that she thought of it, the omission cut far deeper than she expected. He spoke to her like she was an interloper, a well-dressed governess hired to manage his child. Nothing more. Rules, structure, discipline, he spoke of them like they were iron bars, and for the first time in days, she remembered with jarring clarity that she hadn’t chosen this life.
She had been maneuvered into it, trapped. Just when it had started to feel like something close to belonging, just when Abigail had begun to trust her, to laugh with her, he had come along and stripped it all bare.
It still unsettled her that she didn’t quite know what their marriage truly was, or worse, what was even convenient about it.
A frustrated sigh escaped from Cecilia’s lips as she dumped another stack of books on the floor.
“Where is it?” she whispered, already losing hope that the book was even in the library after all.
She stood halfway up the tall ladder, fingers trailing along a line of worn leather-bound volumes as she searched for the book she had promised Abigail they would read together. Cecilia exhaled slowly, shifting her weight as she peered at the spines again. Her thoughts, however, refused to cooperate. They drifted away from the alphabetized shelves and returned to the garden, more specifically, to Valentine.
The ladder creaked under her, but she ignored it. She drew in a breath, steadying herself, but her thoughts refused to follow suit. Instead, they spiraled back to the agreement, the marriage, the bargain she had struck in a haze of necessity and pride.
There were parts of it she had quietly made peace with. She had never yearned for children the way other women did, not truly. She adored her siblings, yes, and loved the bustle of family, but she had not daydreamed of cradles or lullabies. If Valentine didn’t want more children, well...she could live with that. It did not tear at her heart.
But this?
The not touching?
It had started to bother her again.
She exhaled, fingers tracing across the book spines as though answers might be tucked between the pages. Her slipper slid a little against the narrow rung beneath her, and she paused to adjust her footing. The second level of shelving was taller than she’d anticipated.
“What is it with you and climbing things?”
The voice snapped through her reverie.
Startled, Cecilia turned too quickly. Valentine was striding through the doorway, his gaze fixed on her with an expressionthat was half exasperation, half something unreadable. She straightened too quickly in surprise, and the ladder wobbled under her.
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, hand clutching the edge of the shelf for balance.
“You,” he repeated, crossing the room with quick, deliberate steps. “Why do you always seem to be precariously perched on something? What are you even looking for now?”
“I am entirely capable of retrieving a book, Your Grace,” she replied, biting back annoyance. “Miss Flaxman said it might be here.”
But her words had barely left her mouth before her slipper slid on the same rung. Her fingers clawed for stability on the shelf, but it was too late. The ladder wobbled violently. She gave a short cry, bracing herself to hit the ground, but she didn’t.
