For a breathless moment, she didn’t say a word. Neither did he.
They simply stared at each other, her hand still holding on to his against her cheek, his body frozen in a posture he hadn’t meant to hold. She looked like she wasn’t certain if she was dreaming, and he felt like perhaps he’d stepped into one.
Valentine’s throat tightened.
What in God’s name am I doing?
He hadn’t thought this through. Hadn’t planned to wake her with his hand like a man who had the right. Hadn’t expected the ache that stirred at the sight of her curled up next to Abigail like that. Now, there he was, caught in this still, aching moment, while her fingers remained closed over his.
She blinked slowly. Her gaze dipped from his eyes to his mouth, then back again, and something in his chest stuttered. He wasn’t supposed to touch her. That had been the rule, the line he’d drawn for himself the moment they married. No affection. No closeness. No risk.
He didn’t understand himself anymore. Not these days. Not when he was beginning to forget why he’d built all those walls. Cecilia was starting to do something to him, and he was afraid they were moving so fast that he couldn’t pause to assess anything.
Cecilia parted her lips, as if to speak, but the words never came. A soft sound interrupted the moment. Abigail stirred beside her, letting out a small, sleepy sigh as she rolled over and blinked groggily up at them.
Valentine’s composure snapped back in an instant. He gently eased his hand from Cecilia’s grasp, though her fingers lingered, reluctant to let go, as he rose swiftly to his feet just as Abigail reached out for him with a grin.
“Papa,” she said, still half-dreaming, holding her arms up to him.
He scooped her into his arms, grateful for the sudden distraction, for something to tether him back to solid ground. Her small arms wrapped around his neck, and he held her close, pressing a kiss to her hair as he turned back to Cecilia.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” Cecilia greeted him with a smile. She was sitting upright now, her hands in her lap.
“Good morning, Cecilia,” he responded. “I’ll take Abigail to her room so she can dress for the day. You may take your time. Come down when you’re ready. Breakfast will be waiting.”
With that, he was gone, carrying Abigail out the door. Valentine took Abigail down the hall, her head resting on his shoulder, and her soft curls tickling his jaw. She was murmuring something unintelligible about ribbons still halfway in a dream, and the sheer innocence of it cooled the heat that lingered in his veins.
He reached her room and passed her to the maid with a nod, giving instructions to ready her for the day. Abigail clung to him for a second longer before letting go, blinking sleepily and offering a grin that melted something in his chest.
As he entered his own chambers and closed the door behind him, the silence struck him. Reluctantly, he crossed the room, slowly unfastening the cuffs of his shirt. His morning routine had never changed over the years. Rise. Dress. Work. Eat when convenient. Speak only when necessary. That had been the quiet rhythm of his life.
But now…
Now, he found himself pausing before every breakfast, expecting to see her. Waiting, even. Wondering if she'd come down with her hair half-pinned and her gown trailing as though she’d run late, pretending not to care. He didn’t particularly likeeating with others. Yet, somehow, the dining room didn’t feel intolerable when she was in it.
He frowned and glanced at the mirror as he pulled on a fresh waistcoat.
When did this become a habit?
He couldn’t name the exact day, and it wasn’t just the meals. He had begun to notice other changes. Little things. How he’d walked through the village two days ago and caught sight of a hand-painted brooch in a shop window, and his first thought had been of Cecilia. He’d stood there, hands clasped behind his back, wondering if it was the sort of trinket she might smile at. He hadn’t bought it, of course. That would have been absurd.
But the thought had come, and it hadn’t gone.
He wasn’t used to this. Even with Helena, the late duchess, there had never been such thoughts. They had shared a name, a house, a child, but never any intimacy. Never ease. He had mourned her loss, yes, but mostly out of duty. They had not loved, not really. Their marriage had been one of bitter civility and distance.
But Cecilia,she filled spaces without even trying. She drew out sides of him he hadn’t realized still existed.
He paused with his cravat in hand, staring at the dressing table before him as he wondered if that was what marriage was meant to be.
Perhaps it was time to stop punishing himself for things long past. For Helena. For the distance he had allowed to root itself in his household. Abigail was young. She deserved warmth. She deserved something whole.
Perhaps…perhaps so did he.
Nearly an hour later, Valentine descended the stairs, his thoughts still chasing themselves in quiet circles. By the time he reached the morning room, the scent of warm bread, honeyed ham, and tea greeted him, laced with the faintest trace of laughter.
He paused in the doorway.
Cecilia was seated on the long side of the table, already dressed in soft shades of cream and lilac, her hair pinned back with her usual carelessness that somehow always looked intentional. Beside her sat Abigail, swinging her legs.
