The man dipped his head and left at once, clearly relieved to have delivered his message. Cecilia turned slowly to look at Valentine. He hadn’t moved. But it was clear as day that he had become upset.
“Your Grace, I–” she began, but Abigail’s laugh rang out nearby, and they both turned. She was holding a pink ribbon, beaming as Miss Flaxman bent to tie it in her hair.
Valentine’s features smoothed over with impressive speed. When he turned back to Cecilia, his voice was soft. “We’ll not speak of this here,” he said. “Let Abigail enjoy her afternoon.”
Cecilia nodded mutely, but her thoughts spun furiously.
The rest of their time at the fair passed in a flurry of sights and scents. Abigail darted from stall to stall with Miss Flaxman in tow, her delighted squeals drawing smiles from nearby vendors. Cecilia bought a ribbon from a weaver, sampled a tart that made her eyes water from sweetness, and even convinced Valentine to try a toss-the-ring game, though he declared it a complete wasteof skill. Despite the gossip murmuring at the edges, there were moments of levity.
Valentine handed Cecilia a sugared bun with a rare smile, Abigail crowning them both with flower wreaths, and a short-lived chase through the crowd when a chicken broke loose from a nearby pen.
For a while, laughter triumphed over unease, and Cecilia found herself wishing they could stay in that little pocket of joy just a while longer.
The ride home was quiet, save for the soft creak of the carriage and the rhythmic clatter of the wheels over gravel. Night had folded itself around them, dark, hushed, and still. Cecilia sat pressed into her corner of the bench, her thoughts far too loud.
Abigail’s head had drooped not long after they left the fairgrounds; her curls were damp with sweat, and her cheeks were rosy from excitement. Now she slept with her face tucked against Valentine’s chest, her small fingers curled near his lapel. Valentine held her effortlessly, one arm braced behind her back, the other supporting her legs. He had been quiet too, quieter than usual, even since they began the ride home.
In that silence, she couldn’t stop thinking about what the tenant had said. Somehow, she figured she owed Valentine an apology. It was her aunt after all. But every time Cecilia opened her mouth to say something, the words crumbled.
Because then she would glance at him and see the curve of his hand as it smoothed over Abigail’s hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed deeply, trying not to wake the girl, and the words would die again.
It was late when they returned to Ashbourne Manor. The footmen moved swiftly to open the doors and hold up lanterns. Valentine stepped out with Abigail still in his arms, and Cecilia followed quietly.
There was something surreal about the moment, how the air felt heavier after the brightness of the fair, how the sounds of the estate seemed distant and sleepy. They moved inside, climbing the staircase slowly.
In Abigail’s chamber, Valentine laid her gently in the bed, pulling the sheets up around her and tucking them in at the sides. The child stirred only once, mumbling something inaudible before curling onto her side with a sigh. He brushed a lock of hair from her face and stood there a moment, just looking down at her.
Cecilia stood at the door, watching.
She had never seen him like this. So tender, so entirely unguarded. There was no trace of the cold Duke there, no sharp lines or barbed words. Just a father and his daughter, in a moment of quiet peace. Her hand tightened around the edge of her shawl.
He was a good father. The sort that made his child feel safe. The sort that knew how to be soft without letting go of strength. Suddenly, she hated that she had never thought about having that kind of softness with a child of her own. In that moment, she started to hate that Valentine had chosen so firmly not to have another child. Not with her.
The thought pierced her heart with a sharpness that surprised her. Perhaps it was because Abigail was such an easy child that Cecilia was starting to think that having one of her own wouldn’t be bad. Abigail could use a sibling.
She swallowed, turning her gaze from the bed to the man beside it. He leaned down, kissed Abigail’s forehead, and straightened.
As they stepped quietly out of Abigail’s room, the gentle click of the door behind them seemed louder than necessary. Valentine turned to walk ahead, but Cecilia reached out, her fingers brushing his hand before curling around it, causing him to stop.
He glanced at their joined hands, then at her.
She meant to say something else entirely. Perhaps a soft thank you, perhaps an apology for the rumors. But what came out of her mouth was different. “What happened to her?” She asked quietly. “Your late wife. You never speak of her.”
Valentine’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t frown, didn’t blink. “I don’t want to talk about her,” he said, calmly but firmly.
She didn’t let go of his hand, even as her heart sank a little. “But why? Wouldn’t it be better if I knew?”
Valentine gently pried his hand away, and he began to walk down the corridor. Cecilia followed him, trying to keep up with his pace.
“Did you love her? How did she pass away? Why do you look so hurt when the topic of her arises? What did she do to you?”
He stopped again and turned to face her. “I don’t want to fight with you tonight, Cecilia,” he said. “We haven’t exchanged words in a long time. I would like to keep it that way. So please, drop it.”
She studied him closely, searching his face. There it was again. That same look he wore when he thought no one noticed. A shadow of pain behind his eyes. It was the kind of sorrow that made a man older than his years, and it was eating at her that she had no idea why he looked so…pained.
Slowly, she nodded. “Fine,” she murmured. “I’ll drop it for now.”
They walked on in silence, the weight of the moment between them softening into something quieter, something unspoken. Just as they reached the foot of the stairs, Valentine paused.
