The Duke and Duchess stood before one another. Phillip took in her appearance then, without a word, stepped aside to let her in. Marina took a few steps inside the dimly lit room and stopped, hands clasped in front of her and head bowed, waiting for him to speak.
“What brings you here?”
“I wish to speak with you.”
“Then speak. It is late, and I would like to retire to bed.”
Marina almost lost her nerve right then, hearing his cold tone wrap around her throat and threaten to silence her. He did not sound tired, exactly, but he did sound as though he would rather not have this conversation.
“I was hoping that I might…apologize for my tone in the carriage on the night of the ball.”
Phillip sighed, crossing the room to his desk and sitting behind it. He gestured for her to sit as well, indicating that he was prepared to make this conversation longer than he had initially stated. “There is nothing to apologize for,” he said at length as Marina took her seat. “We were both unkind to one another.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“Marina, what could you mean?”
“Just that—why do you think it is that we continue to speak to one another with such hostility?” Her eyes were big and earnest, begging him to look upon her and into them though he did not. His own gaze rested squarely on the papers on his desk. “It is clear that we regard one another as good friends—we get along well, and we sometimes work together well. What is it that drives us so violently apart when we are cross with one another?”
“I have been hoping you might determine that for yourself and let me in on the knowledge,” Phillip scoffed.
“Do you think perhaps we have great tempers?”
“Not particularly.”
“Do you think that we must secretly loathe each other?”
At last, Phillip looked up, and his eyes found hers. He looked more than cross with her—he looked as though he regretted starting this conversation at all, but she was determined to see it through. Marina did not back down.
“No, Marina. I do not believe that we secretly loathe one another.”
“What is left, then?”
“I am not sure.”
“I have an inkling. Would you like to know?”
“Yes, Marina. What is it that you believe to be the source of our one major difference?”
“A guarded heart.” He raised an eyebrow, unwilling to give more of an answer. “Or two,” she continued, reluctantly.
“All hearts are guarded to some degree.”
“Yes, of course, but some hearts have felt deeper wounds than others and are therefore carrying much stronger armor.”
“Marina, please?—”
“I am. I am getting to the point. I just…I have been trying to find a way to say this for quite some time now, and I still need a moment to put it all together.”
Phillip looked exhausted as he watched his wife, his eyes heavy and the skin beneath them dark with sleeplessness. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together, sending a silent prayer up to her mother to give her strength. Marina had no idea if she was about to say the best or worst possible thing that she could for her marriage, but it was her last hope.
“We are, both of us, accustomed to independent responsibilities, Your Grace, and I believe that we have engaged in a battle for control.”
“Control?”
Marina nodded vigorously. “Yes. I have spent the last several years of my life picking and pinching at the truth, shaping it in such a way that my sisters, brother, and father could remain happy and avoid suffering. In everything—I have been their barrier between their hearts and the life which affects them. Before we were married, I assured my sister every day that myspinsterhood would not prevent her from finding a husband. I was very likely wrong, but in the end, it did not matter, due in no small part to you. When my sister scraped her knee or fell on her bottom, when my brother upset our father or made his governess cross, when my father was worried that he was leaving too much of the household duties in my hands—whatever ailed them, I painted a prettier picture, and it allowed them to move through it all the better.”
“Marina, I am afraid that I do not follow.”
