Claude hardly released Amelia the whole ride back to the estate.
His arms were tight around her as they rode side by side on his horse, his hold tightening whenever she flinched. He had offered her his cloak to keep her warm, but she could still sense the tension emanating from his body.
She was safe, but the fight was hardly over.
By the time they arrived at Everthorne Manor, the estate was in a state of controlled turmoil. Guards and servants dashed hither and yon, lanterns aglow in the dark. The moment they passed through the gates, Grace and Timothy rushed forward to greet them.
"Your Grace!" Grace's voice cracked as she ran up to Amelia, eyes brimming with unshed tears. Timothy, the stable boy, clung to Grace's skirts, his face streaked with dirt and fear.
"I'm fine," Amelia assured her, though the words felt weak. She was exhausted, her body aching, but there was no time to rest.
Before anyone else could speak, Uncle Francis appeared.
His face pale, his wig slightly awry as he bulled through the crowd. His eyes darted to Amelia, then to Claude.
"You—You're back!" he bellowed, voice high with strained relief. "Thank goodness! I was frantic with worry!"
Claude slid from horseback, moving slowly and cautiously.
"Worried, were you?" His tone was unnervingly serene.
"Yes, certainly!" Uncle Francis dramatically wiped his brow. "It was a nightmare experience. I only just managed to get back myself! If not for my cunning, I might have—"
Claude moved forward a step, and Francis suddenly clamped his mouth shut.
The whole courtyard grew quiet.
"You ran," Claude said.
The words were plain, but they sliced through the night like a knife.
Francis stuttered. "W-Well, I—there was nothing I could do! It was an ambush! A man of my age is not fit for—"
"You left them."
Francis went paler. "I had no choice!"
"You had every option," Claude stated icily. His fists were clenched at his sides. "And you opted to leave my wife."
" Claude." Amelia laid a hand on his arm, voice firm in spite of the exhaustion pulling at her. "It's over. I'm here now."
His jaw worked, but he remained silent.
Francis emitted a nervous laugh. "Yes, yes, let us not think about bad things! What is important is that Amelia is home, and everything is fine! Now, if you'll pardon me, I must—"
"You are departing tomorrow," Claude interrupted.
Francis came to a standstill. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." Claude's tone was as keen as steel. "You will depart Everthorne at sunrise. You are no longer welcome here."
Francis appealed to Amelia in desperation. "Surely, you do not condone this, dear niece!"
Amelia's eyes met his with ice-cold indifference. "I do."
His face contorted, but neither she nor Claude gave him another look.
"Pack your bags," Claude commanded. "And do not come back."
That, he turned on his heel and strode in, grasping Amelia's arm and leading her inside.
—
By the time they arrived at Amelia's quarters, her fatigue had taken full hold. Claude walked her to the bedside, dropping to his knees before her with no hesitation.
"Your leg," he whispered, already taking up the bandages and bowl of hot water the maids had left.
Amelia groaned. "Claude, I can—"
"Quiet."
She blinked, surprised at the softness in his voice.
He tended her with great care, unwrapping the fabric and nursing the wound with delicate precision. The warmth of his palms sent a peculiar warmth curling in her belly.
After all the silence, he finally broke it.
"They could have killed you."
He met her gaze, at the vulnerability that was so unlike him shining in his eyes. "But they didn't."
His fingers paused for a fraction of a second before returning to work.
"You risked your life for a stable boy."
She raised an eyebrow. "And you risked your life for me."
Claude didn't answer.
She let out a sigh, sitting back against the pillows. "We both made our choice, Claude."
He finished tying the bandage and then finally looked at her. "Yes," he said softly. "We did."
Neither of them said anything for a long time.
Then, without warning, Claude reached forward, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. His touch was light, barely there, but it sent her pulse skittering.
"You should sleep," he murmured.
Amelia swallowed. "And you?"
His lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
"I'll be here."
And for some reason, she believed him.
_ _ _
Amelia awoke to the gentle flicker of candlelight and the muffled beat of rain against the window. She blinked slowly, groggy at first. The room was dark, the only warmth provided by the figure sitting beside her bed.
Claude.
He remained there.
She had thought he would depart once she was asleep, to go to his own quarters and leave her alone. But instead, he sat beside her, one hand on the edge of the bed, his head thrown back against the chair.
He had slept.
Her heart gave a sudden jolt at the sight.
Claude Everthorne—Duke of Everthorne, brutal, unreadable, and arrogant—appeared unsuspecting in slumber. Lines of tension, which generally creased his face, had softened, his breathing deep and regular.
With care, she moved, setting aside the throb in her leg. She didn't wish to disturb him, and yet.
As if he felt her stir, his eyes opened.
For a second, he just looked at her, still halfway between sleep and wakefulness. Then, as consciousness dawned, his eyes narrowed.
"You're awake," he said, his voice still rough from sleep.
She gave a small smile. "I am."
He sat up, stretching his neck with a groan. "How do you feel?"
"Sore, but alive."
His lips compressed into a thin line. "That's hardly reassuring."
She cocked her head, regarding him. "You stayed."
Claude let out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. "Yes."
Silence stretched between them, weighted with something unsaid.
Then, a thunderous grumble broke the tension.
Amelia stood stock-still.
Claude blinked.
Then his lips quivered.
"Was that your stomach?" he asked, amusement edging into his voice.
She groaned, holding a pillow in front of her face. "Forget you heard that."
But Claude, naturally, was having no such luck. He slouched back in his chair, smirking. "I think that was a declaration of war."
"You're insufferable," she grumbled.
His smirk grew even wider. "And you're hungry."
Amelia looked out from behind the pillow. "And what do you propose we do about that, Your Grace? The kitchens are likely to be locked by now."
Claude regarded her as if she had just issued him a challenge. "Then we break in."
She gazed.
"You want to sneak into the kitchens?"
He rose, stretching his arms. "Wouldn't be the first time."
"You what?"
But Claude was already striding towards the door, looking back over his shoulder. "Well? Do you come, or do you starve with dignity?"
Amelia huffed but kicked her legs over the bed, flinching a little.
Claude was by her side in seconds, proffering his arm silently. She paused—just for a moment—before taking it.
They crept into the dark hallway together, the weight of the day before temporarily forgotten in their late-night mischief.
The nighttime corridors of Everthorne Manor were always eerily silent, except for the occasional groan of the wooden floorboards beneath their footsteps.
"Shh," Amelia whispered as they made their way towards the sweeping staircase.
Claude raised an eyebrow. "Are you seriously telling me to shut up?"
"Yes, because I happen to have stealth, unlike you."
"Stealth? That's what you call almost crashing on your face a minute ago?"
She glared. "I was recovering."
He chuckled softly, his voice warm against the chill in the corridor.
When they descended to the lower floors of the manor, Amelia grasped Claude's sleeve, halting him.
"We need a plan," she whispered.
Claude leaned down, his face far too close. "A plan? You mean besides walking into the kitchen and taking food?"
She crossed her arms. "And what if we get caught?"
"Then I'll throw you over my shoulder and make a run for it."
Her mouth fell open. "You wouldn't dare!"
He smirked. "Wouldn't I?"
Before she could think of a quick comeback, he was already making his way into the kitchen.
The vast room was dim, except for the fading embers in the fireplace. Shelves were filled with provisions, and the smell of freshly baked bread still clung to the air.
Amelia did not hesitate to make her way towards the pantry, looking for anything they could pilfer without raising the alarm among the staff.
Claude, on the other hand, headed right for the remaining pastries.
"Ah, perfection," he grunted, grabbing an apple tart.
"Claude, we are to be discreet," she breathed sternly.
He took a bite of the tart, seeming completely unconcerned. "You worry too much, Duchess."
Amelia glared at him but snatched a few slices of bread and cheese and shoveled them into a cloth napkin.
As she turned, there was a deafening clatter from the kitchen.
Both of them stood still.
Claude gazed at his feet, where a metal pot now rested upside down.
Amelia stared at him. "You absolute fool."
Before he could even reply, there was the sound of footsteps down the hall.
"Someone's coming," she whispered.
Claude snatched the food bundle from her grasp, then—suddenly—pulled her behind a huge wooden shelf.
They huddled together, bodies concealed in the darkness. Amelia hardly had time to register the heat of him before the door groaned open.
A maid came in, rubbing her eyes drowsily. She grumbled something about rats before shuffling towards the pantry.
Amelia held her breath.
Claude, who was standing much too close, leaned his head down, his lips mere inches from her ear.
"This is very intimate," he whispered.
Amelia elbowed him.
He grunted in agony but suppressed a laugh.
After an agonizingly long moment, the maid departed, closing the door behind her.
Amelia breathed a sigh of relief.
Claude grinned down at her. "That went well."
"You've dropped a pot."
"And still, we've won."
She rolled her eyes. "Just grab the food and go."
They snuck back up the stairs without incident this time. In Amelia's room, Amelia fell onto the couch, taking triumphant bite after bite of bread.
Claude, the drama king that he was, sighed. "A noble adventure, indeed."
"Please, you almost got us caught."
He smiled, propped against the table. "And yet, you had a good time."
She huffed but didn't protest.
The night wore on, and they sat in easy silence, munching on pilfered food beneath the warm light of candles.
And for the first time in a while, Amelia felt something foreign take up residence in her chest.
Not anger.
Not resentment.
Something softer.
Something perilously close to contentment.