The days that passed were strangely familiar. Amelia was used to Claude sitting beside her now, to the quiet conversations that were increasingly more common, less strained. It was as if the cracked tension between them had started to yield to something warmer, something less calculating and more authentic. Nevertheless, there had been a gap — one neither of them was keen to cross completely. They existed in implicit harmony, surviving on the silence between words and movements, every day a chapter in an unpublished book.
Today, though, was not.
Amelia in front of her mirror, tweaking the creases of the gown she had decided to wear that night. It was a beautiful sapphire blue, the material glinting in fine waves of light, but she didn't notice the colors or the seams. Her thoughts were elsewhere. She had been fidgety for the last few hours, as if the world around her had shifted slightly but unmistakably. Something within her was altering, and it disturbed her.
She was not yet accustomed to the realization that she had a husband who was. kind, occasionally. Not the hard, calculating man of granite who existed solely to fulfill his duties. Claude was more than a figure seen from afar, but less than the partner she envisioned when they were newlyweds. He remained an unknown quantity, impossible to read or completely grasp.
She looked at the clock and saw that they were supposed to go to a soirée at Lord Hawke's house. A ball. Amelia had gone out of her way to miss such events in the past few weeks, choosing the peace of the estate over the boisterous, overstated show of wealth and standing. But tonight, something in the invitation had drawn her. Perhaps it was the fact that the event held out the promise of a different kind of atmosphere, one more intimate than the typical grand events. Or perhaps it was just that she needed to get away for a little while, even if it meant returning to the world she was supposed to be a part of.
Amelia smoothed her hair, pushing the strands back from her face as she gave her reflection one final glance. She knew Claude would be expecting her, already dressed, she was sure, in his customary sharp, impeccable style. He had an aura of confidence about him that did not seem to require effort, as though his presence commanded attention. The day, however, Amelia was not apprehensive about being in public with him. This evening, she hoped to show she could walk with him as his equal — the shy, bogged-down girl she used to be.
A gentle rapping on the door interrupted her thoughts, and she turned the moment the door creaked open a small distance. Of course, Claude. Always accurate, always punctual.
"You're ready, then?" His voice was as calm as ever, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes — perhaps impatience, or maybe curiosity. She couldn't tell.
Amelia straightened, turning to face him. "I am."
He walked into the room, his gaze surveying her clothes with that detached, assessing look. He did not say anything about her outfit at first, but his lips curled slightly at the corners, his mouth creating the faintest of smiles.
"You look." He spoke slowly, as if weighing each word. "Radiant."
Amelia's breath was caught in her throat. She had anticipated the normal coolness, but instead, he had softened the rough edges of his speech. The compliment was genuine, not forced or obligatory. It was discomfiting in the best sense.
"Thank you," she whispered, not knowing what else to say.
Claude caught her eyes, his gaze a fraction longer than normal, before he turned towards the door. "Shall we?"
She nodded, collecting her poise as they exited the room together. The chill of the evening air met them as they moved down the hallway towards the waiting carriage. The manor seemed quieter this evening, as if the house itself was holding its breath in expectation of what was to be. The rumble of carriage wheels reverberated through the stillness, and for a moment Amelia could find herself pressing against the window, gazing out at the passing world.
She said little on the ride, happy to listen to the rhythmic pounding of the horses' hooves and the occasional mutter from Claude. His presence at her side was an odd comfort, like a balancing force. But there was something in the air tonight — heaviness, almost — that kept her on edge.
They came to Lord Hawke's mansion in good time, the huge manor lit up with dozens of candles and lanterns, providing a gentle glow on the marble steps. The sounds of merriment and music drifted out onto the courtyard as the guests greeted each other, a sea of well-dressed people moving elegantly under the night sky.
Amelia sensed a familiar tug in her stomach as she climbed out of the carriage, the click of her heels against the stone stairs sharply ringing. She had learned to deal with the glare of public eye, the weight of anticipation that clung to her like a mantle of glory, but tonight was different. She didn't know whether it was the increasing bond between her and Claude or the change in how she perceived him, but tonight she felt as if things could shift in ways that she had not expected.
Within, the ballroom was a vision of luxury. Crystal chandeliers suspended above, their light scattering across the room in a thousand tiny reflections. The guests were dressed in lavish gowns and well-tailored suits, their faces aglow with excitement and interest. Music played softly in the background, filling the air with a sense of vibrancy, but Amelia stood apart, as if watching the scene from afar.
Claude took her through the throng, his body a guiding presence. Their pace was choreographed as they moved through the room, a river of whispers flowing in their wake. But Claude, the ultimate control freak, did not even seem to notice. He held his arm casually around her waist, moving her through the crowd as if it was second nature.
They found a small table close to the middle of the room, and Claude gave her a glass of champagne, his eyes flashing for a moment with something inscrutable.
"Drink," he whispered. "It will make the tension dissolve."
Amelia didn't hesitate, bringing the glass to her lips. The bubbles pricked her tongue, and for an instant, she felt the burden of the evening dissipate. Perhaps it was the champagne, perhaps it was the stillness between them, but she sensed the connection between them strengthening, becoming more intense in the silence shared.
"Are you enjoying the evening?" Claude's voice intruded on her reverie, low and even.
She gazed up at him, taken aback by the question. For an instant, her eyes held his, and she saw that the questions they had skirted for so long were finally coalescing, hovering in the air like spirits between them.
"I believe I am," Claude said quietly, smiling up at him a little. "It's not what I anticipated."
Claude's mouth curved just a fraction. "Then maybe we'll linger a bit longer." The word hung in the air, a promise and a threat.
But as the night wore on, with the sound of music and the laughter of partygoers swirling around them, Amelia became aware of the burden of those unspoken words, the things they hadn't yet discussed. Every look, every touch of his fingers along her skin was imbued with a deeper connotation, as if both of them were precariously balancing on the tip of something vital. Something each of them dared not voice out loud.
For the first time in her life, Amelia didn't know whether she was even ready to utter the words in her head or let that moment of silence between them last any longer.
But no matter how it went, she knew one thing; it was the start of something new.
The ballroom was full of laughter and music, yet Amelia stood at the edge of something uncertain. The heaviness of the night bore down upon her, not due to the opulence of Lord Hawke's home or the multitude of nobles and ladies staring at her—but because of the gentleman beside her.
Claude.
Her husband had been nothing but… attentive this evening. Early on, it had been little things—his hand resting at the small of her back as he guided her through the throngs, the manner in which he murmured remarks in her ear that caused her lips to curl with laughter. But now, as they stood under the chandeliers, drinking their champagne, Amelia felt the burning weight of his eyes.
And she knew why.
Men had been eyeing her all night.
It had begun the instant they arrived. A look here, a lingering gaze there. Then, the introductions started, and Amelia found herself surrounded by gentlemen willing to tell her how lovely she was, to request a dance, to whisper about how beautiful the *Duchess of Everthorne* was tonight.
At first, she hadn't given it much importance. She was accustomed to being in the spotlight at events such as these. But when she saw Claude across the room, his face impassive, something curled up tight inside of her.
And then—Lord Brandon had come.
He was dashing, blonde-haired, and *much too forward for his own good.*
"Your Grace," Lord Brandon had murmured, taking Amelia's hand with a charming smirk. "I don't believe we've had the pleasure of speaking before. A terrible shame, really."
Amelia had smiled politely. "I suppose there are always new acquaintances to be made, my lord."
Claude, standing a few feet away, stiffened.
Lord Brandon, either in ignorance or indifference, moved closer. "You are positively stunning tonight," he went on. "Surely your husband has said so?"
Before Amelia could respond, a voice cut in—low, cutting, possessive.
"He has," Claude replied.
The tension that fell between them was heavy enough to sever.
Lord Brandon spun around, brows rising. "Ah, Your Grace," he said suavely, as if he hadn't just been making eyes at the man's wife. "I was simply paying your beautiful duchess a compliment. Surely you can't blame a man for admiring beauty when he sees it?"
Claude's face clenched, his hand grazing Amelia's lower back. "A man would do well to know his station."
Amelia's heart raced.
Lord Brandon chuckled, but there was something in his expression—a flicker of uncertainty. He inclined his head toward Amelia. "Perhaps, Duchess, you'd honor me with a dance later?"
Before she could answer, Claude spoke for her. "She's already promised her dances to *me*."
Lord Brandon blinked. "All of them?"
Claude's lips curled slightly. "All of them."
There was something so absolute, so unyielding in his voice that even Lord Brandon appeared to understand there was no need to argue. He bowed slightly, with a hard smile, before turning aside and disappearing among the crowd.
Amelia faced Claude, her heart still racing. "That was—"
"Necessary," Claude interrupted, his hand on her back just a little harder.
She arched an eyebrow. "You were jealous."
Claude laughed. "Don't be absurd."
Amelia smiled. "Oh, I don't know, Your Grace. You did look like a man who wasn't pleased with another man's attention on his wife."
Claude leaned in close, his warm breath against her ear. "I didn't like his *hands* on my wife."
A flush rose up Amelia's spine.
Before she could answer, the music shifted, announcing the next dance.
Claude extended his hand. "Shall we?"
She hesitated—only for an instant—before putting her hand in his.
He took her onto the dance floor, and as they moved in perfect harmony, Amelia couldn't help but wonder…
Had she been jealous too?
Because the way Claude had spoken, the way he had gazed at her—as if she belonged to him—had stirred within her something treacherous. Something foreign.
Something she didn't even know she could or would identify.