Page 51 of Bound By the Duke

“Why would he hide her?” Aurelia couldn’t help but ask, but the question was more to herself than anyone else.

“Shall I cover it?” Linda’s voice broke through her thoughts.

“No,” Aurelia replied, her voice sharpening. She straightened her spine, steadying herself. “Bring it down. It deserves some light.”

The maid looked uncertain. “But His Grace?—”

“The duke is not here.” Aurelia forced a small smile, even though her heart still ached. “And it is decided.”

Without further objection, Linda called in another maid to help her. They carried the portrait downstairs and hung it in a long corridor where the sunlight could touch it.

Aurelia stood there long after Linda had retreated. The painted woman stared right back at her, her eyes so kind that Aurelia couldn’t look away.

How could she ever match that grace? The woman must have been the perfect wife. The kind that made Percival love without restrictions, without reservations.

As for Aurelia, what did she have, truly? A mere title. A husband who wouldn’t meet her eyes. A marriage sealed with ice and duty.

And yet the memory of Percival’s mouth on hers burned through her like flames. She could still feel his fingers sliding up her thighs, his body pressed against hers in that desperate, reckless moment. And then he had left her like he wanted to forget.

What exactly did he want from her?

She pressed a hand to her lips, trying to suppress the tremor there. It didn’t work. The bitter truth was that she had fallen already, and he was not there to catch her.

You came for Lottie, she reprimanded herself. Not for love. You know better.

But it was no use. Something inside her was growing stubborn and starved.

She stared up at the painting again. “You had his heart,” she whispered. “I only have his name.”

She took a deep breath. If that was all Percival was going to offer to her, then she would put it to good use.

Her resolve hardened. If she could not win his heart, then she would claim what she could. She would give him what even memory could not—a future, an heir.

Not out of calculation. Not for power or prestige. But because she wanted to give him a piece of her that could not be erased or stored away in an attic.

“I may never be the wife he cherishes,” she said quietly, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. “But I will be the wife who gives him something to live for.”

CHAPTER 16

Percival’s boots thudded against the marble floor, announcing his return home.

The servants sensed the storm that followed. They scurried out of the hall, their heads bent low and their voices hushed.

He seemed absent-minded as he crossed the long corridors. Until his blue eyes fell on the wall near the grand staircase.

There it was; his first wife’s portrait.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of it. He had not seen it for years. He had banished it, ordered it to be taken away, hidden where it could not taunt him, where her face could not follow him every waking hour.

And yet here she was again, looking at him with that soft, forgiving smile that he neither wanted nor deserved.

“What is this?” His voice lashed through the silence like a whip.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Withers, flinched, wringing her apron. “Your Grace, it was the duchess who?—”

He did not let her finish.

“The duchess?” His voice lowered, vibrating with disbelief. “She dared…”