Page 18

" P erhaps a word of gratitude will not hurt."

Daphne talked to herself as she paced the length of her room that she was staying in. She had come back from her evening promenade some time ago to an empty room. She suspected that her sister Joyce was likely downstairs, socializing with the ton .

But her sister's absence was the last of her concerns at the moment. No, what occupied Daphne's mind was a lot more... complicated.

She willed herself to look at her own reflection in the vanity mirror. Pale skin, and a pair of green eyes stared back at her.

Eyes just like her mother. Her father had told her once, when she was very young, that they will be the reason some man falls in love with her someday. The memory lingered as she tucked her hair behind her ear, staring at her reflection in the mirror.

She sighed. Well, they aren't exactly helping me now, she thought.

Richard did not seem to be in love with her. He was polite, and a perfect gentleman at all times, of course. But love? That would be an exaggeration.

Their connection, if it could be called that, lacked any spark, any sense of passion. It was as if they were simply walking along parallel paths, never really crossing, never colliding.

Was she even in love with him?

Fine was the only word she could use to describe it. And somehow, that word felt so inadequate. Shouldn't love be more than that?

She pushed the thought away from her head, and refocused her attention to her reflection in the mirror.

"Thank you," she whispered to her reflection, forcing herself to meet her own gaze. "Thank you, Your.. G-r... your... Gra..."

Try as she might, she could hardly get the words out of her throat. It felt like an unnatural order of things – to place gratitude and Ambrose in the same sentence.

In earnest, she had been at war with herself about it. Thanking Ambrose – the idea itself seemed ridiculous, considering how much of a thorn he had proven himself to be in her path.

Yet, after this morning's unexpected intervention at breakfast, she couldn't stop thinking about it.

No matter how much her mind rebelled against the idea, the truth was clear: Ambrose had defended her.

And it wasn't just a casual defense; he had silenced Lord Whitby in a way that had stunned the entire table.

For a moment, she had felt... protected.

And she hated that she even felt grateful for it.

"Thank you," she tried again, this time adding a slight nod, as if to practice the whole gesture. "Your... Grace."

Finally. Now only to say it to his face. Now she just had to say it to his face, and that was a far more daunting task.

Daphne straightened her shoulders, giving her reflection one last look. The determined expression staring back at her was convincing enough, but her stomach churned.

Why did this feel like such an ordeal? It was a simple thank you, but something about the prospect of facing Ambrose and offering him her gratitude felt monumental. It was like walking into the lion's den willingly.

She took a deep breath, steeling herself as she made her way toward the door. I can do this, she told herself. It's just two words. Four, if you count "Your Grace."

Perhaps it might even do some good, and he might stop being such a nuisance to her, if he sensed that she was willing to be civil, even grateful.

Maybe, just maybe, this small gesture of politeness would put an end to their constant bickering.

After all, he had defended her, and while she couldn't quite make sense of it, it was only proper to acknowledge it.

Without wasting another moment, Daphne made her way downstairs. Any more thinking, and she might change her mind again.

Her eyes darted toward the large drawing room doors where the guests had gathered, but Ambrose was nowhere to be seen. The ladies were huddled in groups, engaged in polite conversation and gossip, while the men gathered at the far end, laughing over drinks and a round of cards.

Richard was among them, his back turned to her as he joined the men in conversation. She hesitated for a moment, watching him from afar. His posture was relaxed, his expression open and pleasant as always. But he hardly noticed her presence.

Probably for the best, she reminded herself. If Richard did notice her wandering off, he might ask her what she was doing, and somehow telling him that she wanted to thank his brother for coming to her defense didn't seem like a conversation you have with someone whom you are in a courtship with.

Courtship. She winced internally at the word, but decided against dwelling over how out of place it sounded.

No, she had a task to do.

Daphne made her way back upstairs, her steps quick and slightly agitated.

She clenched her fists at her sides in frustration.

Of course, she thought to herself, whenever I'm trying to avoid Ambrose, he seems to be everywhere—looming over conversations, throwing in his sharp remarks at every opportunity.

But now, now that she actually wanted to speak to him, he was nowhere to be found.

Everything about his existence in her life felt like an annoying challenge. Had he disappeared suddenly into thin air?

But then she noticed it—the soft glow of light spilling out from under a door just down the hall.

The study.

"He must be in there," she whispered to herself, and hurried down the hall. But her hand hovered over the door for a long moment before she finally rapped her pale knuckles against the wood.

A brief pause, and then a deep, familiar voice from within: "Come in."

Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she turned the brass knob and entered the study.

And there he was – seated firmly on his desk, a stack of papers in front of him. He was still dressed in his evening clothes, though his cravat was loosened, and the jacket discarded on a nearby chair. The casualness of his appearance caught her slightly off guard.

"Are you lost?" came his reply, his tone immediately sharp and irritated, cutting through the quiet air of the study. He didn't bother to rise from his chair, instead fixing her with a pointed look.

"No, I'm not lost," she snapped back, suddenly feeling self-conscious under his intense gaze. "I came... to... well, would you not invite me to take a seat first?"

Her nervousness had caught up to her. Now in front of him, she found herself stumbling on her words.

Ambrose never took his gaze off her, even for a second. "What, exactly, could you have to say that is so important it requires an audience in my study?"

Then abruptly, he stood up. "Have you arrived here to cause a scandal?" his tone laced with mockery as he towered over her.

"If I wanted to cause a scandal, Your Grace," she shot back, her tone sharp and full of sarcasm, "I'd be far more creative than simply showing up in your study unannounced."

Of course. She should have known already that he was going to make things more difficult than they ought to be for her.

Ambrose's lips twitched into a smirk, but the irritation in his eyes hadn't faded. "I would not put it past you to be well-versed in the art of causing a scandal. But even if that is your intent, it would be your word against mine."

Daphne wanted to roll her eyes at his ridiculous assumption but willed herself to be more polite than what she was feeling. She straightened her shoulders, her expression calm. "No, I have come to speak with you."

A look of mild curiosity came across his features. "Speak with me? I was not aware that was something you liked to do."

"Not if I can help it, no." Her tone carried just the slightest edge, but she pushed on, not giving him the satisfaction of riling her up. "But I had no choice in this case."

Ambrose's smirk deepened, and he leaned casually against the desk, folding his arms across his chest as he looked at her with amusement. "No choice? My, this must be important then. I'm intrigued. What has forced Lady Daphne to willingly endure a conversation with me?"

Daphne fidgeted with the fabric of her dress, clearly struggling to get the words out. "I came here to..." she began, her voice faltering as she hesitated, gripping the cloth even tighter. "To..."

Ambrose let out a dramatic sigh, his arms still crossed over his chest as he watched her. "As much as I relish our time together, I must say it's equally painful waiting for you to actually speak as it is to endure the conversation itself."

"Well, if you didn't interrupt me every time I tried to speak, maybe this wouldn't be so painful for either of us," she snapped back, losing all her progress in an instant.

"It does not appear to be so painful for you. You were the one who approached me," he shrugged, a smug smile plastered all over his face.

"I came with a reason," she said through gritted teeth.

"And now that you are in my presence, you have forgotten everything entirely? Lady Daphne, I did not know you cared so much. Why, I am flattered."

His words were dripping with sarcasm, and only meant to rouse her even more.

"Believe me, Your Grace. This does not amount to me caring for you. Perhaps you are only saying out loud what you wish would happen."

Ambrose chuckled, amused. "You believe that I want you to care for me?"

"Why would you not?" she narrowed her eyes at him. If he was going to play this game, then she could match him.

And beat him to it.

"I can think of several reasons why," he shrugged. "Besides you seem to be taking far too long. Time is precious, Lady Daphne. And time is ticking–"

"I came here to thank you!" she blurted the words out with more passion than she had intended to display. She could not help it – he just riled her up so much that it was hard to not snap.

But Ambrose stood still, as though he had been stunned into silence. His smirk faltered ever so slightly, and for a moment, the amusement drained from his face. He blinked, the teasing light in his eyes dimming as her words settled over him.

Daphne had expected him to bounce back with some sarcastic remark, but instead, he blinked again, as if trying to process her words. The quiet between them grew heavy, and Daphne found herself trapped in the intensity of his gaze.

And then, without warning, her eyes shifted downward, catching on his lips. It was a fleeting glance, but the moment she realized it, her breath hitched.

There was something unnerving about how close he was. In the heat of the conversation, they had both gravitated towards each other.

Daphne quickly snapped her gaze back to his eyes, her pulse quickening, but the moment lingered. For the first time, neither of them had anything to say.

But then, he finally broke the silence by clearing his throat. "Thank me?"

"For what you did this morning. With Lord Whitby."

Daphne hesitated, her words faltering again as she caught sight of his smile—a genuine one, something she had never really seen before.

It took her a moment to realize that she was staring. Daphne snapped out of her daze, feeling her cheeks heat up in embarrassment.

"There is no need to thank me," he said. "You are my guest. Despite our... disagreements, I cannot allow anyone to treat my guests with disrespect."

"Do you really believe that?" Daphne asked, surprised.

"Well..." his mouth twisted into a smirk, "Nobody but me."

"Well," she said, her voice a little sharper than intended, "Good that you made that clear."

Ambrose inclined his head, stepping aside as if to give her space to leave. But just before she could take a step, his voice stopped her.

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I still don't approve of you."

Daphne froze, turning back to face him. There was no malice in his tone, no cruel edge to his words. It was almost as if he were saying it as a fact, something they both knew but had yet to acknowledge.

"I don't approve of you either," she replied, her tone defensive, though she couldn't quite meet his eyes.

"I suppose that makes us even, then."

Daphne didn't respond. She didn't know how to. Instead, she turned on her heel and walked away, her heart thudding in her chest as she put as much distance between herself and the Duke as possible.

But even as she walked through the halls, she couldn't shake the feeling of his gaze on her, lingering long after she had left the room.