Page 10 of His Scandalous Duchess (Icy Dukes #4)

CHAPTER SIX

“ I thought you said I would be seeing you at the altar, Your Grace.”

Valentine took a few unhurried steps into the room, glancing briefly at the piano by the window before letting his gaze settle on her. “That was the original plan,” he said. “I just thought it best to check on final preparations before tomorrow.”

“How diligent,” Cecilia replied, rising at last and smoothing her skirts with more force than necessary. “You didn’t have to, Your Grace. Everything is under control. It’s all set for the wedding tomorrow.”

“Your dress?”

Cecilia blinked. “It’s ready.”

“The fitting?”

“Done,” she replied, folding her arms.

He gave a small nod, as if ticking an invisible box. “Good.”

Cecilia wasn’t as nervous as she had been two days ago. The tight knot in her stomach had loosened, if only slightly. But that didn’t mean she was suddenly all right with it all. Far from it. If anything, she was numb now, drifting through each task like a leaf caught in the current.

The shock had worn off, the dread had dulled, and all that was left was exhaustion.

Not the sort that sleep could fix, but the deep, quiet kind that settled in her bones.

She had spent so much time feeling everything so intensely, panic, guilt, helplessness.

..that her heart had simply stopped trying.

Now, she was just going with the flow. Letting herself be pulled from one step to the next, because resisting had got her nowhere. This wedding was happening, whether she liked it or not, and frankly, she was too tired to fight anymore.

Cecilia folded her arms lightly, watching him with mild suspicion. “Are you always this meticulous about the planning of things, Your Grace?”

Valentine didn’t smile, but his brow lifted slightly, like he found the question amusing. “Not always,” he replied. “But Abigail will be in attendance tomorrow, so I’d rather not leave anything to chance.”

There it was again—that name.

Cecilia gave no outward sign of recognition, but her mind stirred uncomfortably. “Abigail must be very important to you, Your Grace.”

Valentine glanced at her then, and Cecilia was surprised to see that his expression had softened a bit, in a way she hadn’t seen before. “She is,” he said quietly. “I’m a bit uneasy about her being at the wedding, truth be told. I don’t like exposing her to too many people, especially strangers.”

Cecilia tilted her head, studying him. The man who seemed so collected and precise was suddenly revealing a flicker of vulnerability.

Protective didn’t quite cover it — it was something fiercer.

Personal. Intimate. He loved this person and wanted to show her off to the world, but at the same time, he was being cautious about it.

A Mistress?

A gasp slipped from her lips. She blinked, startled by her own assumption. It wasn’t entirely far-fetched. Men like him, powerful, distant, often kept such…arrangements.

“Does Abigail live with you?”

The question slipped out before Cecilia could weigh its implications.

Valentine stopped. The silence that followed was as cold and immediate as a draught through a cracked window.

He turned slowly, with an unreadable expression on his face at first. Then his brow furrowed, and the incredulity in his gaze hit her like a slap.

It was the kind of look one gave to someone who had said something utterly absurd.

A flush rose to her cheeks, but pride overruled embarrassment. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest. When he said nothing, she pushed further. “Well, does she intend to live with us after the wedding?”

The second question hung in the air too. Even before he reacted, she knew she had crossed a line. But it was too late to call it back.

Cecilia took a breath that barely filled her lungs. “I don’t care if you keep mistresses, Your Grace,” she pressed on. “It’s like you said, this is an arrangement. I have obligations I need to fulfill for you, and I’m certain these ladies would have obligations to you as well.”

“I truly don’t mind,” she continued. “But if you do, don’t insult me further by expecting them to live under the same roof as me. I might not have chosen this arrangement, but I still have pride, and I refuse to be humiliated.”

“What are you talking about?”

Cecilia saw it. That utterly confused look on Valentine’s face, as though she had suddenly become the absurd one.

It was the final insult. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, jaw tight as she spun on her heel.

She had no interest in continuing a conversation where she was clearly being treated like a fool.

Let him keep his cryptic answers. She would not stand there and be mocked.

“Abigail is my daughter.”

Cecilia stopped in her tracks.

“She’s in her sixth year,” he continued.

Slowly, she turned around to face him. “I beg your pardon?”

Valentine stood exactly where she had left him, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. “My daughter,” he repeated. “I don’t often speak about her because I don’t like exposing her to speculations, and if I seem overly protective, it’s because I am.”

Her throat went dry. “Oh.”

“Yes,” he said, almost dryly. “Oh.

She didn’t know what to say next. For the first time in days, her sharp retorts failed her. A part of her wanted to apologize, but another part, stubborn and sore, still stood on the fact that he did not pass the information clearly enough.

“Why didn’t you just say so?” she muttered, her gaze now fixed somewhere on the floor between them.

Valentine’s tone softened. “I apologize. I thought you knew. I assumed it had been mentioned at some point.”

“No,” she said sharply. “No one told me anything. You say that as though I’m supposed to know who you are or what your life contains, when in truth I know absolutely nothing about you, Your Grace. Nothing beyond your name and title.”

“There’s no need for you to know anything about me, Miss Lockhart,” he said. “This marriage is not about companionship or affection. I need someone to bear the title, and I need a mother figure for my daughter. That is all.”

A silence settled between them. Cecilia stood still, her spine straight, refusing to let her composure crack in front of him. But her chest rose and fell hurriedly.

Valentine did not speak at first. He only studied her closely, quietly. Then, slowly, he took a step toward her.

Then another.

He stopped just close enough for her to feel the shift in the tension between them. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “But was that jealousy I sensed, Miss Lockhart?”

“Jealousy?” she repeated as a small, incredulous laugh escaped her. “You think I was jealous?”

He tilted his head slightly. “You demand that I keep my ‘mistress’ away from our home.”

Cecilia’s hands clenched at her sides. “It was not personal. It was principled. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?” His brow arched.

She took a step back, more flustered than she cared to admit. “In a situation like that, I would not care what you do with your life, Your Grace. But if I’m to be part of your household, I expect at least the basic dignity of not having to share a roof with mistresses.”

“Ah!” He nodded.

Cecilia crossed her arms, chin lifted. “It is about appearances, respect, and some degree of civility.”

Valentine regarded her for a moment, as though weighing her words against something invisible only he could see.

Then he stepped closer. “Thankfully, this is not the case,” he started by saying.

“However, I feel the need to remind you, Miss Lockhart, that this will be a marriage of convenience. We agreed to that, did we not?”

Her eyes narrowed. “You agreed to it. I was given no such choice.”

“That may be so,” he replied. “But you accepted it, and with that acceptance comes an understanding. You must not have expectations.”

“Expectations?” she scoffed, taking a step back as though he had insulted her. “What expectations do you imagine I harbor?”

He smiled then. “The kind that makes you jealous of a name. Or imagine mistresses hiding behind doors that do not exist. The kind that grows when you are not careful, until they become feelings, and feelings have no place in this arrangement. The only person you will ever need to bond with would be my daughter, Abigail.”

She stared at him, truly stared at him and her moment went dry in that moment.

“You think I would fall in love with you,” she said, her voice flat with disbelief.

Valentine merely looked at her, one brow lifted. “That would be unwise,” he said softly. “It wouldn’t end well.”

Cecilia’s pride flared. She took a steadying breath, forcing herself to cool the heat rising in her chest. “Trust me, Your Grace,” she said. “Nothing could be more unthinkable.”

He smiled again. This time, it was real. Almost dangerous. “All right. I’ll see you at the altar, Miss Lockhart.”

Cecilia stood frozen, with her arms still crossed, as he walked out of the room. Slowly, she let her arms fall and moved to the nearest chair, sitting down with a heaviness that startled even her.

Tears stung her eyes before she could stop them, but she blinked them back furiously and swiped one away before it could fall.

This was not the life she had dreamed of.

Not the kind of romance she had once foolishly imagined after hearing many stories.

But it was her life now, and she would have to learn to live it. To endure it.