Page 20 of His Scandalous Duchess (Icy Dukes #4)

He did not move, not yet. He just watched the strange new shape his household was beginning to take, wondering if he might have put up walls so rigid and tall that perhaps he’d blinded himself to what was happening right in front of him.

Cecilia’s methods were unorthodox, to put it mildly.

She chased the child through hedges, got leaves stuck in her hair from playing, and now sat beside her like a mischievous co-conspirator when Abigail was supposed to be learning.

It was not the life he had imagined for his daughter, and certainly not the duchess he had intended for Abigail.

But Abigail was laughing. She hadn’t laughed like that in months. Years, perhaps.

Perhaps he had misjudged Cecilia. Perhaps he had underestimated the quiet, disarming power of kindness. Of attention. Of being seen and chosen again and again by someone who refused to walk away when things grew difficult.

If that was what it took to bring his daughter back to life…then maybe he needed to rethink everything he thought made a good home. Maybe, just maybe, Cecilia was what Abigail had needed all along.

Valentine blinked, snapping out of his thoughts as though caught trespassing in someone else’s dream. His brows drew together, and his posture straightened to its usual, guarded line.

“Why are you the one teaching her, Duchess?” he asked sharply, stepping further into the room. His voice cut through the warmth like a sudden chill. “Miss Flaxman is right there.”

The laughter stilled. Abigail glanced nervously at Cecilia, who rose slowly from the piano bench. Her expression didn’t shift, but something behind her eyes cooled.

“I wasn’t teaching her, Your Grace,” she replied calmly. “We were merely–”

“Making a performance of it, clearly,” he interrupted. “There’s a reason professionals are employed in this household.”

Cecilia blinked, then gave a tight, humorless smile. “Yes, of course. How remiss of me to think a quiet moment with Abigail might be welcome. One would assume that was why I was brought here in the first place.”

Valentine’s jaw tightened. There was nothing gentle in her voice, only cool, deliberate sarcasm, tempered by perfect composure. Had he not been so intent on maintaining his own facade of indifference, he might have found her retort amusing.

“Brother,” Norman interjected from the doorway before the air grew any tighter. “Must we debate this now?”

Valentine said nothing at first. Then, after a beat, he gave a single nod and stepped back. The last thing he wanted to do was argue with Cecilia again in front of Abigail. It seemed as though they had formed that habit.

“Fine.”

But his eyes lingered on Cecilia for a moment longer before he turned and walked out of the room, saying nothing more.

“You call her Duchess,” Norman said offhandedly, as soon as they stepped into the corridor. “It’s unusual, even for you.”

Valentine’s steps did not falter, but he didn’t answer.

If he was being honest with himself, he wasn’t sure why he called her that…

or why he refused to call her by her name.

Perhaps, he was avoiding any kind of familiarity between them, so nothing nearly affectionate would happen between them.

Or perhaps, he just preferred it that way.

“You’ve changed,” Norman added after a pause. “You may not like it. You may not even see it yet. But she’s doing something to you, Valentine. Slowly.”

“Norman, I know what you are trying to do, and I don’t want to talk about this,” Valentine replied flatly. “Stop.”

“It’s been five years, Val,” Norman added softly. “Surely, that incident cannot still be the reason you–”

“Norman.” Valentine stopped in his tracks and turned to him, causing Norman to mellow instantly. “We have business to tend to. I need you to go over the estate returns from Surrey. I want to see the breakdown from the tenants before the quarter ends.”

Norman gave a small nod, sensing the shift. “Of course.”

Valentine didn’t say more. He turned toward the study, as his mind was already going over the work they had to do.

As they entered the study and the door shut behind them, Valentine let out a slow breath.

It was a relief...this work. Predictable, exacting, and without feeling.

Here, in the quiet shuffle of ledgers and accounts, he could disappear once more, away from everything.

“So, you’re saying you grew up in London all your life?” Norman asked, reaching for the decanter and refilling his wine glass.

The dining room at Ashbourne felt grander than usual.

Typically, when she had meals there, it was with Abigail, and sometimes, Miss Flaxman.

Now, the oddity of hosting all four members of the household at the same table felt different.

It was the first dinner they would all share together: she, Valentine, Norman, and Abigail.

She had dined with Valentine only once before since their wedding, and that evening had passed in near silence, save for the clinking of cutlery. But now, with everyone present, she found herself sitting straighter, trying to decide whether to be guarded or at ease.

Cecilia smiled faintly. “Yes, Lord Norman. Though I spent many summers in Kent with some relatives.”

“Did you like it there?” he asked.

Cecilia shook her head. “I used to dread it as a child. My aunt always insisted I learn how to embroider and recite poetry before breakfast.”

Norman chuckled. “Sounds ghastly.”

“Oh, it was,” she replied, a twinkle in her eye. “But I suppose it taught me discipline. Also, I don’t have a lot of memories of family members from when I was young, so I hold on to the few ones I have, no matter how ghastly.”

Across the table, Abigail’s lips tugged upward faintly, though she quickly hid it behind her cup. Valentine said nothing, slicing neatly through his food without so much as glancing at her. He hadn’t spoken since the dinner had started.

Still, Cecilia kept her gaze on Norman, grateful for the levity he offered.

She wasn’t entirely sure what to make of this evening, or why Valentine had suddenly decided to join them for supper after so many weeks of absence.

But for now, she would take the distraction and press forward.

Anything to fill the silence she feared might descend at any moment.

“I can understand that.” Norman reached for his glass, glancing toward Cecilia with a curious tilt of his head. “Your sister is a duchess, isn’t she? Were the two of you very close growing up?”

Cecilia smiled faintly. “Yes, very much. We still are, but even though we grew up close, we are very different.”

“In what way?” he asked, slicing neatly into his meat.

Cecilia hesitated for a breath. “Emma is our eldest sister,” she explained.

“The one who knew what to say, what to do. How to do things. We all looked to her after our mama passed away. When she got married…” Cecilia trailed off, then gave a small shrug.

“I realized how much she had carried for the family without ever making it seem heavy. She did so much, and her absence was felt.”

Norman’s brow creased slightly, watching her with more attention now. “So, what happened when she left and you were left with your father and your siblings?”

Cecilia set her fork down. “Well, I couldn’t depend on her anymore. For one, she was miles away, and also, it would have been utterly unfair to do so.” Her eyes flicked to her plate, and then up again. “So, I learned. I bargained. I figured things out.”

Cecilia smiled and shook her head. “I had to do a lot of things I never imagined I’d be doing. Making decisions, settling accounts, and smoothing over tensions in the household.

Norman smiled too. “You had to grow up very quickly.”

“I guess.”

“So, now that you and Emma are not there anymore, who has taken that mantle?”

She paused, her fork idly tracing a line through the sauce on her plate. “My younger sister, Dorothy. It has to be her. There is no one else. But I know she will do a good job. She is like Emma in many ways. I was always quite odd.”

“I don’t think you’re odd, Your Grace,” Norman said to her.

Cecilia smiled in response. “Thank you,” she murmured, glancing down for a heartbeat before turning her head toward the end of the table, only to find Valentine watching her.

Not glancing. Not idly looking her way. Watching.

His gaze was still, deliberate. Too focused for politeness, too intense to call it disapproval.

It wasn’t cold, nor entirely warm, but it held her the moment she realized that he was watching her, like hands resting lightly at her throat, unthreatening yet inescapable.

Her breath caught, startled by the sharp intimacy of it.

There was something in his expression. Some question he wasn’t asking aloud, something unspeakably private, nestled in the set of his mouth and the furrow just between his brows. As though he was working something out that even he didn’t quite trust himself to understand.

Still, knowing that she had caught him staring, he didn’t look away.

It was Cecilia who blinked first, who dropped her gaze because the back of her neck was prickling with heat. Her fingers found her glass, unthinking, too aware of their slight tremble.

Did I say something wrong again?

The question beat at the inside of her chest like a moth against a window. She couldn’t look at Valentine. Not yet. So she turned instead to Norman, sitting beside him.

“Were you always so inquisitive, Lord Norman?” she asked lightly. “Or is that something you developed to distinguish yourself from your brother?”

He gave a startled laugh. “Heavens, no. I was dreadful as a child.”

Cecilia’s eyes widened. “Really?”

Norman grinned. “I was always misbehaving. Valentine was the better-behaved son. But he was quite competitive. I could never really beat him at anything.”

“I can imagine that.” She smiled, still avoiding Valentine’s eyes.

“I reminded him today how similar he is to our father,” he continued. “If he hasn’t told you, our mother passed away when we were very young, and our father never remarried. We had governesses taking care of us, but our father raised us. He gave us everything we could ever possibly want.”

Valentine set his fork and knife down too loudly. “Let’s not talk about that, Norman. Talk about anything else.”

“Why not? I would love to hear this,” Cecilia said, finally summoning the courage to look at him again. “Was your papa strict like Valentine? Or was he like my papa? Strict when he had to be, but mostly warm?”

“We are not talking about this, Duchess.”

“Why not?” she questioned, feeling her eyebrows instantly furrow.

Valentine turned his gaze on her, sharp, cold, like frost creeping over glass. “Because it’s not your concern.”

Cecilia blinked, stunned by the bluntness of it. “Not my concern?” she echoed, her voice rising a fraction. “I am Duchess, am I not? Part of the family now, or is that only in name?”

He inhaled slowly and shut his eyes. “I do not want to sit here and hear about this. You can go back to talking about yourself and your family.”

Her lips parted, then closed again. For a moment, she sat still, pulse thudding in her ears. She glanced at Norman, who had his head lowered and then sat back, fighting the urge to cross her arms.

“Curiosity is a fine thing, Duchess,” he continued. “But there are lines, and you should learn where they are.”

“And if I cross them?” she snapped, chin tilting. “What happens then?”

“I won’t let that happen,” he said, holding her gaze.

Cecilia’s breath caught in her throat, but before she could fire back another retort, she felt a small shift beside her that instantly reminded her that Abigail was seated there in the room.

She forced her voice into something softer. “Abigail,” she said gently, turning slightly. “Do you need help with your supper?”

Abigail shook her head slowly and smiled. “No, Cecilia.”

Cecilia offered her a small smile anyway, brushing a stray curl behind the girl’s ear before returning to her own plate.

“All right. When we are done with supper, what do you say we read together?” she asked, continuing the conversation with her instead so she didn’t continue arguing with Valentine.

Abigail nodded vigorously and continued eating.

She did not speak again, not through the rest of the meal.

There was no use. She couldn’t help but wonder why it was so difficult to reach Valentine.

This man she’d married, this man who, moments ago, had looked at her with such unguarded intensity, like they had formed an unspoken connection, only to retreat again behind walls so thick she could not see past them.

What hurt him so much that he was so set on protecting his space from her?