Page 28 of His Scandalous Duchess (Icy Dukes #4)

He reached her room and passed her to the maid with a nod, giving instructions to ready her for the day. Abigail clung to him for a second longer before letting go, blinking sleepily and offering a grin that melted something in his chest.

As he entered his own chambers and closed the door behind him, the silence struck him.

Reluctantly, he crossed the room, slowly unfastening the cuffs of his shirt.

His morning routine had never changed over the years.

Rise. Dress. Work. Eat when convenient. Speak only when necessary.

That had been the quiet rhythm of his life.

But now…

Now, he found himself pausing before every breakfast, expecting to see her.

Waiting, even. Wondering if she'd come down with her hair half-pinned and her gown trailing as though she’d run late, pretending not to care.

He didn’t particularly like eating with others.

Yet, somehow, the dining room didn’t feel intolerable when she was in it.

He frowned and glanced at the mirror as he pulled on a fresh waistcoat.

When did this become a habit?

He couldn’t name the exact day, and it wasn’t just the meals.

He had begun to notice other changes. Little things.

How he’d walked through the village two days ago and caught sight of a hand-painted brooch in a shop window, and his first thought had been of Cecilia.

He’d stood there, hands clasped behind his back, wondering if it was the sort of trinket she might smile at.

He hadn’t bought it, of course. That would have been absurd.

But the thought had come, and it hadn’t gone.

He wasn’t used to this. Even with Helena, the late duchess, there had never been such thoughts.

They had shared a name, a house, a child, but never any intimacy.

Never ease. He had mourned her loss, yes, but mostly out of duty.

They had not loved, not really. Their marriage had been one of bitter civility and distance.

But Cecilia,she filled spaces without even trying. She drew out sides of him he hadn’t realized still existed.

He paused with his cravat in hand, staring at the dressing table before him as he wondered if that was what marriage was meant to be.

Perhaps it was time to stop punishing himself for things long past. For Helena. For the distance he had allowed to root itself in his household. Abigail was young. She deserved warmth. She deserved something whole.

Perhaps…perhaps so did he.

Nearly an hour later, Valentine descended the stairs, his thoughts still chasing themselves in quiet circles. By the time he reached the morning room, the scent of warm bread, honeyed ham, and tea greeted him, laced with the faintest trace of laughter.

He paused in the doorway.

Cecilia was seated on the long side of the table, already dressed in soft shades of cream and lilac, her hair pinned back with her usual carelessness that somehow always looked intentional. Beside her sat Abigail, swinging her legs.

They were talking. Smiling and apparently waiting for him.

He wasn’t used to that part either.

Valentine cleared his throat as he stepped inside. Both heads turned. Abigail beamed at once. Cecilia glanced up, offering a polite, almost serene expression, but her eyes lingered just a second longer than necessary. It was long enough for him to catch it.

“Papa, we thought you’d never come!”

Valentine gave her a smile as he sat down. “My apologies, dearest. I was occupied with work.”

Abigail giggled and began to chatter about the way Cecilia had helped her arrange the sugar cubes into little pyramids before he came. He half-listened, watching the two of them as they went on, an odd sense of peace creeping into his chest.

Then Abigail, in the innocent way only children knew how to do, turned to him with curious eyes. “Papa, how did you and Cecilia meet?” she questioned.

Cecilia froze. Valentine hadn’t yet taken a bite of his eggs, but he chose that exact moment to do so and choked once the question hit him. He reached for his tea at once, coughing into his napkin, as his eyes watered.

Cecilia turned sharply toward Abigail, recovering faster than he had. “Through mutual friends,” she said gently. “It was a very...short meeting.”

Valentine glanced at her, recovering his breath, and saw it clearly. Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, and he worried that Abigail’s question might have opened a sore spot for Cecilia again, given that her relationship with Lucy, her cousin, was still frigid because of their marriage.

Abigail tilted her head. “What kind of friends?”

“The kind who wanted the best for us both,” Cecilia replied. Her fingers tightened briefly around her teacup. “And perhaps thought we might make a good match.”

Valentine didn’t speak. He just watched her.

Abigail’s brows drew together in a small, dissatisfied frown. “That’s it?” she asked, as though someone had handed her a half-wrapped gift. “That’s the story?”

Valentine turned slightly toward her, bemused by the scrunch of her nose. “What more were you expecting?” he asked, his voice still gravelly from his earlier coughing fit.

“A story,” she said with great seriousness. “A proper one. Like in books. With a ball, or horses.”

Cecilia laughed, light, melodic, and entirely too pleased. “Well, I cannot give you a horse chase,” she said. “But I can tell you how my sister met her husband. That one involves a scandal.”

Abigail leaned forward, eyes wide. “Truly? Do tell!”

“Very well, I shall tell you the real story. But you must promise not to tell anyone, Abigail. This is family gossip.”

Abigail nodded solemnly, hands clasped.

“My sister Emma met her husband, the Duke of Montclaire in a garden,” Cecilia began, drawing the word garden out like it was forbidden.

“A garden?” Abigail blinked. “That doesn’t sound so terrible.”

“They were alone,” Cecilia said meaningfully.

Abigail gasped.

“It was late afternoon. There was no chaperone, and worse still, they were arguing.”

“Arguing?” Valentine blurted, curious.

“Oh yes,” Cecilia said with relish, but only glancing at him. “It was all because of me, but that’s another story. They argued so much that they nearly got caught, too. Which would’ve been a complete disaster, because Emma was intimidated by him at the time.”

“Then why did she marry him?”

Cecilia lifted a finger. “Because a few weeks later, he asked her to be his tutor.”

Abigail blinked again. “Tutor?”

“Etiquette lessons.”

Abigail clapped her hands in delight. “Did she say yes?”

“She did, and somewhere between correcting his posture and scolding him for his manners, she fell in love with him. But she didn’t know it at the time.”

“What about him?” Abigail asked.

“Oh, he was lost from the beginning,” Cecilia said lightly, brushing a crumb from her lap. “But I think it took him a while to admit it. Now, they are happily married!”

Abigail giggled, kicking her feet. “But why were they arguing because of you, Cecilia?” Abigail asked. “What is the other story?”

“Oh, well.” Cecilia cleared her throat. “The reason they were arguing was because I had gone to the garden to –”

“I think that’s enough storytelling for breakfast, Cecilia,” Valentine said, his voice calm.

Cecilia blinked, mid-word, her eyes snapping to his.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Valentine met Cecilia’s gaze firmly, prepared to offer a subtle warning look, but instead, he caught the glint of mischief still dancing in her eyes as though she had anticipated his response.

She was toying with him, and she knew precisely how close she had come to saying something utterly inappropriate for young ears.

Her lips curved, slowly, and he felt the corners of his own mouth threaten to follow suit against his better judgment.

“Oh, very well,” she said at last, sitting straighter in her chair. “Perhaps not all stories are suited to daylight hours and breakfast tables.”

Abigail gave a disappointed sigh.

“But,” Cecilia added brightly. “How about we plan a visit to Mayfield residence? You could see Dorothy and Phillip again, and they will certainly have more appropriate stories to tell you.”

“Really! We can?” Her face lit up.

“That’s if your Papa is comfortable with it,” Cecilia said, turning to glance at Valentine with a composed smile that was anything but innocent.

Valentine narrowed his eyes slightly. He knew that smile. It was the very same she wore when Abigail outmaneuvered him into letting her stay up past her bedtime. It was the smile of a woman who had just set a trap and was patiently waiting for him to walk right into it.

“Mm.” He turned to Abigail, who was watching them with rapt attention.

Abigail beamed. “Thank you, Papa.”

As Abigail bounced excitedly in her chair, already asking Cecilia when they would write a letter to the Mayfield residence, Valentine found his gaze drifting, inevitably to Cecilia.

She was listening intently to the child’s rambling thoughts, nodding with exaggerated seriousness as if the choice of wording in the letter were a matter of state.

Her hands moved gently across the table, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Abigail’s ear.

There was an ease to her, an elegance that had nothing to do with posture.

It was in the way she looked at Abigail, with fondness and just enough mischief to make the little girl feel as though they were in on something together.

He caught himself smiling before he could stop it.

Good God. I’m growing fond of her.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes still on her as she laughed at something Abigail said, wondering if he ought to pull back, just a little, before this fondness grew into something he could no longer pretend to ignore.