Page 15 of Matters of a Duke’s Heart

Felicity spent the next several days busying herself. Bluebell Manor was an endless labyrinth of staircases, hallways that seemed to go on forever, and hidden terraces and gardens.

From her window, she had spotted a rose garden that was separated from a pond area and a fountain by a door that seemed to extend into a neighboring room, but she couldn’t work it out.

Perhaps the library would lead her out there.

It seemed like a terribly romantic thing: emerging from a haven of books into a rose garden, only to find oneself near a bubbling pond. As much as she felt rather rude thinking it, it seemed a strange feature of the estate for the duke to maintain being there.

He looked like the sort of man who would have taken such a thing away.

A thought rose to her mind: was it the former duchess’s garden? Perhaps it had been added to the estate by the duke’s mother. Had any of them been romantic people, delighting in such things?

Over her first days at Bluebell Manor, she kept an eye on that rose garden, hoping to spot the duke.

She told herself it was only to solve the mystery: did he like it, keeping it for himself because he wanted to, or was it some sort of homage to his past?

Perhaps it was that he had simply forgotten about it.

So far, she assumed it was the latter for she hadn’t seen him out there.

As she had explored, she had processed her decision to marry the Duke of Langdon.

Looking out at the gloomy manor had struck something in her—redecorating had brought purpose.

As she had gone around each room, plucking the darker elements away and replacing them, Felicity had begun to do that with herself.

This was her life now; it wouldn’t be changed, and she had come to the realization that if she didn’t embrace it she would become like one of the manor’s gloomy rooms: miserable, shadowed, and in desperate need of life.

She was a duchess now. Felicity had yearned for love, and she could still tuck that yearning away, but for now she had a beautiful home, a way to explore and walk through the gardens of the manor, and a library to read away any hours that brought too-heavy thoughts.

Stealing past the duke’s study, she found it empty. Her time at the manor had brought her a tidbit of knowledge: if he was not in his study or the drawing room then he was out on business.

Their honeymoon was not really that at all, at least not like other ladies had whispered in the ton.

He had never approached her room at night, either, a thing Felicity was relieved for.

Despite awkward dinners and conversations that she never really found solid ground within, her heart hammered in fear whenever she retired.

The duke did not want to be in the same room as her for longer than necessary. To think he might want her intimately was another thing entirely. Besides, he had his heir and had promised Felicity there would be no requirement for children.

She had to believe that.

Her assurance of being safe at Bluebell Manor grew with each day until she stopped being startled whenever she found the duke close by.

Peering into the empty study, Felicity noticed a book on the duke’s desk, but she was unsure of what it was. It looked velvet-bound—perhaps a journal?

Footsteps behind her made Felicity hurry away, not knowing if her husband returned or not, but she did not linger to find out.

Instead, she walked onward to the library but paused at the sound of voices further down the hallway.

“Very good, Alexander.”

Felicity listened for a moment, her path to the library, and the rose garden beyond, forgotten for a moment.

“Now, can you tell me your numbers again? One to ten, please.”

Alexander’s small voice filtered through, and Felicity smiled. She thought to walk away, but her feet did not move. She had barely seen Alexander since that first day of her arrival. The small boy had eaten breakfast with her and the duke one day, but never again, and never joined them for dinner.

Instead, he ate with his governess ahead of their own mealtime.

When Felicity had asked why, the duke had dismissed her with a wave.

“I do not want to overwhelm him,” he had told her. “I do not want to force the two of you into a mother-son relationship by forcing you to share the same spaces. When you are both ready, you may approach one another.”

It was an unexpected kindness she had not thought would be extended to either of them. After all, he had married her to be a mother figure for Alexander, yet so far the duke had been content to let Felicity explore the manor, renovate, and generally languish in her new surroundings.

She had already written to Daphne, promising her sister a visit should the duke allow it, but not yet. She had not disclosed how she feared the duke seemed to want very little to do with her.

Her sister still held hope for them. Felicity had gently put that hope away, and now focused on the fact that they could grow civil enough. Even a conversation longer than several minutes would do.

She felt ready to try to bond with Alexander.

“He is your stepson,” the duke had clarified when Felicity had asked what to call the young boy. “You may call him whatever you see fit.”

Felicity was not yet ready, really, to call herself the boy’s stepmother.

Still, she knew that if she was to make any progress with her husband, then she wanted to ensure she was doing what he had proposed to her for.

“I cannot do it!” A shout startled her, so different from the quiet voice she had heard moments ago.

“Alexander, simply try again!” The voice that spoke to Alexander wasn’t recognizable, and Felicity lingered with a frown, listening in, just out of sight. “You did one to ten so well! It is only another five numbers.”

“Yes, but they are confusing, and you are saying I am stupid! You think I am stupid, Papa will think I am stupid, and you are going to make me present my lessons to him. I hate them. I hate you! You are the stupid one, you are—”

“Alexander!” His name tore from Felicity’s throat with urgency and concern as she rushed into the room. A quick assessment showed that it had been turned into a school room, with the tutor shrunken in his chair before Alexander whose hands were balled into small fists.

“What?” he shouted, turning to face her, and then he blinked, wide-eyed. “It is—you—you are—”

“It does not matter who I am right now,” she softened her voice but kept her words firm. “You have shouted at your poor tutor, Alexander. You must apologize when you speak so harshly to somebody! It is not nice to yell or say that someone is stupid.”

“But he is!” Alexander insisted.

In front of him, the tutor, old, with a pale face at the berating, only lifted his hands in weak surrender. “Alexander, I was only trying to—”

“Stop it!” the small boy shouted, pulling back from the tutor. “I do not want these stupid lessons.”

“Alexander,” Felicity tried again, moving closer.

She quickly hurried over, dropping to a crouch before him.

He looked shocked enough at her approach that he said nothing.

Taking a chance, Felicity gathered his hands in her own.

“When I was younger, I was taught French as well. It is a beautiful language once you become familiar with it, but it is also frustrating. Some words sound similar to our own language, while others do not, so it is terribly hard to become acquainted with it. Does that sound familiar?”

His face screwed up in annoyance, Alexander nodded. In that moment, Felicity realized: Alexander was not just a boy who threw tantrums. He had not known patience or consideration for all he had gone through, for all he was trying to do and be.

Her heart softened as she beheld his anger, the tears that welled in his eyes. He looked at her with so much desperation, as if he wanted her to help him understand.

“Let me teach you a phrase to say to your tutor, Mr….” She glanced at the old man who looked at her questioningly.

“Mr. Hemming, Your Grace,” he answered.

“Perfect. Alexander, say this to Mr. Hemming. Je suis désolée. Would you like to know what it means?”

She didn’t force the knowledge upon him, but gave him the option, expecting him to haughtily shake his head, to finally show her the true extent of all the rumors and the duke’s worries. Even her own mother had commented on what a rascal the boy was already becoming.

“It means I am sorry,” Felicity told him. “Would you like to say that to your tutor? Will you apologize for your words? It truly is not nice to call somebody what you did.”

Alexander still looked caught between what he wanted to do, but after a moment he nodded, and turned toward his tutor, who flinched. “Jee-swee-dess-oh-lay.”

He sounded it out ever so stilted, and Felicity smiled as he recalled her words well.

The tutor bowed his head, still appearing weary, but answered, “vous êtes pardonnés.” To Felicity’s surprise, Alexander turned to her for clarification.

“You are forgiven,” she translated, giving him a softer smile than he likely had received in some time. Standing, she didn’t stray from the boy’s side. She regarded the tutor. “Mr. Hemming, how about you take the rest of the day to venture into the village, perhaps?

Take time for yourself. I wish to bond with my s—with Alexander.” She caught her almost-use of the title, and swallowed it back, realizing it had been a quick ‘proper’ way to address him publicly. After all, the tutors would know her role in the house. Mr. Hemming nodded, seemingly grateful.

“Thank you, Your Grace. Alexander, I will return according to our schedule, and we can try your numbers again.” His instruction was strict even as he hurried from the room. It left Felicity alone with Alexander, the boy turning to face her.

“You did not shout at me like everybody else does,” he mumbled. “Why?”