Page 12

"Earlier today," she began, her words coming out a touch faster than she intended, "I was going over the ledgers with the housekeeper and we noticed there's a surplus in the household budget from last quarter.

Savings from the new dairy herd producing more butter than expected, apparently.

And I had this idea that perhaps we could use those extra funds to refurbish some of the tenants' cottages before winter.

Their roofs, in particular, are in dire need of repair after the last storm.

Since this surplus isn't allocated elsewhere yet, I thought…

" She realized she was rambling and forced herself to pause for a breath.

She wondered if Oliver was going to shut her down. Surely, if he had meant to, he would have done so already? No, instead he seemed to be listening to her intently. It gave her a much needed boost of encouragement.

"Additionally, the housekeeper. Porter brought up that much of our staff's bedding and winter uniforms are quite worn," she said.

"I think it would be both be a good idea to purchase new blankets before the cold truly sets in.

The surplus could cover that as well. And of course, any significant expense beyond those I would consult you on, but these seemed both necessary and immediately doable improvements. "

Oliver had remained silent throughout her little speech, watching her instead.

Why was he not saying anything?

"...I—I'm sorry," she blurted into the silence, her face heating as she sat back. "That was terribly forward of me. Of course you must have your own priorities for the estate."

Suddenly Oliver rose from his chair. Her heart lurched. Now I've done it, she berated herself. I've overstepped dreadfully.

She half-expected him to stride out of the room or chastise her. But he did nothing of the sort.

"Alethea," he said softly, reaching up to gently take one of her hands from its white-knuckled grip on the chair arm. "Breathe."

"I…" she realized that he meant no harm to her, and only then did she allow herself to calm down.

"Why have you gotten so worked up about this? It is a simple matter," Oliver said, slowly. "Those are all excellent ideas."

"Do you really think so?"

"Yes," Oliver nodded. He did not appear to be lying.

"I just wasn't sure if it was my place to allocate funds like that without asking," she admitted after a moment, now that her breathing had slowed a bit.

He gave her an expression as though she had lost her mind.

"You are the Duchess here. This is as much your domain as mine," he said simply. "More so, in fact, when it comes to the household. I trust your judgment completely."

When she did not seem convinced still, he continued on.

"Do you know, my mother—God rest her soul—hardly ever consulted my father about household expenditures. She ran things with absolute authority, and he was content to have it so, because he respected her capability. I share his philosophy."

"Your mother was raised to such duties," she said. "Whereas I…"

"Whereas you were not born to it," he finished for her gently. "That may be true. But it doesn't mean you aren't more than capable of learning and excelling at it."

She felt the sting of tears threatening unexpectedly. Perhaps because he had unwittingly touched on one of her deepest insecurities, that she was inadequate for the role fate had thrust upon her.

"Sometimes I worry I'll make a mistake that reflects badly on you," she admitted, "I couldn't bear it if I failed you or your family in some way."

"You will not fail me," Oliver said simply. "And besides, you are my wife, Alethea. You may do whatever you wish."

Wife . His wife. The words felt strange hear out loud and they seemed to fill her with a warm feeling.

"I… see," she said quietly, though she did not see anything at all. Her vision blurred slightly, and she found herself clutching the papers in her lap a little tighter.

"You look pale," Oliver said, his brows pulling together in concern. "Are you unwell?"

"No, I just.." She paused, trying to swallow the butterflies erupting inside of her stomach. "I think I ought to.."

"You're flushed," he said suddenly, taking a step closer. Before she could protest, his hand came up to brush the side of her neck. "Let me just check."

The moment his fingers touched her skin, everything inside her stilled. It was not unpleasant, not at all. His hand was warm and the weight of it against her neck sent her pulse racing even more wildly.

"Alethea?" he asked, concerned. "Are you certain you're all right?"

"I—I should go," she stammered, bolting upright from the armchair so abruptly that Oliver rocked back on his heels, surprised.

In her haste, the pile of forgotten papers slid from her lap once more, scattering across the floor for a second time tonight—though she hardly registered it now.

Her face felt aflame. What on earth am I doing? an inner voice screamed.

"Wait a minute…"

But she was already stepping around him, practically stumbling in her rush to put space between them. What had just happened between them was overwhelming.

Oliver caught her by the elbow as she nearly tripped over the corner of the rug.

"I'm sorry," she blurted out, still avoiding his eyes as she straightened. "I must look a frightful mess. It's so late, I've kept you up dreadfully, and you have early meetings tomorrow, do you not? I should let you rest."

"As you wish," he said, stepping backwards. But she could feel his eyes on her back even as she walked away from him.