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" N o? What do you mean, no?"

Alethea jerked her gaze back up. She felt the ground disappear under her feet.

Oliver's gaze held hers. "I mean precisely what I say."

"You won't… ever?" The word felt too heavy to say aloud.

He held her hand tighter, as if afraid she would vanish from his grasp. "

No. Never. I'm sorry if that hurts you." His voice cracked on the last word, but he kept his eyes locked on hers.

Alethea's mind reeled. She pulled her hand free, trembling, and took a half-step back.

"I'm sorry…" she whispered. "I didn't know… You never said?—"

"I never lied to you," Oliver interrupted softly, but firmly. "I only said I was grateful not to be alone raising my siblings. That was true. But I didn't tell you everything about myself." His jaw tensed. "One reason I stayed distant for so long is because… because I never wanted to be a father."

Alethea felt tears pricking her eyes again, but these were not tears of joy.

"You never wanted… I don't understand." Her voice broke, shock turning to hurt. "All this time… you let me hope…"

He bowed his head, regret etched across his face.

"I should have been honest, yes," he admitted softly. "But I feared how you would feel. Perhaps I was afraid of losing you."

"But you knew how much I dreamed of a family," she protested.

"And I love you, Alethea. I love you with all my heart," he said, "But… to me, it is enough to have the girls. Clara and Eleanor… they are wonderful. I thought, we could be happy raising them together, and we wouldn't need more."

"But it isn't the same. Don't you see? I meant what I said about raising them with you, and then maybe having our own someday.

I would have been patient." She took a steadying breath.

"I love them as if they were my own already.

God's will, as I was raised, is for a man and woman to join as one, and for a family to grow. "

The familiar voice of religion in her reasoning made Oliver's face darken momentarily. He reached out, gently pressing a hand to her arm. His expression was torn.

"God's will?" he repeated slowly. His tone wasn't mocking, but it was pained. "What do you want, Alethea? Please tell me."

She stared at him, trembling. She didn't know how to answer. Part of her wanted to shout that God had no place interfering with her own life, but the words would not come to her throat. Her faith had comforted her through so many trials.

"I … I love you," she managed to whisper, drawing back. "I wanted to share my life with you. God's will or not… I would have had children for you, Oliver."

"Alethea…" he began. His fingers still brushed her arm.

Alethea could only stare at him in stunned disbelief. How could this be happening?

He had confessed his love for her. In her mind, that was reason enough to start a family. If not for duty, then for love.

Alethea felt herself trembling with hurt. She realized she had been sitting on her heels on the cold kitchen floor all this time. She rose unsteadily.

"No." She said it quietly, more to herself than him. "No, I cannot accept this."

Oliver suddenly stood as well, reaching out instinctively as if to stop her.

"Alethea, please," he said softly. But Alethea had already pushed past him. Fury and betrayal filled her as she brushed past. All the confidence and trust she had felt minutes before collapsed into emptiness.

She turned away and began walking up the stairs, pulling her lace petticoats tightly around herself with trembling fingers. Before she disappeared from sight, she heard Oliver's voice, broken and stunned, mutter:

"You know I love you… don't you?"

She didn't answer. Alethea fled to her chambers, tears quietly spilling as she shut the door behind her. Upstairs, moonlight streamed through the tall window, and she allowed herself to collapse against the sill.

Her cheeks were wet and her heart felt as if it had been wrenched in two. She clung to the wooden frame as if it could hold her up.

She had longed to hear these words from him, but if love came without the assurances it was meant to bring with it, was it really enough?

There was a lingering tension at the breakfast table the next morning. Alethea arrived at the breakfast table with a heavy heart, one that was still weighed down from her conversation with the duke yesterday.

The great oak table was set and his sisters and Theodore already gathered; but at one end sat her and Oliver, each avoiding the other's eyes.

Oliver's greeting had been curt. "Good morning," he had said, without looking up. She had replied in kind and then silence fell between them.

Theodore, who sat to Oliver's right, cleared his throat. He regarded Alethea and her husband with a lopsided grin.

"It seems," he said in a playful tone, "that the Duke and Duchess have decided upon a new breakfast tradition: silence."

Alethea's throat tightened. The comment was innocent enough but it stung.

The ball and the family party were hours past. Why should today be so difficult? Even now, sitting here at breakfast, her belly felt clenched with nerves and confusion. He says nothing and looks at nothing, she thought bitterly. He is still angry, or something.

Oliver finally spoke, his voice measured as he reached for the butter.

"I hope you slept well, Duchess." His eyes were fixed on the butter dish, not on her.

"Yes, very well, thank you. And you?" Alethea cleared her throat and spoke evenly.

He hesitated, then answered, "I did." There was no warmth in his voice; it was as flat as a statement of fact.

Had he always answered so stiffly?

Just then, Clara plopped down beside Alethea in an energetic manner.

"Good morning, Alethea!" Clara chirped.

Alethea felt her resolve soften at the sight of the excited child. She managed a small smile. "Good morning, Clara."

Clara's gaze darted to the slice of strawberry jam toast on Alethea's plate.

"Your Grace," she said politely, "I'm sorry to bother you, but may I please have some more jam?"

Before Alethea could answer, Oliver reached over and took Clara's hand.

"Not yet, darling. You must wait a moment." His voice was gentle as ever with the child, a tone of affection that seemed almost at odds with his distant manner toward Alethea. Clara's face fell slightly, but Alethea leaned over and ruffled the girl's curls.

"Come sit with me, dear," she offered. "I'll get you another piece of bread with jam. It's perfectly all right."

Quickly, Alethea cut another slice of toast and spread a generous dollop of jam on it. "There you go," she said with a soft smile, handing it to the child.

"Thank you, Alethea!" Clara beamed, snapping up the toast and taking a big bite. As Alethea turned back to her own meal, she shot Oliver a quick look. His attention was elsewhere. No acknowledgment. Not even a glance. Her chest ached.

Her eyes slid to Theodore, who was eyeing her curiously.

"You seem rather quiet today," he teased lightly. "All the teasing at the ball have worn you down, Duchess?"

Alethea caught herself biting back a sharp reply. Instead, she took a slow breath and answered calmly, "We were all a little tired, I think. It was a late night."

Oliver cleared his throat. "Yes," he said quietly to Alethea, his gaze drifting over to the open windows. "It was a long night."

"Did I miss something?" Theodore questioned. He was gazing inquisitively between the duke and the Duchess.

"Nothing at all," Alethea remarked suddenly, looking at her husband.

The table lapsed into an uneasy quiet. Clara swung her legs under her chair, humming softly to herself. Alethea forced herself to focus on her tea. She lifted the delicate cup to her lips, hoping it might steady her trembling hands.

Nothing at all, she had said. But the words felt sour on her tongue. In earnest, a lot had changed since the night before. Now she had a confirmation of her husband's intent, and even though she had tried her hardest to come to terms with it, it was proving rather difficult to do.

It was only when Clara reached for the cream jug when the silence broke again.

"Careful," Oliver said at once in a firm voice.

"I'm being careful," Clara protested, her small fingers closing around the jug's handle.

"Clara, let me," Alethea interjected quickly. She reached out and steadied the jug.

"I said I would do it," Oliver corrected her, his tone clipped. His hand came over hers, and for the briefest moment, their fingers touched. Heat shot up Alethea's arm.

"It's hardly so perilous a task that you must supervise every movement," she snapped in a manner that was not herself.

Oliver's eyes lifted to hers at last.

"I would prefer not to have cream spilled over the entire tablecloth," he said evenly. "If you would allow me…"

"She is quite capable," Alethea broke in. She removed her hand from under his and carefully guided Clara's little hand to pour the cream into her cup. Not a single drop fell.

Theodore cleared his throat and leaned back slightly in his chair.

"Well," he said with forced brightness, "the Duchess has a point."

"I only meant to assist," Oliver said, sounding irked.

"And I only meant to show you that I am not entirely helpless," Alethea returned, her tone matching his in its quiet firmness.

They stared at each other across. The air was so charged it seemed even the servants paused at the threshold, uncertain whether to enter. But at last, Clara lifted her cup and took a sip.

"Thank you," she chirped brightly, as though nothing at all had transpired.

Alethea lowered her gaze to her plate, her cheeks hot, her heart thudding against her ribs. But even as she set down her teacup, she could feel Oliver's eyes still on her. It was Theodore who finally tried to ease the strain.

"Well," he drawled, glancing around the table, "forgive me if I overstep, but perhaps it would be best if no one touched anything at all this morning. Tension seems rather high this morning."

Alethea looked up at him. Though she was certain that he was only trying to lighten the mood, her own temper at the moment was flared and any little comment was enough to set her off.

"You needn't worry about any tensions," she said, curtly and focused her gaze back onto her plate.

Theodore looked momentarily chagrined.

I only meant to say that it seems the cream jug has inspired a degree of excitement," he said, attempting a smile. "Nothing more."

Alethea's gaze flicked to Oliver, who sat unmoving but was observing the scene nonetheless.

"I am quite composed, thank you," she said, her hands folding neatly in her lap.

"No one suggested otherwise," Oliver cut in. "It would do you well to not take things so personally, Duchess."

"Did you not?" she retorted, her eyes snapping to his. "Because it appears you are determined to contradict every word I speak."

"I am determined to ensure there is some semblance of order at this table," Oliver replied.

Theodore cleared his throat again, this time with a note of real unease. "Well, it's hardly necessary to quarrel over cream," he murmured.

"No one is quarreling," Oliver said immediately.

Clara looked between them, her small brows knitting. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No, darling," Alethea said at once, softening her tone as she turned to Clara. She laid a gentle hand on the child's shoulder. "You did nothing at all."

"Indeed. Clara, you have behaved perfectly," Oliver jumped in.

It was as though both adults had realized that their cold remarks were not being taken well by the children. Alethea decided to eat the rest of her breakfast in perfect silence. She did not wish to get into a quarrel with husband again.

But she was not yet ready to make peace with him, either. It was only at the end of the meal did she speak up again. Gathering her courage, she rose from her chair.

"I will be leaving for a few days, if you will allow," Alethea announced, looking straight at Oliver. "I must stay with Felicity at her home. I need some time to think."

The children around the table gasped and even Theodore appeared to be taken by surprise. Only Oliver maintained a calm composure, though his fingers tapped the table ever so faintly.

"Are you…are you leaving us?" Clara asked, looking worried.

"No, darling." Alethea turned to her, her heart breaking at the sight of the child's wide, worried eyes. "I will only be gone a little while."

"But why?" Eleanor's voice was hushed when she spoke up next. "Have we done something wrong?"

"You have done nothing at all. This is not about you," Alethea's throat worked as she swallowed.

Theodore shifted uneasily. "Well, I suppose a brief visit can be refreshing. A change of scene, and all that."

"If you feel you must go," Oliver finally spoke, "I will not stop you."

Something in her chest twisted at the way he phrased it. If you feel you must. As if she were a child asking permission to flee.

"I do," she said softly.

Oliver was looking at her directly now. His eyes searched hers, as if he might still find some sign that she was only speaking in haste.

For one suspended moment, he looked not angry but rather stricken.

Then he turned his gaze away and pressed his lips together.

His fist tightened once on the table, the knuckles whitening.

"Very well," he said. "Send word when you arrive."

"I will."

"And if you…require anything," he continued, though he did not look at her this time, "the staff will see that you have it."

"Thank you," she whispered.

She felt the children watching her. She could not bring herself to look at them again. She was afraid her composure would shatter entirely if she did.

As she stepped back from the table, she caught a glimpse of Oliver. His face was turned slightly away, but she caught the unguarded look on his face. Like a wounded animal caught between pride and longing.

Theodore opened his mouth as if to say something, anything to fill the silence, but evidently thought better of it and closed it again.

Alethea quickly muttered her goodbyes, and stepped out of the room.

A break was much needed. For the both of them.