The next morning, after Claude came back, Amelia made up her mind.
She had supported Everthorne Manor for four years, carrying the weight of responsibility on her shoulders, discharging each duty with care and zeal. She had maintained the manor afloat, corrected the servants, managed the funds, and oversaw the land's affairs as her husband did his hero's act on the battlefields.
And now that he had come back—his return like an unwelcome storm—he appeared to want to remind her that Everthorne was his.
So let it be. If Claude was so desperate to be the master of Everthorne Manor, she would oblige him.
By dawn, Amelia had shed herself of all responsibility.
The head steward, the cooks, the stable hands, and all the servants who had once been under her command were now issued a new directive: they were to report to Duke Claude Everthorne and Lady Isolde.
The instant the command was issued, Amelia felt something she had not felt in years.
Relief.
She no longer needed to concern herself with keeping the books balanced, preparing supplies for winter, maintaining the staff's discipline, or dealing with the incessant demands of visiting nobles. Instead, she departed.
Not the manor house, no. But the walls that had confined her all those years? She left them behind.
She spent her days riding across the open fields, her favorite mare pounding beneath her as the wind streamed through her hair. She rode through the dense forests, fished off the river, and even spent hours at the training grounds, watching the knights practice while receiving archery instruction herself.
She lived.
And in doing so, she left Claude and Lady Isolde to manage the estate.
The consequences were catastrophically chaotic.
By the third day, Everthorne Manor was in chaos.
Lady Isolde, as lovely as she was and charming as charm itself, didn't have the first clue on how to maintain a household this size. Kitchen staff complained about missing provisions, housekeepers buzzed about inattention, and within days had lost a vital shipment of grain due to lack of proper paperwork. The highly disciplined staff—that had come to admire Amelia's strict but gentle hand—grew restless very quickly.
Claude, of course, was apoplectic.
He hadn't thought she'd give it up so easily. No arguing, no struggle, no scornful stares down the dinner table. Rather, she had stood back and handed it over to him—the house, the obligations, the actual burden of Everthorne which she had shouldered for years.
And that enraged him.
At first, he had thought it was a power struggle. That she was pouting, expecting him to screw up so she could step in and show everyone how it should be done. But as the days went by and she continued to be as calm as always, he came to understand something much worse.
She simply didn't care.
She spent her mornings riding out into the countryside, her afternoons practicing with a bow, and her nights in the gardens, drinking wine as if she were a free lady with not one care in the world.
It had been an insult. A clear dismissal of all he had hoped from her. The Amelia of his memories—reticent, hungry for approbation, weighed down by her limp and her station in life—had vanished. This new woman? She was unapproachable, unmoved, and completely indifferent to the estate or to him.
The realization stirred something nasty in his belly.
Where is the Duchess?" Claude's tone was sharp as he stepped into the hallway, his tolerance wearing thin by the minute.
The steward, a man older than the stone walls of the estate itself and serving the lands for decades, bowed respectfully. "Her Grace has gone out to the training grounds today, my lord."
Claude's jaw clenched. "And Lady Isolde?"
The steward hesitated before answering. ".She is busy with trying to rectify this morning's ill-handled breakfast rations.
Claude cursed softly under his breath. Isolde had been brought up in comfort, spoiled and indulged. She didn't know how to run a household, and it was obvious. Worse, she had started to fear Amelia's increasing status in the manor. She had anticipated a submissive, shattered woman, the abandoned wife of a war hero. Instead, she had entered a home that worshiped its duchess far more than its duke's new mistress.
Claude strode through the corridors, hardly paying heed to the murmurs of the staff as he passed out into the sunlight.
And there she was.
Amelia stood in the practice yard, an arrow on her bowstring, standing straight in spite of her limp. The sun highlighted the sheen of moisture beading on her forehead, her hair tied back in a sloppy braid. The knights—her knights—stood there looking at her with almost admiration as she loosed her arrow and hit the target with uncanny accuracy.
Something smoldered in Claude's chest. A combination of frustration, irritation. and something he would not name.
She had never looked at him as she looked at that target.
He stepped up to her, his boots crunching on the gravel. "Enjoying your newfound freedom, wife?"
She faced him, unfazed. "Immensely."
His fists balled at his sides. "And the estate?
She leaned forward, playing the innocent. "The house is in your care now, isn't it? It would only be appropriate that you see to it."
There was a spark of words unsaid hanging in the air. Amelia didn't struggle. She didn't protest. She just released—and that, for some reason, was the biggest affront of all.
Claude moved forward, looming over her. "You pretend that all of this has nothing to do with you."
She looked at him, unflinching. "Because it doesn't."
A dark flash went through his eyes, but before he could say anything, she turned back to her bow, dismissing him as if he were no more than a blowing wind.
Claude had battled thousands of battles, killed men without compunction, led armies without fear.
But standing there in the training yard, seeing his wife brush him off so easily—he felt the strange ache of defeat.
And he detested it.