Amelia's fingers were shaking as she held the cane, her frame still frail with the wounds yet to heal fully. The sudden pain in her ribs, the throbbing of her leg—memories of the night when she had almost died.
She shouldn't have been out so late, shouldn't have let Claude's jealousy get to her. And yet, here she was, seeking the quiet of her own rooms, her limp more severe than ever before.
Each step a reminder of what had occurred. Of the storm. Of the manner in which Claude had released her.
And now, after all of that, he had the temerity to be possessive?
Her grip on the cane tightened, frustration and exhaustion warring inside her. She pushed open the door to her chambers, stepping inside with a slow, measured breath.
But before she could even take a seat, the door burst open behind her.
Claude.
He was still in his formal wear, his cravat undone, his face a mask of barely restrained anger.
"You're limping worse than before," he said, his voice low but sharp.
Amelia burst out a mirthless laugh. "How perceptive of you."
Claude's teeth ground together. "You shouldn't have stood for so long."
"And still, I was." She fixed him with a glare. "What are you doing here, Claude?"
He took another step into the room, his gaze traveling over her as if seeing only now the depth of her fatigue. The tension in her shoulders, the way she leaned so heavily on the cane, the quick wince she attempted to suppress.
"I want to know why you allowed Ashford to flirt with you," he said instead, refusing the true issue of the moment.
Amelia laughed. "Are you kidding me?"
Claude's face turned dark. "Yes."
She shook her head, turning away, but her hurt leg almost buckled under her. Before she could catch herself, firm hands steadied her.
Amelia pushed him away from her, panting. "Don't touch me."
Claude's arms dropped to his sides, his face a mask.
"You allowed him to speak to you," she began.
"As if I were something other than an abandoned wife?"
"As if I were better than the silence you've afforded me," she interrupted, venom in her voice.
Claude's face contorted, but he couldn't respond.
She edged forward slowly, steadying herself with the cane. "You lost the right to be jealous a very long time ago, Claude."
He let out a harsh breath, pushing his hand through his hair. "I haven't been with Isolde."
Amelia winced at the name. It was still a sore wound whenever it was mentioned.
"That doesn't change anything."
Claude stepped closer still, his fists curled at his sides. "You are my wife."
She laughed, a dry sound. "Only when it is convenient."
There was a silence that built between them, heavy and oppressive.
Claude's eyes flicked to her leg once more, his anger changing into something else. Something that bordered on guilt.
"I said I did not want you to leave the house that night."
Amelia froze.
The words were spoken softly, but they pierced deep.
She shifted her head a little, speaking in a whisper. "And yet, you allowed me."
Claude couldn't respond.
She swallowed, facing him fully, shoulders set in spite of the ache that pounded through her body.
"I am fatigued, Your Grace," she stated, her voice formal and remote. "If there is nothing else, I would like to withdraw."
Claude glared at her for a moment before taking a harsh breath and moving back.
"Rest, then." His tone was softer now, bordering on reluctant. But before he turned to go, he added, "But this isn't over, Amelia."
She said nothing.
When the door closed behind him, she finally sank onto the chair beside her bed, her body trembling with fatigue.
No, this wasn't over.
But next time, she would be ready.