**Chapter 14: A Dance of Indifference**
Morning sunlight poured in through the thick drapes of Everthorne Manor, falling in bright yellow bars upon the shining floors. Amelia leaned by the staircase, giving low commands to the servants, her cane striking against marble with every calculated step.
She had devoted herself to running the estate. It was the one thing she was able to control in a world that had careened crazily out of her reach. If Claude believed that she would withdraw to her rooms and waste away beneath his scorn, he was mistaken.
"See that the accounts are settled by the end of the week," she ordered the steward, her voice even and calm. "And tell the tenants I will be riding out to the fields myself next week."
The steward hesitated, looking at her leg. "Are you sure, Your Grace? The roads can be—"
"I am very sure," she cut in smoothly. "Have the carriage ready."
A figure towered above her before the steward could answer. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
"Since when do you personally visit the lands?" Claude growled, his voice full of annoyance, but Amelia didn't flinch.
"Since you left them to their own devices," she answered icily. "Someone has to keep Everthorne in order."
Claude's jaw clenched. He looked down at her cane, his eyes flashing with something unreadable before he covered it over with cold indifference. "You should rest."
"You should lead," she retorted.
Silence hung between them. The staff that had come to witness the exchange pretended to attend to other business, but their ears were certainly listening.
Amelia turned to take her leave, but Claude's grip on her wrist stopped her.
"You're still healing," he said, his hold tight but not unkind. "Strutting around on that leg as if nothing's amiss is stupidity."
Amelia pulled her wrist loose, regarding him with frosty determination. "And yet you were too busy to recall my injuries last night, weren't you?"
Claude's nostrils flared. He saw his fingers jerk, as if he struggled against reaching out and taking her again. Instead, he merely blew out a hard breath and stepped away.
"Do as you please, Amelia."
"I have every intention of doing just that," she replied, and she passed by him without so much as another look.
###
Claude's eyes followed her receding back, his fists clenched.
She was slipping away from him. No—she had already slipped away.
Since waking from her fever, she had been distant, untouchable. She had always been poised, always graceful in her quiet strength, but now, there was something more. A cold, sharp edge to her, as if she had reforged herself into steel.
And it drove him mad.
It wasn't that she was indifferent—it was the manner in which the household reacted to it. The manner in which the staff catered to *her* now, their allegiance shifting. He observed it in the way Mrs. Thimble regarded him with precisely concealed disapproval. In the manner the servants murmured when Amelia departed from a room. In the manner Grace, the ever-loyal lady's maid, outright disregarded his existence when tending to her mistress.
Even his men—the ones who used to only take orders from *him*—now obeyed *her* unconditionally.
And the worst of all?
She'd begun to smile.
Not at him. Never at him. But when addressing the tenants, when welcoming the staff, when speaking to that obnoxious Lord Ashford during dinner last night.
Claude had hardly held back from ripping the bastard's head off when he had kissed Amelia's hand, saying some drivel about how "a lady of such strength and dignity should not be overlooked."
He should have let her cane him when she had the opportunity. At least then he could have attributed his irritation to pain.
A gentle voice shook him out of his reverie.
"You appear disturbed, Claude."
He spun around. Isolde stood there, observing him with a knowing smile.
He breathed in through his nostrils, forcing his annoyance down. "I'm in the middle of something, Isolde."
She leaned her head to one side, taking another step forward, her perfume overpowering in the morning air. "It must be tiresome, seeing her slip from your grasp."
Claude bristled. "I don't require your commentary."
"Don't you?" She stood there, crossed her arms over her chest and let out a dramatic sigh. "She's making a fool of you. Pretending not to see you. Strutting around like an injured martyr and the whole house turns against you."
Claude's jaw tight with anger. "Careful, Isolde."
She smiled. "I only speak to assist you, darling."
"You confuse my tolerance with patience," he said, warning.
Isolde laughed, unfazed. "Then stop moping and do something about it."
With that, she turned and strolled off, leaving Claude by himself with the tempest in his head.
Do something about it?
Oh, he would.
One way or another.