The rain drummed against the windows of Everthorne Manor, a soft, steady rhythm that matched the thoughts storming in Claude's mind. He sat in his study, staring at the fire, but his mind was elsewhere. It was always elsewhere these days.
With her.
Wherever he went, Amelia followed—no longer patiently waiting in the background, expecting a glance from him. No, she was a presence now. She took charge of the estate with biting efficiency, dealt with business without flinching, and, worst of all, she dismissed him.
He rubbed his hand across his face. How did it come to this?
A harsh knock broke his gloom.
"Your Grace," Grace's voice was charged with urgency. "The Duchess—she—"
Claude was on his feet before she could get it out. "Where is she?"
"Her chambers."
That was all he needed to know. He was already in motion, his legs propelling him quickly through the corridors, his heart pounding faster with every step.
When he entered Amelia's chambers, he found her sitting rigidly on the chaise by the fireplace, her cane propped against the armrest, her hands clenched in the folds of her dress tightly.
She appeared drained.
"Leave us," Claude commanded the maids before kneeling beside her.
She tensed, regarding him cautiously. "What are you—"
He didn't permit her to protest. Carefully, he picked up her hurt leg and placed it on his lap.
"Claude." She spoke sharply, warning him.
"Be quiet once," he grumbled, his fingers already massaging the knot of tension in her foot.
He could feel her body stiffen, as if she wished to resist but was too exhausted to struggle. His fingers moved gently, his thumbs digging into the aching muscles. The heat of her skin, the gentle fit of her ankle within his hand—it was perilous, the way she affected him.
Amelia gasped in a harsh breath, and he nearly smiled. "Hurts?"
She glared at him. "What do you think?"
Claude didn't say anything. He kept kneading the soft flesh, pushing against the tension accumulated after weeks of tension.
"Why are you doing this?" she asked after some time, her voice lower now.
He paused before speaking. "Because I should have done it a long time ago."
She didn't answer. Instead, she faced the fire, her face an enigma.
But Claude knew her too well to catch the weariness, the burden of all she had been holding in herself. And it infuriated him—not with her, but with himself.
The woman in front of him wasn't the one he had been forced to leave. She'd endured, had struggled, and come out ahead despite him.
There was the weight of their silence between them, heavy with possibility. Then, just when it seemed as if she were about to do so, yet another knock had separated them from further words.
"Your Grace," a guard yelled from outside. "Lady Isolde commands your attendance."
Amelia stiffened.
Claude let out a harsh breath, releasing her foot and standing up.
"Tell her I will be there soon," he said, his tone cutting.
The guard departed, and Claude turned back to Amelia.
She was already drawing away, taking her cane, ready to depart.
"Amelia," he began.
"Go visit your *Lady Isolde*," she cut in, her voice inscrutable.
There was a bitterness in her tone, a weariness, a *finality*.
Claude gritted his teeth.
That was the final straw.
---
By the time he arrived in the drawing room where Isolde sat waiting for him, his patience was paper-thin. She was sitting on a chaise, drinking tea as if she were the mistress of the manor itself.
"Claude," she purred, setting down her cup.
He folded his arms. "What do you want, Isolde?"
Her lips twisted. "So cold, *Your Grace*. I seem to remember a time when—"
"Enough," he snapped.
Isolde's eyes went wide, as if taken aback by his curt tone.
Claude took a deep breath, trying to keep his temper in check. "Why are you here, Isolde?"
She tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. "You know why. The King requested it. He wanted someone to ensure things at Everthorne remained in order in your absence."
Claude's muscles tensed. "So that's all it was? A royal order?"
"Of course," she said with a knowing smile. "What else could it be?"
Claude stared at her. *All this time*.
All along, Amelia had thought he had *chosen* to bring Isolde here. That she was *his* guest, *his* choice. And he had allowed her to think so.
His chest constricted.
"Pack your bags," he said abruptly.
Isolde blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're going," Claude said, his tone final. "Today."
She emitted a laugh. "Surely, you jest."
"I don't." His face grew somber. "You were here by the King's command, and now I no longer require your presence."
Isolde's face changed, the smile disappearing. "And if I won't?"
Claude moved forward, speaking softly. "Then I will ensure the King is aware that his *loyal subject* has been exceeding her authority."
Her eyes flashed with something close to anger, but she knew better than to push him.
She waited, watching, for a long moment before she smirked. "Very well, *Your Grace*," she replied, her voice slippery as oil. "But I do hope you understand that once I am gone, there will be no one left to distract you from your *lovely* wife."
Claude's jaw hardened. "I am counting on it."
Isolde's smirk faltered for the first time.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.
---
The corridors of Everthorne Manor were quiet as he walked back toward Amelia's chambers.
For weeks, he had fought against the truth of what was happening.
But no longer.
Amelia had once been the woman who gazed at him with soft yearning, hoping that he would notice her.
Today, she was the woman who gazed over his shoulder as if he were nothing.
And Claude was beginning to get it, finally—if he didn't move now, if he didn't battle for what was his, then next thing he knew, she really wouldn't be in his life anymore.
And he wasn't sure if he could stand it.