The atmosphere in Everthorne Manor became heavy with anticipation as the carriages drove up the sweeping entrance. Claude stood at the head of the stairs, his hands behind his back, observing as the household staff rushed to greet the surprise visitor.
Amelia's uncle.
Lord Francis Wyndall was always an odious man—greedy, superior, and, most importantly, a man who enjoyed power. He had never made his contempt for Amelia any secret, and Claude did not doubt that his arrival brought trouble.
A moment or two later, the great double doors opened wide, and in came the man himself, resplendent in an extravagant velvet coat with gold trimmings. His keen, hawk-like eyes took in the room at once before focusing on Amelia, who had just appeared from the other hall.
Ah," Lord Wyndall spoke slowly, the corners of his thin lips curved into a sly smile. "I see that you are still here, Amelia. I should have thought I would have had to come tell you you were dismissed to return to your father's grave already."
Claude's fists grew tight.
But Amelia didn't waver. She just stood tall, an even face with no emotion shown. "Uncle," she said evenly.
Lord Wyndall drew in a melodramatic sigh as he walked farther into the house, his head shaking. "Forgive me, dear niece," he said, "but I am astounded to discover you continuing your impersonation as a duchess." Turning to Claude with a sarcastic laugh, "I must give you credit, Your Grace. You are indeed a forbearing man to accept such… incompetence."
Claude went red with rage.
Amelia's jaw clenched, but before she could fire back, Claude moved forward, his posture intimidating. "You are in error, Lord Wyndall," he stated with smooth tones, but his voice held an unmistakable bite. "My wife is not playing the part—she *is* the Duchess of Everthorne. And she has been doing a most excellent job of it.
Wyndall raised an eyebrow in a mock look of amusement. "Oh, how chivalrous of you to stand up for her, Your Grace. But let's not play games—I've heard rumors. There are whispers of tension between you two." He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "How sad. A marriage should not be so. tense."
Amelia stiffened beside Claude.
He did not flinch.
He reached out, wrapping an arm around her waist and drawing her close. "I think you've been misinformed, my lord," he said with a smooth tone. "My wife and I are very happy."
Lord Wyndall's smirk faltered. "Oh?"
Amelia, to her credit, didn't pull away, though he could sense the slight tension in her body. She played along, giving him a delicate smile. "Quite."
Wyndall's gaze narrowed a little, but then he released a quick laugh. "Well, I suppose I shall see for myself while I am staying."
Claude's hold on Amelia's waist increased. "Your stay?"
Wyndall smiled, far too smug about himself. "Oh, did I not tell you? I shall be staying at Everthorne for a few days. A family visit, naturally."
Claude exchanged a glance with Amelia. Her expression was unreadable, but he could sense her exhaustion beneath the surface.
For once, they were in agreement.
This would not be easy.
---
That night, the farce continued.
Claude dined next to Amelia, his hand touching hers occasionally in simulated affection. The dinner was riddled with insincere smiles and stilted conversation, but Wyndall observed them like a lion waiting for an error.
It wasn't until after dinner, when the servants started making up the guest rooms, that the real problems started.
"I trust you will retire to your *shared* chambers?" Wyndall said, sipping his wine leisurely. "After all, a happy couple would hardly sleep apart."
Claude felt Amelia go still beside him.
Damn that man.
Claude smiled, though his patience was wearing thin. "Of course."
Amelia gave him a stinging look, but he just gave her a maddeningly serene stare before standing up from his chair. He held out his hand to her, and after a moment's hesitation, she accepted it.
They climbed the stairs together, leaving Lord Wyndall behind with an infuriating grin on his face.
The moment they walked into Amelia's rooms, she withdrew her hand. "You didn't need to do that."
Claude closed the door behind him, unfazed. "Would you prefer that he had evidence of our differences?"
She blew out a swift breath, pulling a hand through her hair. "I prefer not to pretend in the least."
Claude relaxed his cuffs. "Well, for the next several days, just pretend we have to."
Her eyes blazed. "And what, pray, do you propose? That we just sleep together like a content couple?"
Claude smirked. "Unless you'd rather I sleep on the floor?"
She paused, and for a moment, he thought she was going to go along with it. But then she raised her chin. "Fine. But stay on your side."
Claude laughed, his eyes darkening a little. "Of course, wife."
The word caused a weird shock of electricity in the space between them.
Amelia spun away quickly, intent on taking off her jewelry, although he did not overlook the faint tinge of pink at the nape of her neck.
Claude moved towards the bed, shedding his coat.
---
The room was silent.
Amelia lay on one side of the bed, her back to him.
Claude lay on the other, his eyes fixed on the ceiling, his mind a knotty jumble.
"…Are you awake?"
Her voice was soft, tentative.
Claude shifted his head. "Yes."
A moment of silence. Then, softer, "Why did you really send Isolde away?"
Claude let out a breath, turning completely to face her back.
"Because she didn't belong here."
Amelia shifted, as though weighing whether to add anything. "And me?" she breathed.
Claude looked at her, his chest constricting.
"You belong," he said bluntly.
There was a silence between them, full of something delicate, something unsaid.
Then, quietly, Amelia whispered, "Goodnight, Claude."
And for the first time in years, he wished he could take her in his arms and tell her the words he had never uttered before.
But he didn't.
Instead, he breathed softly, "Goodnight, Amelia."
And as the night wore on, Claude Everthorne realized one thing—
Pretending to love her was much easier than pretending he didn't.