The Duke's Reluctant Bride

The West Drawing Room,

The air inside Lady Rosalind's private parlor was thick with the scent of dried lavender and old authority. The room was meticulously kept: silken drapes drawn just enough to allow light in without allowing the sun to fade the upholstery, lace runners perfectly aligned on every surface, and a gilded porcelain tea set untouched on the low table.

Mrs. Carroway stood near the entrance, spine straight, hands folded, and a practiced calm in her demeanor. She had served in Wycliffe Manor for over two decades, long enough to know when something warranted Lady Rosalind's attention and when it was better left unsaid. But this...this had the potential to stir trouble.

Lady Rosalind Wycliffe sat in her usual high-backed chair, wrapped in a velvet shawl the color of dried rose petals, her fingers absently stroking the edge of a porcelain teacup. Her steel-gray hair was pinned in its ever-perfect bun, not a strand out of place. She exuded poise, control, commanding even in silence.

"My lady," the housekeeper said in her usual composed tone, dipping into a respectful curtsey.

Rosalind didn't look up. "Carroway."

The housekeeper clasped her hands in front of her. "I've come regarding a small matter concerning the duchess. It seems there was a misunderstanding this morning about the household budget, particularly the allocation for festival gowns."

Now Rosalind looked up, her pale blue eyes pinning her with quiet disdain. "Ah yes. I heard the shrill of that particular squabble echoing through the east corridor."

Mrs. Carroway's expression didn't shift, though her spine stiffened slightly. "It was only that... well, the duchess had selected a gown alongside Lady Juliana, but when the estimate was provided, the funds..."

"...were not available," Rosalind interrupted, her voice sharp as a blade wrapped in silk. "Yes. As I recall, the manor has already exceeded its monthly allocation. The figures are quite clear."

"I understand, my lady. However, it was… uncomfortable. Her Grace was embarrassed. The dressmakers were present. And this being her first festival as Duchess of Wycliffe, perhaps..."

"Carroway," Rosalind said, her voice lowering to an arctic cool. "Do not mistake discomfort for injustice. Rules are what govern this household. Not emotions. Not titles. Not appearances."

Mrs. Carroway hesitated for a breath. "I thought it only right to inform you… in case you wished to make a discretionary adjustment. Just this once."

Rosalind set her teacup down with a quiet clink.

"So that she might parade through the square in emerald silk and pretend she commands this estate?" A pause. "No, Mrs. Carroway. The duchess will receive her due from next month's budget. If she wishes to drape herself in luxury sooner, she is more than welcome to dip into her personal dowry... assuming she has not already squandered it."

The insult hung heavy in the air.

The housekeeper, ever dutiful, remained composed. "As you say, my lady."

Mrs. Carroway gave the slightest nod, the kind that came with long service and much observation. She could read the undercurrents in the manor as well as anyone and she'd seen the shift in Lady Rosalind's attitude since the day Evelyn had slapped Emilio in front of half the household.

Before that, Rosalind had tolerated the girl. Humored her. But now?

Now, she was watching her.

Rosalind reached for her embroidery again, needle gliding effortlessly through crimson thread. "Tell the staff that any further questions regarding the Duchess's wardrobe are to be directed to me. And should she wish to inquire personally, I will remind her whose house she's living in."

Mrs. Carroway bowed low. "As you wish, my lady."

She turned to leave, but just before she crossed the threshold, Lady Rosalind's voice came again soft, deliberate.

"She may wear the title," she murmured, "but let her not forget this estate was never built for her."

She turned back to her tea, lifting the cup again with elegant precision.

Mrs. Carroway withdrew, her expression unreadable, though her thoughts were churning like smoke curling up the chimney.

That Afternoon,

Cora was fuming.

The maid's hands moved quickly as she gathered Evelyn's hairpins, dropping them into a small wooden box. Every so often she paused, lips pressed into a thin line, glancing at her mistress seated calmly at the vanity.

"How dare they," Cora muttered, loud enough to hear. "Treat you as if you're some guest in your own house." She slammed the lid shut. "And the Duke... what is he doing, leaving you to face these things alone? No proper dresses, and this is after all you do for this manor!"

Evelyn met Cora's eyes in the mirror. The flush of embarrassment had long since faded, leaving behind something quieter, steadier. "Cora," she said gently, "it's only a gown."

"Only a gown!" Cora exclaimed, turning toward her with her hands on her hips. "That's not what this is about and you know it. They ought to respect you. You're the mistress of Wycliffe now."

Evelyn held up a hand. "I appreciate your concern," she said softly. "And your loyalty. But losing our tempers will only worsen things." A small sigh slipped past her lips. "The Duke has much on his mind these days. When he returns, I'm sure he'll make it right."

Cora frowned, clearly unconvinced. "He ought to do more than make it right," she muttered. "He ought never have let it happen."

Evelyn rose and crossed the room to take Cora's hands in hers, squeezing warmly. "I'll manage," she assured her. "And so will you. Let's focus on what we can control, shall we?"

Despite herself, Cora's hands relaxed a little under her mistress's touch. "Yes, my lady," she replied, grudgingly. But the fire in her gaze hadn't faded.

That Night - The Duke's Return

The house had settled into its usual hush when Juliana heard the sound of boots in the hall. Nathaniel had returned.

She was waiting in the entryway, still dressed for dinner though the hour was long past, her hands folded before her. Shadows flickered across her face as the front door shut and Nathaniel stepped inside, his dark coat draped over one arm.

"You're up late," he observed as one brow arched in surprise.

Juliana wasted no time. "Nathaniel," she began, voice firm. "You need to do something about what happened today. Evelyn deserves better than to be humiliated by Lady Rosalind and Mrs. Carroway over a mere dress."

He paused mid-stride. "What happened?"

Juliana's chin lifted. "They refused to let her have a new gown. Told her there was no money for it this month. The Duchess, Nathaniel. Do you understand what that looks like?"

A tense silence unfurled between them. In the gloom of the hall, his expression darkened, a muscle flexing in his jaw.

"And did my wife say anything about this?" His voice was low, almost detached.

"Of course not," Juliana huffed. "Evelyn is too proud or too kind. But I'm telling you as your sister. Lady Rosalind all but announced that she holds the purse strings, and Mrs. Carroway was only too eager to put Evelyn in her place. This is not right."

Nathaniel's hands tightened on the coat in his grip. "I see," was all he said.

Juliana searched his face for some sign of his thoughts. "You ought to make this right. Don't let them look down on your wife as though she were some charity guest."

He gave a slow nod, his gaze distant. "You may go to bed, Juliana," he said at last, his tone low, curt.

His sister bristled. "That's all you have to say?"

But the Duke was already turning away toward his study, his long strides measured, expression carved in icy focus.

Juliana watched him go, lips parting to call after him then thought better of it. Instead, she let her hands fall to her sides and released a frustrated sigh.

If anyone could shift this balance, it was him.

And whatever that cold look on his face meant, she had the feeling someone in this house would regret underestimating his wife.