Chapter 22
Loic commanded the kitchens to lavish every dessert with generous helpings of fruit.
In Blenheim’s harsh winter, such produce was a scarce luxury.
The head chef, however, threw himself into satisfying the duke’s inaugural command. From the next day onward, sweets overflowed with fruit—perhaps excessively so.
Loic, now attuned to the nuances of desserts, spotted the shift at once.
It was all the same.
Matters he had once overlooked sprang into sharp focus the moment the young woman mentioned them.
Her words about the ocean conjured memories of Blenheim’s stunning coastline. Her offer to knot his cravat drew his attention to his own attire. Her inquiries about the staff made him register the maids who glimpsed him from afar and hastily retreated.
Color had begun to seep into his once-monotonous routine.
But then Loic understood the need for vigilance.
Leon ranked among his most reliable knights. Young yet exceptionally capable, Loic had recruited him himself, overlooking his humble origins.
Still, learning of Leon’s bond with Annette ignited a fury in his veins.
He refused to stand idly by. Thus, he dispatched the knight elsewhere.
Why did I react that way?
Solitude brought clarity only after darkness descended.
Jealousy? Petty ownership?
Perhaps it stemmed from the transformation she had wrought in him since her arrival—his frame finally unwinding.
Her delicate fingers against his skin dissolved every knot of strain, replacing it with soothing heat.
Even the casual brush of her arm against his sparked a spreading warmth.
That evening by his bedside, as she murmured comforts, serenity flowed from his fingertips—only for dread to clamp down in its wake.
The idea of her withdrawing left his chest in anguish.
Emotions surged, nearly drowning him.
She posed a threat.
Yet awareness changed nothing; rejection eluded him. He admonished himself against craving her touch, yet anticipated her return.
I mustn’t delude myself.
Her stay in Blenheim stemmed not from affection for him.
She required shelter for a twelvemonth, and her innate generosity extended warmth to him as well.
Closeness, however, was a luxury Loic could ill afford.
His father, the prior duke, had succumbed to the curse within a year.
Loic vividly remembered the day his father, realizing the affliction’s inheritance, wailed in torment.
Had he foreseen it, he would have spurned the dragon’s bargain—Blenheim’s doom be damned. To his final gasp, remorse and concern for his son consumed him.
His father had lacked options; Loic did not.
No heir would inherit this torment. The lineage’s agony ended here.
He regretted the Blenheim forebears, but alternatives failed.
The dragon’s malediction was unbreakable.
Annette merely alleviated his suffering; she offered no cure. He must relearn endurance.
I cannot grow accustomed to her touch.
To do so would bar any return.
He would languish in torment, yearning for unattainable tranquility.
Granting her a year’s refuge had been indulgence. He would yield no more.
Should she persist in blurring boundaries, distance was essential.
Hurt had shadowed her face, but comprehension was vital—this was imperative.
After lingering by the door, Loic summoned Whitley with instructions.
“Place a writing desk beside the sofa in my study.”
He recalled Annette’s unease in his study, arm unsupported as she read.
I couldn’t overlook her discomfort once aware.
Shaking his head to dispel her crestfallen image, Loic rationalized his choice.
Come morning, she skipped the duke’s chambers.
Provoking him early might earn a total ban from his quarters.
Is the study too bold a choice now?
Whitley advised, “His Grace faces a packed schedule, though evenings might allow a moment.”
Thus, she resolved to deliver treats near dusk.
The day is mild. Perhaps a garden read.
Sunlight tempted with its gentle caress, ideal for airing out.
Mentioning books, she received Whitley’s courteous list of castle holdings.
Regrettably, offerings leaned toward pious tomes or dated manuals from decades past.
“This one will do.”
Whitley paused, smile unwavering, before passing it over.
Book in hand, she made for the gardens.
Soon Leta—ever more devoted lately—arrived bearing steaming tea and a brimming dish of ripe strawberries.
“These strawberries never disappoint.”
She savored several, idly paging through her selection.
A known voice pierced the air.
“Your Grace!”
Sir Perel, strolling the grounds with the duke, hailed her with gusto.
“Sir Perel!”
Bypassing the duke, Perel hastened over.
“Your Grace, ages have passed.”
His abrupt formality drew her laughter. Perel cocked his head.
“What’s amusing?”
“Simply joy at seeing you. You’re rarer than the duke these days.”
Perel flushed, abashed.
“I’ve been absent, buried in backlog.”
The duke drew near the tea service, unhurried.
She rose with poise, skirt gathered for a flawless curtsy—stiffer than her norm.
Will formality soothe his ire?
Lifting her gaze, sunlight etched his chiseled profile.
Yet his eyes remained shadowed with ire, defying her wish.
“Out strolling?” she ventured.
“En route to the watchtower.”
Her smile met curt ice.
Perel, attuned to the chill, pivoted.
“Enjoying a book?”
“Indeed.”
“Might I inquire the title? My office boasts a collection—if you share preferences—”
Eyeing the cover, Perel faltered.
“Eh? Vision playing tricks. It resembled a cookbook.”
“It is.”
“…Pardon?”
Perel’s stare ballooned.
"’100 Recipes for a Wife to Win Her Husband’s Love’”…
The duke hacked a cough.
Crimson crept up his extended throat.
Oh?
Today, no cravat graced his neck.
Fixated on the exposed skin, she registered Perel’s stupefaction late.
“Ah! No misconceptions. Not for cooking lessons.”
“Then… why?”
’I sought familiar dishes to request from the chef.’
Like her favored tomato stew.
With the library’s sole cookbook, choices were slim.
“Where do these oddities originate?” the duke grumbled, feigning disinterest.
His tone had softened—mood lifting?
“Castle library.”
“And… outdoors?” Eyes elsewhere.
“It’s frigid.”
“Nowhere else beckoned.” Someone forbade visits. Her whisper hung.
The duke’s face twitched.
(Whitley’s warming artifact rendered it quite temperate, truth be told.)
“Th-that’s evenings only—”
“Your Grace, nowhere to go?” Perel gaped, aghast.
“Room unfit? A vacancy adjoins my office—”
“She’ll use my study.”
The duke interjected sharply.
“Sun streams in by day.”
She blinked at the abrupt concession.
“Your presence there?”
“Absences fill my afternoons.”
What? Alone in a vacant study?
Temper bridled, she pressed, “And next day?”
“Out again.”
Naturally.
Tomorrow he’d feign illness; the next, some remote kin’s nuptials.
