Chapter 12
The boy crept forward on his tiptoes, his heels lifted high to ensure the cicada wouldn’t be spooked into flight. Jacqueline stifled the giggle rising in her throat and adopted a somber tone.
“Very well. The coast is clear. Everyone is likely far too preoccupied with the banquet preparations to spare us a glance. We’ve lucked out!”
In that precise moment, Benjamin’s hand darted out.
“Miss Somerset, you must see this.”
Startled by the uncharacteristic excitement in his voice, Jacqueline reflexively glanced toward him.
“Hmm? What is—EEEEK!”
A grotesque shape suddenly dominated her vision. An involuntary shriek ripped from her throat. Her strength vanished, her knees buckled, and she collapsed unceremoniously onto the floor.
Benjamin’s eyes went wide with alarm. Looking flustered, he moved the object a fraction closer to her face as if to reassure her.
“It isn’t a live insect, Miss—it’s only the shell. A molt.”
“AAAAAAH!”
Jacqueline’s second scream reverberated through the halls of the Preston estate. In a heartbeat, the frantic activity of the mansion died away. A heavy, absolute silence fell over the grounds, as though time itself had been frozen mid-motion.
It was a profoundly bizarre tableau.
“Benjamin Preston.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Benjamin stood with his head bowed, the picture of defeat. His gaze was fixed on the floorboards, his posture more dejected than Jacqueline had ever seen it. His lower lip trembled slightly, hovering between a pout of sorrow and one of indignation.
The heir to the Marquess of Preston was forbidden from weeping.
Steeling himself, Benjamin bit his lip and drew a shuddering breath, his small fingers curling into tight fists at his sides.
Jacqueline, by contrast, kept her chin high. She refused to lower her head regardless of the pressure; it was the poise expected of a lady of her standing.
Windsor remained as he always was: cold, distant, and unyielding. His unreadable eyes suddenly sharpened with a cutting severity.
“Harassing a lady is conduct beneath the dignity of a Preston. Do you comprehend the sheer vulgarity of your behavior today?”
“Lord Preston, it wasn’t quite like—”
Jacqueline began to interject, her voice laced with fluster, but Windsor’s icy glare silenced her instantly.
“This is not a matter for your interference, Miss Somerset. This is a private concern of the Preston family.”
The color drained from Jacqueline’s face. Every time she encountered his iron-willed resolve, she was reminded that Windsor held the grit of a veteran soldier. She recalled the terrifying monikers the pirates of the Black Fleet had given him.
Only now did she realize how much he had tempered his personality for her benefit until now. His sheer presence was stifling—not merely as a figure of speech, but physically. The air in the study felt thin and depleted. Jacqueline had to focus on drawing slow, steady breaths just to remain upright.
Benjamin’s lips trembled as he finally forced out an apology.
“I am sorry, Uncle. I will be more disciplined. It won’t happen again.”
“It is not to me you should be apologizing, but to Miss Somerset.”
The boy turned his gaze to her. “I’m sorry, Miss Somerset.”
“Oh, no, please—”
Jacqueline waved her hands in a dismissive gesture, but Windsor cut her off. His stern voice bore down on the boy like a physical weight.
“Never forget that you are the future Marquess of Preston.”
“I won’t, Uncle.”
“Dismissed. You are confined to your quarters until the evening meal. Miss Somerset, stay behind. We need to speak.”
“Yes, Lord Preston,” she murmured.
Jacqueline swallowed hard, her heart hammering against her ribs. It was her turn to face the firing squad.
Benjamin trudged toward the exit with leaden feet. At the threshold, he hesitated and cast one last look back at her. A flash of intense emotion flickered in his amber eyes.
Jacqueline’s breath hitched. It wasn’t anger or blame she saw in the child—it was genuine concern for her. He remained a sweet, empathetic soul, and Jacqueline felt a surge of affection for the boy.
Hoping to lighten his burden, she forced a defiant tilt to her lips. She turned her head just enough to pull a ridiculous, silly face that only Benjamin could see.
But this time, the boy didn’t smile back.
Click.
The door latched shut. A suffocating silence filled the study—the same heavy atmosphere that always seemed to settle whenever they were left alone.
Madam Ritz entered then, carrying a tea service. She set the silver tray down with practiced efficiency and retreated almost immediately, clearly desperate to escape the mounting tension.
Jacqueline took a quiet breath, staring at her reflection in the porcelain.
“If you are parched, Miss Somerset, please, have some tea.”
“Thank you, Lord Preston.”
She wasn’t thirsty in the slightest, but she reached for the pot regardless. Any activity was better than drowning in the stillness. With fluid, silent grace, she prepared the tea. After a moment’s pause, she filled Windsor’s cup as well. He didn’t even acknowledge the gesture, his eyes locked firmly on her face.
Feeling the sting of his coldness, Jacqueline took a small, disappointed sip of her own drink. The moment she set the cup back down, Windsor’s voice sliced through the quiet. Her eyes flinched. She wished she had kept the cup in her hand a moment longer.
“I was under the impression that we were in agreement regarding Benjamin’s upbringing. Was that a mere fantasy of mine?”
The question was asked with a terrifying calm that carried more weight than any shout. Windsor was not a man of volatile whims or explosive temper; his words possessed a gravity that demanded total attention.
Jacqueline added a splash of milk and a spoonful of sugar to her bitter brew, stirring it slowly to buy herself a few precious seconds of thought.
“I don’t believe you were mistaken, sir.”
“Then explain why Benjamin was found playing with insect husks. The nephew I know does not indulge in such things. He never once behaved this way until you arrived at this estate.”
“Please, allow me to clarify, Lord Preston.”
Jacqueline took another sip, the sweetness on her tongue bolting her nerves. She set the cup down with a soft clink that punctuated the silence. She met Windsor’s gaze head-on. Though her expression was a mask of perfect composure, her pulse was racing.
Why did I have to scream? she scolded herself. If I hadn’t made a scene, he never would have noticed. Next time, Jacqueline, get a grip on your nerves.
She took a steadying breath and spoke with renewed conviction.
“This wasn’t Benjamin’s doing, Lord Preston. I gave him my explicit permission to examine it.”
“Is this part of your curriculum? Pray tell, what subject requires the handling of cicada shells with one’s bare hands?”
“Well… if we must label it, I would call it natural science. Or perhaps biology?”
“Miss Somerset.”
His voice dropped an octave, a warning sign. Jacqueline knew it was now or never.
“Do you actually know what Benjamin enjoys, Lord Preston?”
The unexpected question caught Windsor off guard. His brow furrowed as he stared into her challenging eyes. After a long, tense pause, he replied, “Does his preference truly matter?”
“Yes. It matters immensely.”
Jacqueline nodded, clenching her jaw to stop it from shaking.
“As I’ve stated before, the boy is fascinated by ships. He devours every report on the Black Fleet’s movements. It is the same with nature; his entire face brightens when he speaks of insects, as if—”
“Regardless of his whims,” Windsor interrupted, his voice like flint, “he is the future Marquess of Preston. That is an immutable fact.”
Jacqueline shook her head, refusing to yield this time.
“Even the King himself is entitled to his passions. Having something to love makes a person’s life vibrant and meaningful. I know this from experience.”
Her voice grew stronger as she spoke of her own convictions.
“From my earliest years, I have adored painting. That love led me to wonder about the creators, which sparked an interest in their histories. By following my curiosity, I gained a deep understanding of our kingdom’s heritage and refined my own aesthetic sense. Now, I see layers of meaning in art that others miss entirely. A life fueled by passion is a rich one. I want Benjamin’s world to be painted in full color, not confined to shades of grey.”
“Very well,” Windsor conceded coldly. “One might argue that art fosters noble refinement. But what possible use does an obsession with bugs have for a future Marquess?”
Marquess, Marquess, Marquess—
Jacqueline’s eyes narrowed. Arguing with this man was like trying to reason with a stone wall. They were walking in circles. Her voice took on a sharp, frustrated edge.
“Does everything he loves have to serve a practical purpose?”
“The world Benjamin is destined to inherit is far more ruthless than you seem to realize, Miss Somerset. He will face charlatans seeking the Preston fortune and rivals who would relish his ruin.”
He leaned forward slightly. “In those moments, do you honestly believe an interest in ships or cicada shells will save him? No. He will be protected by the intellect, the breeding, and the social cunning he cultivates now as the heir to this house.”
Jacqueline found herself speechless. Windsor’s measured, rational tone had caught her by the throat, dragging her from her idealistic dreams back into the cold light of reality. He wasn’t entirely wrong. She had been the dreamer; he was the realist. Most people would likely agree with him.
Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to concede fully—not when she thought of how Benjamin had learned to suppress his childhood joy far too effectively for a six-year-old.
She opened her mouth to argue, then bit her lip. She realized it was time to retreat. Windsor was a fortress; her words were merely bouncing off the ramparts.
“I will be more discreet in the future to ensure this does not recur,” she said quietly.
And I’ll be more careful not to get caught, she added to herself.
Her face, once bright with defiance, now looked weary and regretful. Windsor watched her for a moment before giving a single, curt nod.
“I shall grant you one more opportunity to prove my confidence in you is not misplaced. Do not fail me again, Miss Somerset.”
“I will do my best, Lord Preston.”
“I do not want your best,” he countered. “I want results. You may leave.”
