CHAPTER 132: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND THIRTY TWO

The midday sun beat down relentlessly on the dusty training grounds of the Barracks. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and heated metal.

"One... Two... Three!"

The order barked across the open field, rough and commanding.

Hundreds of soldiers, stripped to their waists, moved in unison. They held heavy wooden practice swords. On "One," they stepped forward. On "Two," they raised the swords. On "Three," they swung down with a collective grunt that vibrated through the ground.

Dust clouds puffed up around their boots. Sweat streamed down their backs, turning their skin bronze in the sunlight. They were the elite Thompson army, the force that protected the kingdom, and they trained until their muscles screamed.

"Again!" the drill sergeant roared. "One... Two... Three!"

Into this atmosphere of raw discipline and exertion rode a figure of stark contrast.

A sleek, midnight-black mare trotted through the main gates. Her coat shone like polished obsidian. She held her head high, snorting at the dust.

On her back sat Derek.

He was dressed in his riding clothes—a fitted dark coat, breeches, and tall black boots. He looked every inch the Grand Duke, the commander of these men.

He pulled lightly on the reins. The black mare stopped in the center of the yard, near the command tent. She tossed her head and neighed loudly, announcing their arrival. The sound cut through the rhythmic chanting of the soldiers.

Derek swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground. His boots hit the dirt with a solid thud.

The horse sidestepped, restless from the gallop. Derek reached up and patted her neck firmly.

"It’s okay, girl," Derek soothed, his voice low and calm. "We are here."

A young soldier, who had been waiting by the water troughs, ran over immediately. He stopped three feet away and bowed low.

"Welcome, Your Grace," the soldier said, breathless.

He reached out and took the horse’s reins carefully.

Derek nodded to him. "Walk her to the stables. Make sure she gets cool water, but not too much at once. She ran hard."

"Yes, Your Grace."

The soldier led the mare away. Derek stood there for a moment, dusting off his sleeves. He looked toward the training field. He watched the soldiers swinging their weapons. His eyes were critical, analyzing their form, but there was a strange softness to his mouth today.

Ian, his loyal personal guard, emerged from the shadow of the command building. He had arrived earlier to prepare the reports. He walked quickly to Derek’s side.

"Your Grace," Ian said, bowing respectfully.

Derek turned. He didn’t look grim or tired, which was his usual state after dealing with the barracks’ politics. Instead, there was a lightness about him.

He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a rectangular box wrapped in velvet.

He held it out to Ian.

"Here," Derek said.

Ian blinked. He took the box automatically. It was light.

Derek started to remove his riding gloves. He pulled at the fingers one by one. As he did, a smile plastered itself onto his face. It wasn’t the cynical smirk he used for his enemies. It wasn’t the fake, lazy smile of the "skiver."

It was a real, goofy, almost dazed smile.

Ian was confused. He held the box in one hand and watched his master. He had served Derek for years. He had seen him angry, cold, calculating, and grief-stricken. He had never seen him look like... a lovestruck fool.

Ian looked down at the box. Curiosity got the better of him. He lifted the lid slightly.

Inside, resting on white satin, was a fan. It was exquisite. The ribs were made of black lacquer, and the face was inlaid with mother-of-pearl in the shape of delicate flowers. It was a woman’s object, something fine and expensive.

Ian snapped the box shut. He looked back at Derek.

Derek was still smiling, looking at the sky as if it were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Ian cleared his throat.

"You didn’t meet with Her Grace?" Ian asked cautiously.

He knew Derek had ridden out to the oak tree. He knew the plan was to give her the gift there. If Derek still had the box, it meant the gift hadn’t been given.

Derek stopped pulling at his gloves. He didn’t look at Ian. He looked at the horizon, his eyes distant and happy.

"No," he said softly.

He sounded strangely satisfied for a man who had missed his meeting.

He turned his head slowly to look at Ian. His expression became thoughtful.

"Ian," Derek said.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Let me ask you a question," Derek said. He tapped his chin with his leather glove. "What do you give a woman who is materialistic?"

Ian was taken aback by the question. He stared at the Duke.

"Um... Your Grace?" Ian stammered. "Materialistic?"

"Yes," Derek said. He started walking slowly toward the entrance of the command building, and Ian fell into step beside him.

"She likes money," Derek explained, his tone admiring rather than critical. "She likes control. She likes accounts."

He held up a finger, listing his points.

"She already has the highest title a noblewoman can have," Derek said. "She is the Grand Duchess of Denver. She is second to none in this kingdom, except for the Royal Family themselves. She has status."

He held up a second finger.

"The Thompson family has enough wealth to last for several generations," Derek continued. "Gold, land, businesses. And now, she is in charge of it all. She holds the key to the treasury. She holds the household seal."

Derek shook his head, a look of genuine perplexity mixed with pride on his face.

"She has everything," he said. "She doesn’t need me to buy her dresses. She can buy the whole dressmaker’s shop if she wants. So, what can I give her that will impress her? What does a woman like that want?"

Ian walked silently for a moment, thinking hard. He knew the Grand Duchess was formidable. He had heard about the way she handled the servants, the way she handled Senna.

Ian frowned in concentration.

"Well," Ian said slowly. "If she likes wealth... and she likes managing things..."

He looked at Derek.

"What if you give her more?" Ian suggested.

Derek stopped walking. "More?"

"Yes," Ian said, gaining confidence. "More money. Or a property. Something that is hers to control. Jewelry is nice, but for a woman who likes power... maybe give her something that generates wealth? A shop? A manor? A mine?"

Derek stared at Ian. His eyes widened.

He nodded slowly. A look of realization dawned on his face.

"That’s very smart," Derek said seriously.

He clapped a hand on Ian’s shoulder.

"That is exactly it," Derek said. "She doesn’t want trinkets. She wants assets. She wants to build."

He smiled at Ian, a genuine compliment.

"That’s why I chose you to be by my side, Ian," Derek said. "You see things clearly."

Ian smiled, standing a little taller. It was rare to see Derek complimenting someone so openly. Usually, the Duke was sparse with his praise.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Ian said, bowing his head.

Ian looked down at the velvet box in his hands.

"But," Ian asked, raising the box a little, "what do I do with this one? The fan?"

Derek looked at the box. His mind flashed back to the carriage ride. He remembered Marissa snapping her fan open. He remembered her hitting him lightly on the chest with it. He remembered her saying, "I love this fan the most."

She used fans as weapons. She used them as shields. She used them to hide her expressions.

"She loves fans," Derek thought to himself.

He reached out and touched the velvet lid of the box gently.

"Have it delivered home," Derek ordered. "Don’t give it to her yet. Have it kept in my study. Place it on my desk."

He wanted to give it to her himself. Maybe later. Maybe when he had the deed to a property to go with it.

"I will wait for the right moment," Derek decided.

"Yes, Your Grace," Ian said. "I will handle it immediately."

Ian turned and headed toward the messenger station to send the box back to the estate.

Derek stood alone for a moment at the entrance to the building. He held his riding gloves in his hands, slapping them rhythmically against his thigh.

From the field behind him, the shouting continued.

"One! Two! Three!"

The sound of grunting soldiers, of wood hitting wood, of men preparing for war, faded into the background.

Derek took a deep breath. He had a war to plan. He had a brother to avenge. He had a traitorous prince to outmaneuver.

But as he opened the door, he smiled again, shaking his head.

"Materialistic," he whispered fondly.

He put his gloves in his pocket and walked toward his study.