CHAPTER 133: CHAPTER HUNDRED AND THIRTY THREE

The moon hung high above the Thompson estate, a pale, silver crescent in a sky of deep velvet blue. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the cooling stone of the manor walls. It was the kind of silence that usually brought peace.

The rhythmic clop-clop-clop of hooves broke the stillness as two horses turned into the main courtyard. They moved slowly, tired from the journey back from the barracks.

Derek slid down from his black mare. His boots hit the gravel with a heavy, solid sound. He stretched his neck, feeling the stiffness in his shoulders. It had been a long day of training soldiers, managing supply lines, and thinking about his woman.

Ian dismounted beside him. He looked fresh, despite the long hours. He took the reins of Derek’s horse.

"I will take them, Your Grace," Ian said quietly. "Rest well."

Derek nodded, patting the mare’s flank one last time. "Make sure they are brushed down properly, Ian. Extra oats tonight."

"Yes, Your Grace."

Ian led the two horses away toward the stables, the sound of their hooves fading into the darkness.

Derek stood alone in the courtyard for a moment. He looked up at the main house. Most of the windows were dark, the household asleep. But a few faint lights still flickered in the corridors.

He walked up the stone steps and pushed open the heavy front doors. The entrance hall was dimly lit by a few low-burning torches in wall sconces. The shadows stretched long and thin across the marble floor.

He heard the soft shuffle of footsteps.

Mrs. Alma, the head housekeeper, was walking down the hall. She held a small lantern in her hand, making her final rounds to ensure the doors were locked and the candles were snubbed. She looked tired but efficient, her keys jingling softly at her waist.

She saw the tall figure enter and stopped. She raised her lantern slightly.

"Your Gra..." she began to greet him, dipping into a curtsy.

Derek raised a hand, stopping her. He didn’t want the formality tonight. He just wanted answers.

"How are you, Mrs. Alma?" Derek asked. His voice was low, respectful of the sleeping house.

Mrs. Alma smiled warmly. She had served this family since Derek was a boy. She saw the fatigue in his eyes.

"I am doing well, Your Grace," Mrs. Alma replied. "The house is quiet tonight."

Derek nodded. He pulled off his riding gloves, tucking them into his belt.

"How is Grandmother?" he asked.

"She is fine," Mrs. Alma said reassuringly. "She retired early. She had a cup of chamomile tea and is sound asleep. The excitement of the past few days has tired her, but she is in good spirits."

Derek felt a small wave of relief. He cared deeply for the old woman, even if she drove him mad with her matchmaking.

He hesitated. He looked toward the grand staircase that led to the upper wings. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly looking less like a Grand Duke and more like a nervous suitor.

"How is..." Derek started, then cleared his throat. "How is my wife?"

Mrs. Alma’s smile widened. She had seen the change in the Duke lately. She had seen the way he looked at the new lady of the house.

"Her Grace is fine," Alma said. "She has eaten her dinner. She retired to her chambers a few hours ago and is likely asleep."

Derek nodded, feeling a strange mix of disappointment and relief. He wanted to see her, but he also didn’t want to wake her.

Mrs. Alma’s expression turned thoughtful. She lowered her voice.

"Though..." she added, "she came back from her outing this afternoon quite angry."

Derek froze. His head snapped back to look at Alma.

"Angry?" he repeated.

"Yes," Alma said. "She went straight to her garden. She was pacing. She looked... well, she looked like she wanted to hit someone. Lily said she was in a foul mood."

Alma looked at Derek with a knowing, slightly accusing glint in her eye.

"How is she now?" Derek interrupted, his voice urgent.

"She is fine now," Alma soothed him. "The anger passed. She did a little gardening. Then evening came, she took a bat, ate dinner and went to bed."

She stepped a little closer, tilting her head.

"Did you do something, Your Grace?" Alma asked bluntly. "Did you two fight? Is that why she came home with such a storm on her face?"

Derek’s eyes went wide. He immediately waved his hands in front of him, a defensive gesture.

"No..." Derek said quickly. "It wasn’t me. I didn’t do anything."

He thought of Carlos rolling on the grass, clutching his groin. He thought of the tea splashing in his brother’s face. He knew exactly why she was angry. She was angry because she had been tricked by a fool. She was angry because her afternoon had been wasted on an idiot instead of... well, instead of him.

But he couldn’t tell Mrs. Alma that.

"I promise, Alma," Derek said, looking earnest. "I am innocent this time."

Mrs. Alma laughed. It was a soft, motherly sound.

"Good night, Your Grace," she said, bowing. "Try not to wake her."

She turned and walked away, her lantern swinging, leaving Derek standing alone in the hall.

He let out a breath.

"She was angry," he muttered to himself.

He felt a pang of guilt. He should have been there earlier. If he hadn’t been delayed at the barracks, he would have met her at the oak tree before Carlos arrived. He could have saved her the annoyance.

He turned and walked toward his study. He went to his desk.

He lit a single candle. The light illuminated the velvet box containing the mother-of-pearl fan he had sent home earlier. It sat on the corner of his desk, unopened.

He sat down. He pulled a piece of fresh parchment toward him. He dipped his quill into the inkwell.

He stared at the blank paper. What should he say?

"I saw you kick my brother"? No. Too blunt.

"I bought you a property "? No. Ian was right, that was a good gift, but he didn’t have the deed yet.

He needed to apologize for missing their appointment. He needed to ask for another chance.

He began to write. The scratching of the quill was the only sound in the room.

"Marissa," he wrote.

"I apologize for today. The barracks held me longer than I anticipated, and I arrived at the oak tree too late."

He paused. He smiled slightly as he wrote the next part.

"I saw the... incident... with my brother. I applaud your aim. He deserved far worse."

He dipped the pen again.

"However, I regret that our meeting was ruined. I still have the surprise I promised you. It is something I think you will appreciate."

He thought about where to meet. The oak tree was spoiled now. It would remind her of Carlos. The garden was too public.

"Meet me tomorrow evening," he wrote. "At the Golden Swan. The main hall is clearing up. I want to show you something."

He signed it simply: "Derek."

He waited for the ink to dry. He folded the paper carefully. He didn’t seal it with the ducal crest. He didn’t want it to look like an official order. He left it plain.

He stood up and blew out the candle.

He walked out of his study and headed toward the east wing.

The hallway to Marissa’s room was dark and silent. He walked softly, his boots making no sound on the thick runners.

He reached her door. He stopped.

He stared at the wood. He imagined her on the other side, sleeping. He imagined her hair spread out on the pillow. He remembered the smell of lavender.

He wanted to knock. He wanted to see her. He wanted to see if she was still angry. But he remembered Mrs. Alma’s warning. "Try not to wake her."

And he remembered Marissa’s command from the night before. "Close the door on your way out."

She needed her rest. And he needed to be patient.

He crouched down.

Slowly, carefully, he slid the folded letter under the door. He watched until the white paper disappeared completely into her room.

He stood up. He placed his hand on the doorframe for just a second, a silent goodnight.

Then, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows of the hallway, a smile on his face.