CHAPTER 23: CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

The grand courtyard of the Thompson estate was a scene of bustling activity. The crisp morning air rang with the sounds of servants’ chatter, the crunch of gravel under carriage wheels, and the sharp, clear orders of a senior footman.

"Careful with that porcelain vase! It’s a gift from the southern envoy!"

"More silks in this chest here. Stack them neatly, now!"

"Make sure the horses for the second carriage are ready. Lord Carlos and his lady will be departing shortly."

Today was the homecoming. It was a tradition steeped in pride and symbolism, the day the new brides returned to their maiden homes, accompanied by their husbands and laden with gifts that spoke of their new family’s wealth and their husband’s esteem.

Standing near a handsome carriage being loaded with a mountain of exquisite presents—chests of fine fabrics, lacquered boxes of jewelry, and crates of expensive spices—stood Ashlyn and Carlos. Ashlyn was a vision in a fashionable morning gown of bright daffodil yellow, her face glowing with a triumphant, happy light. She looked every bit the cherished new bride.

"My dear," Carlos said, his voice a low, affectionate murmur. He gently took her hand and began to help her ease on a pair of long, soft silk gloves. His touch was warm and careful. "Though my status is less than my brother’s, and my gifts may not match a duke’s treasury, I will ensure that in this homecoming," he paused, raising her gloved hand to his lips and placing a soft, lingering kiss on the back of it, "you return to your home in glory."

His sincerity and devotion were a balm to Ashlyn’s ambitious soul. She looked at this kind, handsome man who was now her husband, and a flicker of genuine warmth touched her heart. "My lord..." she started, her voice soft.

"Carlos," he corrected her gently, his eyes crinkling in a warm smile.

Ashlyn looked at him, a little surprised. "What?"

"Call me by my name," he said, his thumb stroking the back of her hand. "We are not strangers, Ashlyn. You are legally my wife. You have every right to call me by my name."

The simple intimacy of the gesture, of his words, was more reassuring than any mountain of gifts. In her past life with Derek, she had always been ’the Duchess’ or ’you’, a title or a pronoun, never a partner. She was always corrected when she calls him by his name. Ashlyn reached up, her gloved hand cupping his cheek. "You are so good to me, Carlos."

He smiled, a genuine, happy smile that lit up his entire face. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a warm, secure hug. It was in the middle of this embrace that Ashlyn, looking over his shoulder towards the grand entrance of the mansion, saw her sister.

Marissa had just stepped out into the sunlight. She was a striking, regal figure, a notable dissimilarity to Ashlyn’s bright ebullience. Her gown was a deep, majestic violet, exquisitely tailored but severe in its elegance. A wide-brimmed hat, pinned at a precise, fashionable angle, cast a slight shadow over her face. She looked less like a happy bride and more like a queen preparing for a solemn state affair. As her maid, Lily, made one final adjustment to a hat pin, Marissa languidly fluttered a lace fan, her expression cool and unreadable.

A viper’s instinct, sharp and cruel, uncoiled in Ashlyn’s gut. The sight of her own happiness was not enough; she needed to see Marissa’s unhappiness.

She broke from Carlos’s hug and took a few steps forward, her voice, sweet as honey, carrying across the courtyard and stopping Marissa in her tracks just as she was about to descend the main steps.

"Sister," she called out.

Marissa stopped. She did not turn. The only sign she had heard was the slow, deliberate way she snapped her fan shut.

Ashlyn waited a beat, ensuring she had the attention of not only her sister, but of several nearby servants as well. "I was just wondering," she continued, her tone one of innocent curiosity, "why isn’t His Grace, the Grand Duke, here for the homecoming? It is such an important tradition."

Marissa remained silent, her back a rigid, unmoving line.

Ashlyn opened her own fan, a delicate thing of painted silk, and began to fan herself slowly, a picture of leisurely grace. "Oh," she said, her eyes wide as if the thought had just occurred to her. "I completely forgot. The head steward mentioned it this morning. His Grace went to see Miss Senna. I do hope she is recovering well after that dreadful poisoning."

The barb was expertly delivered—a public reminder of her husband’s absence and his preference for his mistress. Marissa didn’t utter a word. She didn’t move.

"I do have something else to say," Ashlyn continued, her voice dropping to a hesitant whisper, "but I’m hesitating... perhaps it is not my place."

That finally drew a reaction. Marissa’s voice, when she spoke, was as cold and sharp as breaking ice. She opened her own fan with a flick of her wrist and began to flutter it before her face. "If it is inappropriate, little sister," she said, her voice dripping with disdain, "then I suggest you shut your mouth."

She turned to her maid, her dismissal absolute. "Lily, let’s go."

Without another glance backwards, the Grand Duchess of Denver descended the stone steps, her head held high, and walked towards her grand, lonely carriage.

Ashlyn watched her go, a triumphant, malicious smile playing on her lips. "My dear Marissa," she thought, her heart singing with vicious glee. "You can act as cold and proud as you like. But a new surprise is waiting for you at home. Let’s hope that when we return to the Austen manor, you will still be able to smile."

Her face lit up, the cruel thoughts instantly replaced by a mask of wifely affection as she turned back to Carlos, who had just finished instructing a footman.

"Let’s go, Carlos," she said, her voice bright and cheerful.

Carlos nodded, his thoughts only on his lovely wife. He took her hand, his earlier frustration completely forgotten, and carefully helped her down the stairs and into their waiting carriage.