CHAPTER 50: CHAPTER FIFTY

The golden, late-afternoon light spilled across the marble terrace, casting long shadows over the remnants of the royal luncheon. The air was finally calm. Maids and footmen moved quietly, clearing away the fine china and crystal, their polite clinking the only sound, save for the distant call of a bird.

Marissa stood near the fountain, her arms folded, overseeing the cleanup. She had done it. She had survived the test, humiliated her rival, and secured the favor of both the Crown Princess and the Dowager.

"I heard you shone today."

The voice was deep, laced with a smug, knowing amusement that was becoming all too familiar. It boomed across the terrace, causing the nearby servants to startle and immediately bow their heads.

Marissa turned. Derek was approaching, his stride long and confident, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked less like a duke and more like a wolf who had just enjoyed a good show.

"You even stood unfazed before the Crown Princess," he finished, stopping a few feet from her. The maids curtsied deeply, their eyes fixed on the floor, pretending not to listen.

Marissa’s face remained a mask of polite indifference. This was not a conversation to be had in front of an audience. Without a word, she stepped forward, her small, gloved hand closing around his wrist.

Derek stopped, his eyes widening in surprise at the bold, physical contact. The servants, witnessing their Grand Duchess effectively grab the Grand Duke, averted their eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t strain their necks.

She pulled him, her grip surprisingly firm, away from the prying ears of the staff. She didn’t stop until they were in a more secluded part of the garden, hidden from view by a tall, fragrant trellis of white jasmine. When she was sure they were alone, she let go of his hand as if it were a hot coal.

He stood there, rubbing his wrist, an incredulous, amused smirk on his face. "I’m truly impressed," he said, picking up the conversation as if she hadn’t just manhandled him. "First, you play the part of the victim, then the detective, and finally, the brilliant savior. It was a magnificent performance."

"Praises from His Grace are rare," Marissa replied, her voice as cool and smooth as the marble fountain. "I am honored." She tilted her head, her gaze sharp. "But why are you here? I thought you had... matters... to attend to with Miss Senna."

"Do I now need permission to come home, Duchess?" he retorted, the old, easy banter returning.

"Why would you?" she said, her voice flat. "I am just surprised to see you home during the day, when there is no crisis to attend to. It is an unusual sight."

The jab hit its mark. He chuckled, a short, humorless sound, and decided to change the topic to one that gave him the upper hand. "Grandmother has agreed to give you the household authority."

Marissa’s expression did not change, but her eyes sharpened. This was what she had been waiting for. After everything that happened, she was already anticipating it.

"She was very impressed by your ’wisdom’ and ’cleverness’ today," he continued, his tone mocking. He leaned against the trellis, the very picture of a smug, self-satisfied man. "You owe me thanks. I am the one who convinced her."

Marissa raised an eyebrow. "I owe you thanks?" she repeated, her voice laced with disbelief. "I am the one who was humiliated. I am the one who uncovered the plot. I am the one who saved the family’s honor and salvaged the party. I earned it myself. You only spoke a few kind words, and now you expect me to be grateful?"

She turned, ready to leave. She had no time for his childish ego.

"You won’t deny it, right?"

His voice stopped her. It was different. The smug, mocking tone was gone, replaced by a strange, petulant, almost vulnerable sound. It sounded, she thought with a jolt of surprise, like a hurt child who had just been denied a sweet.

She paused, her back still to him. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. He was so transparent. His pride was as large and as fragile as a spun-sugar sculpture. He had helped her. He had wrapped his coat around her. He had put the ointment on her neck. He had, in his own gruff, arrogant way, stood by her side. And now, he wanted his payment—not in coin, but in acknowledgment.

It was a small price to pay to keep her new, unpredictable ally on her side.

She let out a soft, airy sigh. "I was just joking," she said, her voice losing its sharp edge.

She turned around.

The movement was slow. And as she faced him, she let the mask she wore—the cold, calculating Duchess, the sharp-tongued shrew, the serene, pious wife—fall away completely.

For the first time since he had met her, Derek saw her genuine smile.

It was not the small, victorious smirk she had given Ashlyn. It was not the cold, polite mask she gave to the world. This smile was warm, bright, and unguarded. It transformed her entire face, lighting her from within. It reached her eyes, crinkling the corners, and it made the small, dark mole he had noticed in her bedchamber seem like a deliberate, beautiful mark. It was a smile of breathtaking, devastating sincerity.

"Of course I’ll thank you," she said, her voice now soft, with a warm, teasing lilt he had never heard before. She performed a small, graceful curtsy, her eyes, bright with this new, strange light, never leaving his.

"Thank you... Derek."

He froze. His brain, which was already struggling to process the visual shock of her smile, now had to deal with the sound of his own name, spoken by her, in that voice. It was not "Your Grace." It was not a formal title. It was just... Derek.

He stared, completely and utterly mesmerized. He had an abrupt, insane, and overwhelming urge to touch those lips, to see if they were as soft as they looked, to keep that smile aimed at him, and only him. He felt a strange, unfamiliar, and deeply unsettling tightening in his chest. He had no idea what to say. He had no witty retort, no cutting remark. He was completely, and terrifyingly, disarmed.

A sound, a small cough, broke the heavy, charged silence.

"Your Grace?"

A young maid stood a few yards away, her head bowed, her body trembling, clearly terrified to be interrupting. "Your Grace... Your Grace, the Dowager," she stammered, "she requests both of your presence in the drawing room."

The spell shattered.

Derek watched as the woman in front of him transformed. It was like watching a candle be snuffed out. The light in her eyes vanished. The warm, unguarded smile disappeared, as if it had never been. The polite, cool, unreadable mask of the Duchess slid back into place with a near-audible click.

She turned to him, her face once again serene and formal. "Grandmother wants to see us, Your Grace," she said, her voice as cool and crisp as an autumn morning. "We best get going."

She gave him a brief, shallow, and perfectly impersonal curtsy, then turned and walked away, her back straight, her steps measured, leaving him standing alone by the jasmine trellis.

Derek remained frozen for a moment longer, staring at the spot where she had been. He felt a sharp, confusing, and totally illogical pang of... disappointment. The warmth she had brought into the garden was gone, leaving him feeling strangely cold.

He touched his own ear, the one she had teased him about the night before. It was burning hot again.

He let out a low, shaky breath, his mind a complete jumble.

"Why is she being formal all of a sudden?" he murmured to the empty air. A sudden, absurd doubt struck him. Had he imagined it?

"Or... did I just imagine her calling me ’Derek’?"