CHAPTER 64: CHAPTER SIXTY FOUR

The courtyard was now eerily quiet. The assembled servants, their faces pale with a new terror of their mistress, had vanished like mist, scurrying back to the perceived safety of their duties. The only sounds were the distant call of a bird and the crunch of gravel as the guards, their grim task completed, patrolled the surroundings.

Derek watched Marissa for a long, silent moment. He pushed himself off the stone pillar and began to follow her.

His footsteps on the marble floor were the only sound. Marissa turned, her face a cool, impassive mask, and began to walk towards her bedchamber. She did not wait for him.

He followed her, his hands clasped behind his back, easily keeping pace with her unhurried, graceful strides. They walked through the grand entrance hall, past servants who pressed themselves flat against the walls, their heads bowed so low they were nearly touching their knees, afraid to even breathe in their new mistress’s presence.

"About Nora’s death," Derek said, his voice a low rumble in the heavy silence of the hall.

Marissa didn’t stop walking. "Is the Grand Duke explaining himself to me?" she replied, her voice laced with a cool, sharp-edged sarcasm. "I am so very honored."

"There was no reason for her to live anymore," he continued, completely ignoring her tone. "She was a loose end. And she was already hell-bent on protecting Ashlyn, even to the point of lying with a suicide story. She was a liability, and I did what I had to do."

"It’s fine," Marissa said, her voice flat. She was not shocked. She was not horrified. In her own, cold, practical way, she understood his brutal logic. "I understand."

They reached the grand staircase, their footsteps echoing on the marble. Derek’s gaze was fixed on the straight, proud line of her back. "Your sister’s punishment, however," he said, his voice a low, thoughtful growl. "Considering she killed someone, framed you for it, and then lied to the entire family... I’m afraid thirty lashes wasn’t enough."

Marissa stopped at the base of the stairs, turning to look at him. Her expression was unreadable. "I don’t want to kill her," she said simply. "And besides, Nora, in her final, foolish act, has taken all the blame. She confessed to the framing. She claimed Lorena’s death was a suicide. In the eyes of the household, my sister is guilty of only one, minor thing: giving money to a servant against your orders."

She placed a hand on the bannister, her gaze clear and sharp. "The punishment I gave her was not a private one, from a sister to a sister. It was the appropriate, official punishment for a member of this family who openly defied the Grand Duke, the head of the house. I did not want to abuse my new power with a personal, private punishment. That would have been a mistake."

She turned and began to ascend the stairs. "However," she added, her voice a cold, quiet promise, "if she doesn’t repent, if she continues to plot... she will eventually reap what she sows. I am content to wait."

Derek watched her, a slow, unfamiliar, and deeply impressed smile spreading across his face. This was not the act of a hot-headed, vengeful woman. This was the cold, patient, strategic move of a true strategist. She had punished Ashlyn, terrified the entire household into obedience, and secured her own power, all while remaining perfectly within the bounds of "justice" and "family rules."

He walked faster, taking the stairs two at a time, until he was walking beside her, their shoulders almost brushing.

"The Grand Duchess has taken charge of the family for less than a day," he said, his voice laced with a new, dark, and genuine amusement, "and she already acts with such perfect order. It is truly remarkable."

He was teasing her.

"If I were to make a mistake, Duchess," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, playful murmur, "if I, for instance, tracked mud into your clean halls... would I be punished in the same way?"

Marissa had reached her door. She stopped, her hand on the brass handle. She turned to face him. The hallway curtains were down and the space was dim, lit only by a single sconce far down the wall, but it was enough to see her face.

And then, she smiled.

It was not the cold, triumphant smile of the courtyard. It was not the polite, empty mask she wore for his grandmother. It was the smile he had seen in the garden. The genuine, unguarded, and utterly dazzling one that transformed her entire face, that lit her eyes from within, that made the small, dark mole under her eye seem like the most captivating thing in the world.

She looked at him, this powerful, brutal, and complex man who had just executed a woman and was now teasing her like a young lad.

"Why don’t you try," she whispered, her voice a soft, intimate challenge, "and see?"

His breath caught in his throat. His mind, which had been so sharp and clear, suddenly felt... slow. Foggy. He was completely, utterly mesmerized. He had a sudden, overwhelming, and totally insane urge to touch that smile.

His hand, of its own accord, lifted. He wanted to touch her cheek, her lips, to see if the warmth he saw in her eyes was real.

But before his fingers could even come close, the smile vanished. The door clicked open.

"Thank you so much for everything and enjoy the rest of your day, Your Grace."

And she shut the door in his face.

The click of the latch was loud in the sudden, empty silence of the hallway.

Derek stood there, his hand still half-raised in the empty air, feeling like the world’s biggest fool. He stared at the plain, carved wood of the door, his heart hammering in his chest with a strange, unfamiliar, and deeply annoying rhythm. He felt wrong-footed, confused, and... intrigued.

He let his hand drop to his side. He stood there for a long, silent moment, just staring at the door. He had been so caught up in her smile, in her challenge, that he had forgotten the real reason he had followed her up the stairs.

Her hands, he thought, a sudden jolt of memory. Whipping someone thirty times... that leather would tear the skin.

He reached into the deep inner pocket of his trouser. His fingers brushed against a small, cool, porcelain pot. The healing ointment for her neck. He had taken it back from her room, intending to... he wasn’t sure what he intended. But now...

He looked at the door. He was not going to knock. He was not going to give her the satisfaction of seeing him flustered again.

With a sigh that was half-frustration, half-amusement, he crouched down. He carefully, quietly, placed the small, white porcelain pot on the floor, right in front of her door, where she would be sure to find it.

He stood up, brushed a non-existent speck of dust from his knee, and gave the door one, sharp, formal knock.

And then, before she could possibly answer, he turned on his heel and walked away.