Page 97 of The Duke's Sinful Bride

Gemma reached out, clasping Yvette’s hands.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Yvette. I’ve missed you dearly. And it’s wonderful to see you thriving.”

Yvette smiled, though her heart ached with the knowledge that “thriving” was far from how she felt. Still, being with Gemma again, even briefly, brought a semblance of comfort.

Killian had always thought of himself as a man of resolve, someone who could set boundaries and maintain them with the sheer force of will. Yet, in the days following his argument with Yvette, his resolve seemed to waver every time he thought of her.

He had buried himself in his business dealings, attending meetings and finalizing contracts, trying to drown out the gnawing ache that had taken root in his chest. But no matter how many hours he spent away from Oakbourne Townhouse, the pull toward her remained.

The nights were the worst. Each time he returned home, his mind betrayed him with vivid imaginings of her waiting for him. Not just in the physical sense—though that temptation wasstrong—but also in the warmth she had started to offer him in quiet moments.

A place of solace he had never thought he needed, but now missed deeply. He would shake his head, forcing the thoughts away, convincing himself he was doing what was right.

Tonight was no different. He walked into his study, lit a single lamp, and poured himself a generous glass of scotch. The amber liquid burned his throat, yet it did little to soothe the restlessness that churned within him.

He stared blankly at the scattered ledgers on his desk, pretending to work, but his gaze kept shifting toward the door. A sigh escaped him as he abandoned the pretense of productivity and moved to the window instead.

Outside, the night was dark, the moon casting an otherworldly glow over the grounds. The scotch coursing through his veins left him a little dazed, but his sharp instincts noticed a flicker of movement in the distance.

He narrowed his eyes, straining to make sense of what he saw. At first, he thought it might be a stray animal, but the movement was too calculated. A shadowy figure then passed through the garden, and for a brief moment, his breath caught in his throat.

“Just the drink,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. His rational mind dismissed the sight, convincing himself it was a trick of the light or perhaps one of the staff. Still, unease lingeredin his chest as he finally set the glass aside, resolving to call it a night.

The next morning, Killian woke later than usual, his head slightly foggy from the night before. As he dressed, he assumed the rest of the family had already finished their breakfast.

This suited him perfectly. The idea of facing Yvette after their fight filled him with dread whenever he thought about it, even though he wasn’t quite sure why he was avoiding her. He’d decided to take his meal in his study, away from prying eyes and lingering tension.

But as he made his way to the dining room to inform Mrs. Harrow of his plan, his intentions were hindered.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Mrs. Harrow greeted him with a polite curtsy. “The family has only just begun breakfast. Shall I have yours set up alongside theirs, or would you prefer it elsewhere?”

Killian hesitated.

His immediate instinct was to refuse, and have his meal sent to the solitude of his study. Yet, before he could respond, a familiar, cheerful voice cut through the air.

“Papa!”

Maisie’s head peeked out from behind the dining room door, her wide smile breaking any resolve he might have had. She darted toward him, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the table.

“Come sit with us! We have only just begun.”

Killian glanced toward the doorway, debating whether or not to excuse himself. But Maisie’s excitement was infectious, and he found himself nodding.

“Very well, Maisie. I’ll join ye,” he said, allowing himself to be led into the room.

The moment he stepped in, the atmosphere shifted. Fiona looked up from her plate, her eyes flickering between Killian and Yvette with subtle curiosity. Yvette, however, didn’t even glance his way. She remained focused on spreading marmalade on her toast, her expression unreadable.

Killian’s chest tightened as he took his seat. The tension was evident, a heavy presence that seemed to seep into every corner of the room. Maisie and Fiona exchanged brief looks. Despite her age, even Maisie was clearly aware of the strained dynamic but they were both too polite to comment on it.

“Papa, look at this!” Maisie said, breaking the silence as she held up a drawing she’d been working on. “It’s a picture of all of us at Duchess’s house! Aunt Fiona says she cannot tell which is supposed to be her,” Maisie reported with a slight pout.

Killian leaned closer to inspect the colorful mess of lines and shapes. Maisie had drawn what appeared to be a house with stick figures representing their family. No wonder Fiona could not find herself.

He smiled faintly, his heart softening despite the weight of the morning.

“Ye’ve quite the talent, lass,” he said, ruffling her hair. “But I think ye forgot to give me a sword.”

Maisie giggled, her laughter filling the room like a soothing balm. “You don’t need a sword, Papa!”

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