Page 77 of An Unwanted Spinster for the Duke
He followed her finger—and froze.
The portrait.
He’d forgotten it. Deliberately, perhaps. It was his ten-year-old self, looking stiff in a navy waistcoat, standing between his parents. His mother’s hand rested on his shoulder. He remembered how light it felt, how ghostly. She had haunted his life more than she had shaped it.
His father’s hand was on his back—not in comfort, but pressure. A push toward becoming the man he demanded his son be.
Dominic’s fists clenched at his sides. Some things were better buried.
“You look angry,” Victoria observed.
He almost told her that it wasn’t her fault, that she was only the spark and not the fire. But before he could speak, footsteps pounded behind them.
“Victoria!”
Marianne. She sounded breathless. Terrified.
She reached them moments later, her eyes wide, her lips pale. The governess and Wilhelmina followed close behind, their faces just as stricken.
“Thank God,” Marianne breathed, her voice thick with unshed tears.
Dominic turned to the governess, his tone sharp. “Miss Aldridge, care to explain how you lost your charge and allowed her to wander into a restricted part of the house?”
“I am s-so sorry, Y-Your Grace,” Clara stammered. “We were playing hide and seek. It was the young lady’s idea.”
The dear girl, no doubt.
Dominic snorted inwardly.
“She’s not hurt,” Marianne interjected gently. “That’s what matters.” She knelt to take Victoria’s hand. “Come along, darling. Daphne is waiting in the drawing room—completely unaware of the panic you caused.”
“She was only curious, Your Grace,” Wilhelmina added, her eyes flashing with protectiveness.
“Curiosity is a dangerous fault. One that often comes with a price no one can pay twice,” Dominic muttered.
Marianne flinched. He regretted it instantly.
His eyes drifted back to the portrait—his own ghostly eyes looking back at him across the years.
“We won’t come this way again,” Marianne promised.
He wished she hadn’t said that.
Their eyes met, hers holding a strange blend of fury and sorrow.
Had he done that to her? Or had she come into this house just as broken as he was?
She nodded once, then turned around and led the others away.
Dominic remained in the corridor. Alone.
And still, the boy in the portrait stared back—less paint than memory, less memory than scar.
When total darkness settled over Oakmere Hall, Marianne had already tucked her sisters into bed. She lingered by each bedside, pressing gentle kisses to their foreheads.
“You don’t have to do that for me anymore, Marianne,” Wilhelmina protested with a soft chuckle.
“You’ll always be my little sister, Mina,” Marianne said quietly, drinking in Wilhelmina’s familiar features in the dim light. They shared the same coloring and build, but while Marianne’s eyes were hazel, Wilhelmina’s were a clear, bright blue.
