Page 38 of His Godsent Duchess
Victor took a measured breath, steadying his thoughts. "A branch fell in front of us, startling Angelique," he began, trying to maintain his usual calm demeanor. "The mare reared and lost her footing, and your mother... well, she fell with her."
Katherine's brow furrowed as she looked up at him. "Who is Angelique?" she asked. Victor paused for a moment, realizing with a pang of guilt that he had never shared much of his life—his interests, his passions—with his daughters. His chest tightened, a strange ache blooming there.
He had always been too distant, too concerned with keeping order, and in doing so, he had inadvertently created a divide between them. Christina had spoken of how eager the girls were to spend time with him, and now, he could see it plainly in their eyes.
Victor swallowed hard, his gaze softening as he looked at Katherine. "Angelique is one of my horses," he said quietly. "And Toro, the stallion you saw earlier, is another. I've trained them both myself."
Cassidy's eyes widened with awe. "You trained them yourself, Father?"
Lady Annabelle, who had been listening intently, gave a soft giggle. "But, Your Grace," she said, her tone teasing, "you look far too serious to train horses."
Victor allowed himself a small smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Even serious men can ride and train horses, Lady Annabelle," he replied.
Agnes, who had been clutching the hem of his coat, tugged gently. "Father, can we see them? We're hardly ever allowed in the stables except when Mother takes us."
The tenderness in Agnes's voice caught him off guard, and for a moment, all the rigid formality he held onto so tightly slipped away. He knelt down to her level, gently brushing a lock of her hair from her face. "When Angelique is better," he promised softly, "I will introduce you to both of them. You have my word."
Agnes's face brightened with a smile, and for a fleeting moment, Victor felt a warmth he hadn't experienced in years. Rising, he cleared his throat and led them down to the drawing room.
"I trust you will all behave yourselves so your mother can rest," he said firmly but not unkindly.
Amelia, always quick to offer her assurances, clasped her hands behind her back and smiled sweetly. "We wouldn't dream of disturbing Mother, Father. We'll be on our best behavior."
Victor gave her a nod, his lips twitching slightly at her attempt to sound prim. As he turned to leave the drawing room, Miss Peversly appeared at the doorway. She curtsied with what he could only describe as a practiced elegance, though her presence always unsettled him.
"I have heard of the unfortunate incident involving Her Grace," she began, her tone carefully modulated to sound concerned, though Victor noted that it lacked any true sincerity. "Is there anything I might do foryou, Your Grace?"
Victor's brow furrowed slightly. It struck him as odd that she asked what she could do forhimand not for Christina, who was, after all, the one who had fallen and was in pain. The lack of genuine concern for his wife did not sit well with him.
His voice was clipped as he responded, "There is nothing I require from you, Miss Peversly."
Her smile faltered, but she quickly masked it, offering another curtsy before turning away. Victor watched her retreat, feeling the weight of her presence linger long after she had gone.
Just then, something brushed against his boots. He didn't need to look down to know what—or rather, who—it was.
"Carrot," he muttered, half amused, half exasperated. The feline mewed up at him, his orange fur brushing against Victor's leg as if seeking his attention.
Victor turned to a nearby footman. "Take him up to the duchess," he ordered, watching as Carrot trotted off, his little tail swishing with contentment.
As the footman scooped up the cat, Victor turned toward the front door to return to the stables. There was something about the governess's demeanor that still lingered in his mind, a nagging sense of unease he couldn't quite shake. And yet, his thoughts kept drifting back to Christina—how she had fallen but still insisted on helping Angelique.
His wife was unlike anyone he had ever known. She unsettled him in ways he didn't quite understand, and yet, he couldn't stop thinking about her.
Christina winced as her left hand touched her aching right shoulder. It felt swollen beneath her fingers, but not broken—at least, she didn't think it was. "It's not broken, Addison," she murmured, "or rather, I hope it's not." Her voice wavered slightly with the pain, though she tried to keep it steady.
Her gaze softened as she glanced down at Carrot, curled up beside her, his soft purring a soothing balm for her frazzled nerves. Gently, she stroked his fur, her mind momentarily distracted from her own discomfort.
Addison, her faithful maid, stood nearby, concern evident in her eyes. "The girls are still terribly worried about you, Your Grace," she said softly. Christina sighed, wishing she could go to them, reassure them that she was fine, even if she was feeling more pain than she had let on.
Before she could reply, a gentle knock sounded at the door. Addison moved to answer it, opening it slightly to reveal Mrs. Brimsey's familiar, motherly face peeking in. "Begging your pardon, Your Grace," the housekeeper said, "may I come in?"
Christina nodded, shifting slightly but wincing as her shoulder protested any movement. "Of course, Mrs. Brimsey," she replied, trying to sit up properly but finding the effort nearly impossible without causing more pain.
The housekeeper entered, her brow furrowed with concern as she inquired after Christina's condition. "How are you faring, Your Grace?"
"My shoulder aches," Christina admitted, her tone soft but resigned. It was an ache she hadn't expected to linger so much.
Mrs. Brimsey's expression brightened with reassurance. "Not to worry, ma'am, you shall be well again very soon. The physician is here."
