"What’s wrong with him?" Duchess Lyra asked, her voice sharp.
Delia, still shaking off the last remains of sleep, was confused by the Duchess’s alarm. She looked at Eric’s peaceful, sleeping form. "There’s nothing wrong with him, Your Grace," she responded, her own voice soft. "He’s just sleeping."
Lyra stared at her as if she had just said the sky was green. "He’s sleeping? Through all this noise? Through shouting?" She took a step closer to the chair, her eyes wide with a disbelief that Delia didn’t understand. "Eric is?"
"Should I wake him up?" Delia asked, taking a hesitant step forward, intending to gently shake his shoulder.
"No!" Lyra’s command was so sharp and imdiate that Delia froze in place. The Duchess’s expression was no longer one of shock or amusent, but sothing much deeper—a profound, motherly worry mixed with a strange sense of wonder.
"No," she repeated, her voice softer now. "He hasn’t slept well for his entire life. Not since he was a young lad. He’s the lightest sleeper I have ever known. The smallest sound wakes him."
She looked at her son, truly looked at him, at the way his chest rose and fell in a slow, even rhythm, at the way the lines of tension around his eyes had finally smoothed away. He was sleeping with a peace she hadn’t seen in him for years. The sight of it seed to change sothing fundantal inside her.
She took one last, long look at her son, a mother witnessing a small miracle. Then, she turned and walked towards the door. "Leave him be," she said quietly. "Let him rest."
Delia quickly took her robe from the floor where it fell from her shoulders during the conversation and wrapped it around herself, trying to catch up with the Duchess who was already in the hallway. By the ti Delia reached the front door, Lyra was about to step into her waiting carriage.
"Are you leaving already, Your Grace?" Delia asked, her voice a little breathless.
Lyra turned, her hand on the carriage door. She looked at Delia, her gaze no longer holding any of the previous day’s hostility. It was now filled with a new, intense curiosity. She saw Delia, not as a scandalous usurper, but as the reason her son was finally, truly, sleeping.
"Alright, Delia," the Duchess said, her tone decisive. "I can tell you this."
Delia braced herself, her heart pounding, expecting another lecture or a dismissal.
"Let’s do it," Lyra announced. "A formal family introduction. With everyone. This weekend."
Delia was so surprised she could barely speak. "Really?" she breathed, her eyes wide with disbelief.
"Yes," Lyra continued, her expression turning serious. "But it will be on one condition."
Delia waited, her full attention on the Duchess.
"Can you keep a secret from Eric?" Lyra asked, her voice low. "Can you prove to that your loyalty can extend to , his mother, as well?"
~ ••••• ~
"They want the families to et?" Augusta asked, her voice laced with surprise and displeasure. Her teacup clattered against its saucer.
The scene in Baron Henry’s room was tense. Delia had called everyone together—Augusta, Anne, and her father—to relay the Duchess’s ssage.
"Yes," Delia replied calmly, standing before them like a royal herald delivering a decree. "Her Grace, the Duchess, suggested we all et this weekend."
Anne, who had been sitting silently in a corner, nursing her wounded pride, said nothing. Her face was pale, and her eyes were dull. The fight seed to have gone out of her.
Just then, there was a knock on the door. A maid entered, holding a letter with an official-looking wax seal. "A courier just arrived, my lord," the maid said, handing the letter to Baron Henry.
Henry took the letter, his brow furrowed in curiosity. The room fell silent as he broke the seal and unfolded the thick parchnt. Augusta and Anne waited impatiently, their eyes fixed on him, wanting to know what the letter was about.
Henry read the letter, his expression changing from curiosity to surprise, and then to a slow, satisfied smile. He finished reading and looked up, his gaze landing on Delia with a smile.
"Well," he announced to the room. "It seems my father has given his formal approval for Delia’s marriage to the Duke of Elinburgh ."
Augusta gasped, her face turning pale with shock. Anne flinched as if she had been struck. The approval of the family patriarch, the old Baron Ellington, was a powerful endorsent, one that superseded any of Augusta’s own objections.
"What did you do?" Augusta turned on Delia, her voice a furious whisper. She knew Delia must have sohow orchestrated this.
Delia t her stepmother’s glare with a serene smile. She had indeed sent a letter to her grandfather, the one family mber whose authority even Augusta had to respect, explaining the situation in careful, strategic terms.
"Since Grandpa has given his consent," Delia said sweetly, "I will be sure to let you know the ti and place where the Carson family wishes for you to et them."
The finality of it, the complete and utter defeat, was too much for Anne. Hot tears began to stream down her face, and she let out a choked sob before fleeing the room.
Delia turned to leave as well, her duty done. But as she stepped into the hallway, Augusta followed her, grabbing her wrist in a tight, painful grip and causing her to halt.
"Don’t think you have won already," Augusta hissed, her face twisted with rage. "Nothing has been finalized yet. A lot can happen between now and the wedding."
Delia looked down at the hand gripping her wrist, then back up at her stepmother’s furious face. She smiled, a cold, sharp expression that mirrored Augusta’s own cruelty. "Then why are you getting so anxious, Mother?"
Augusta was taken aback by the use of the forbidden word, by the sheer audacity of the girl before her. "What?" she said, her grip loosening slightly.
"Relax your face, Mother," Delia continued, her voice soft but cutting. "You are going to need it to force a smile in front of His Grace’s family. You wouldn’t want to cause a scene." She paused, letting the words sink in. "It’s sothing I’ve had to do for years in this house. Am I right... Mother, or should I say, Baroness?"
She pulled her wrist from Augusta’s grasp and turned, walking calmly towards her own room.
Left alone in the hallway, Augusta stared after her, her chest heaving with silently. After a long mont, she let out a harsh, bitter chuckle. The girl had learned to fight back. This was going to be much more difficult than she had anticipated.
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