The afternoon sun, a molten gold, painted the gardens of Blackrock Keep in shimmering hues. From his position on the terrace, the Duke watched Emmeline. She stood on the balcony, bathed in the golden light, a figure of quiet grace amidst the vibrant foliage. Her emerald gown seemed to absorb the sunlight, making her almost luminous. Beside him, the Countess, her face a mask of disapproval, observed her with a critical eye.
"She is... inadequate," the Countess murmured, her voice a low, almost venomous hiss. "A pale imitation of the women who truly understand their place."
The Duke remained silent, his gaze fixed on Emmeline. He hadn't spoken much since the Countess had arrived, his expression impassive, a fortress of emotions kept firmly locked within. He'd watched her countless times, and yet, her quiet strength, her way of standing apart in a sea of gilded people, intrigued him. It was a strange tension, that quiet strength she held in the face of the court's judgments, of the Countess's sneers.
"You did your father a favour, marrying her," the Countess continued, her voice laced with bitter condescension. "A favour, I concede. But a favour does not equate to a suitable match. A true wife, my son, is not merely a pretty face to uphold appearances. She is an asset, a partner. A woman capable of supporting your ambitions, not hindering them."
The Duke remained impassive. He knew his mother was right, in many ways. Emmeline wasn't the woman of sharp business acumen and sharp political shrewdness that his mother sought. She lacked the fire that had characterized his first wife, or the ambition he had hoped would match his own. But that quiet strength Emmeline held was a different kind of power. A power that he couldn't yet quite define.
"She will never be anything more than a distraction," the Countess added, her voice tinged with a cruel certainty. "A lady of the drawing room, charming, but ultimately frivolous. She is not fit to bear the weight of Blackrock."
The Duke shifted slightly, his silence a statement in itself. He knew his mother was right about Emmeline's perceived weaknesses, but something held him back from uttering agreement. Perhaps it was the undeniable beauty in Emmeline's quiet strength, a strength that seemed to defy societal expectations. Or perhaps it was something else, a flicker of something still uncertain and undefined. He simply couldn't articulate what was holding him back.
He watched her for a long moment. The light on her face, the way she moved, the subtle strength in her posture. Then, he turned back to his mother, and said nothing. His silence was a statement. A statement that spoke volumes about his own indecision, his own uncertainty. He knew he'd need more time, more reflection, before he made a decision. He was, perhaps, being led to a decision he hadn't yet realized he was capable of making, or perhaps not.