The hallway felt cold, the polished stone floor mirroring the icy dread that clung to Emmeline. Her breath hitched in her throat as she recalled the Duke's fury, the way his eyes had burned into her. She hadn't meant to ignite such a reaction, not with Isabelle's name on her lips. The weight of his anger, and the implications of it, pressed down on her.
She reached her wing, the soft, muted colors of the room a balm against the storm raging within her. There, amidst the soft glow of the lamplight, stood Elara. Elara had been searching for her, her brow furrowed with concern. The maid folded a pile of linen, her movements precise and efficient.
"Your Grace," Elara greeted, her voice hushed, as she looked up to see Emmeline standing in the doorway.
"Elara," Emmeline sighed, sinking into a chair. "Have you heard anything…anything about the Duke?"
Elara paused, her hands still, before gently placing the folded linen on the table. "Rumors," she said, her voice low. "Rumours about the Countess. Another marriage being arranged for His Grace."
A sudden knot of something she couldn't quite name tightened in Emmeline's chest. Something more than just unease. A faint glimmer of hope? Or something else entirely?
"Another marriage?" she echoed, the words tumbling out in a rush.
Elara's gaze met Emmeline's, a mixture of sadness and sympathy in her eyes. "The Countess…she believes His Grace is too important to be hindered by matters of the heart. Matters of the heart? Her words felt cruel."
Emmeline felt a cold dread settle in her stomach. The thought of the Duke being married again, the implication that he wasn't truly invested in her or her future, was a knife twisting in her gut.
"I need to speak with His Grace," she announced, rising from her seat, her voice firm despite the tremor within.
Elara's eyes widened slightly. "I fear that would be ill-advised, Your Grace."
Emmeline straightened her shoulders. "Then I shall find him."
She headed towards the corridor, her footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. But before she could reach the study, the Countess blocked her path.
The Countess stood, her figure shrouded in shadows, her wicked smile cutting through the dim light. She looked like a predator, waiting to strike. "Oh, Emmeline," she purred, her voice a silken caress laced with poison. "Returning so soon? Perhaps to bask in the adoration of His Grace?"
Emmeline held her ground. "Your Grace," she replied, her voice surprisingly steady. "I simply wanted to…speak with the Duke."
"Oh, but Emmeline, you must not misunderstand," the Countess continued, her smile widening. "Blackrock Keep isn't a place for you. Your kind is not intended to be here, so kindly return to your rooms." She didn't seem to be angry, just amused by Emmeline's presence.
Emmeline felt a flicker of respect for the Countess's power. She did not dare anger her again, lest she incur more wrath. "I understand, Your Grace," she replied calmly.
And she retreated.
The hallway seemed longer than before, the quiet oppressive. Emmeline found her way back to her own wing, her heart a heavy weight in her chest. The rumors, the Duke's anger, the Countess's venomous words—they all conspired to solidify her sense of isolation. She found no trace of the Duke, her visit ended in silent failure, and disappointment.
The night stretched out before her, a long, dark expanse. Emmeline retreated to her room, the faint scent of lavender filling the air. She lay in bed, the image of the Duke, the weight of the political intrigue all around, a reminder of her powerlessness in this place. The night was hers and hers alone. She would figure it out. She would find her place. But not in Blackrock Keep. Not until she had her freedom.