Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

G emma sat on the edge of the bed, running her fingers through her tangled hair as the morning sun streamed through the window.

It felt strange to be in a bed so soft, with blankets so warm. The previous night’s events came rushing back—the Duke’s commanding presence, the Dowager Duchess’ keen gaze, and the overwhelming realization that she was once again trapped. She hadn’t escaped the convent only to find herself under the roof of another controlling man, no matter what his title or status.

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Dowager Duchess entered the room, moving with an elegance that only age and authority could impart.

“Good morning, my dear,” the Dowager greeted her with a warm smile, though her sharp eyes were scrutinizing. “I trust you slept well?”

Gemma nodded. “Yes, thank you,” she replied, though her voice lacked conviction.

She hadn’t really slept, not fully or deeply. Her mind had been restless, caught between the relief she felt at being away from the convent and her trepidation about the uncertain future that lay ahead.

The lady approached the window and gazed at the estate’s grounds. “Frederick and I have discussed your situation. I understand you may not feel particularly inclined to stay, given my grandson’s… less than welcoming demeanor,” she said with a small chuckle, “but I think it would be unwise for you to leave just yet.”

“I do not plan to stay, Your Grace,” Gemma said, her voice firmer now. “I need to keep moving. I have already wasted enough time.”

The Dowager looked at her quizzically, her brow arching. “And where, exactly, do you plan to go, child?”

Gemma hesitated. She hadn’t thought that far ahead but she wasn’t about to admit it.

“Anywhere but here,” she answered vaguely. “I cannot stay where I am not wanted.”

Before the Dowager could respond, the door opened again. Frederick entered, his broad figure casting a shadow over the room. His expression was as hard as the night before, but there was something else in his eyes; an intensity that unnerved her.

“We need to talk,” he said brusquely, ignoring the Dowager Duchess, his gaze fixed on Gemma.

His grandmother offered him a knowing smile and stepped toward the door.

“I will leave the two of you to sort this out,” she said, and with a wink in Gemma’s direction she quietly left the room.

The air between them became tense as the door closed. Frederick folded his arms across his chest, his voice cold and precise.

“You are not leaving, Miss Bradford.”

Gemma stood up, squaring her shoulders and refusing to be intimidated. “I have no reason to stay, Your Grace.”

“I shall be the person who decides,” he said flatly. “I am not finished with you.”

Her heart pounded, a mixture of frustration and anger bubbling to the surface. “You cannot keep me here,” she shot back. “I am not your prisoner.”

Frederick’s jaw clenched. “No, but you are involved in something far more dangerous than you realize. I know all about St. Catherine’s and what goes on there.”

Gemma blinked, her mind racing. “How are you involved? And what does it have to do with me?”

“Everything,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “You think you have escaped that place? You think leaving solves the problem?” He took a step closer, his voice lowering. “There is more to that convent than you know. And I am not letting you leave until I figure out exactly what.”

Gemma’s anger flared. “So, I have traded one prison for another? Is that it?” She let out a bitter laugh. “I have escaped the walls of St. Catherine’s just to end up in another cage, this time gilded, perhaps, but a cage all the same.”

Frederick’s eyes darkened, his patience thinning. “Do not be melodramatic.”

“I am not being melodramatic,” Gemma snapped. “I have spent years under the control of those nuns, and now you think you can control me? Tell me where I can and cannot go?” She rose from the bed and took a step toward him, her voice sharp. “I am profoundly grateful for your hospitality, Your Grace, but keeping me here… it makes you no better than them.”

Frederick’s expression turned icy, but there was a flicker of something raw beneath the surface. He was not used to being challenged, especially not by someone like her.

“You have no idea what you are talking about,” he growled.

“Oh, do I not? I have lived a life of confined hell there, Your Grace. Trust me when I said I know.” Gemma crossed her arms defiantly. “You may be a duke, but that does not give you the right to decide my fate.”

Frederick’s anger was palpable now, but it wasn’t the blustering rage she had expected. It was cold and controlled, dangerous in its quiet intensity.

“You are lucky to be safe in this house,” he said, his voice low and deliberate. “I could have thrown you out the moment I found you.”

Gemma’s breath caught in her throat, but she refused to let him see her fear.

“But you did not,” she challenged. “We both know you would never do that.”

For a long moment neither of them spoke. The tension between them was thick and suffocating. Frederick unflinchingly held her gaze, and Gemma saw something behind his cold exterior; a flicker of vulnerability and a shadow of pain.

Before either of them could say another word, the door creaked open. The Duke’s grandmother reappeared, her eyes dancing with amusement as she took in the sight of them standing so close, the heat of their argument still crackling in the air.

“Well, well,” she said, her voice teasing. “I see you two are getting along swimmingly.”

Frederick stepped back, the spell between them broken. He shot his grandmother an irritated look. “You are meddling again.”

The Dowager shrugged, clearly unbothered by his tone. “I would not call it meddling, dear. I would call it… encouragement.” She glanced at Gemma, her smile warm but her eyes sharp with understanding. “You have spirit, my dear. I like that. But perhaps we could all do with a bit of fresh air, hmm? Clear our heads.”

Gemma’s cheeks burned with frustration, but the Dowager’s lightheartedness eased the sting of the Duke’s words. She still felt trapped, but there was no denying the older woman’s charm.

Frederick, however, was less amused. He glared at his grandmother, then at Gemma.

“This is far from over,” he muttered, his voice like a dark promise.

As he turned to leave the room, Gemma’s heart raced, her defiance still simmering just beneath the surface. She wasn’t going to give him the reins, neither him nor anyone else; not after all those years under Sister Agnes’s foot.

Vivian’s knowing smile lingered in the air as she followed her grandson, leaving Gemma alone.

She felt the weight of the Duke’s words press down on her, but she wouldn’t let them crush her.

“Come along, dear,” the Dowager said with a smile, glancing over her shoulder. “The gardens are quite lovely this time of year. I think some fresh air will do us both good.”

They stepped outside into the crisp morning air. The sun was bright, but there was a coolness to the air that hinted at the change of seasons. The chilly breeze brushed past her the hem of dress—one of the modest gowns left for her by the staff. It was indeed quite plain, but far more presentable than the clothes she’d arrived in.

Vivian looped her arm through Gemma’s as they began a leisurely stroll along the gravel path that wound through the gardens.

Gemma was quiet at first, taking in the sprawling grounds of Blackridge Estate. The gardens were vast, filled with late-blooming flowers and neatly trimmed hedges. The scent of roses and lavender mingled in the air, a stark contrast to the austere and plain courtyard of St. Catherine’s. It felt strangely freeing, yet the memory of her heated exchange with the Duke still lingered.

The lady seemed content to let the silence stretch for a while, her gaze sweeping over the landscape. When she finally spoke, her tone was light, as if they were merely discussing the weather.

“Did you know, my dear, that these gardens were designed by my late husband?” she said, her voice tinged with fondness. “He spent years planning every inch, planting the roses himself. It was his pride and joy.”

Gemma glanced at her, surprised by the sudden turn in conversation. “He must have loved this place very much.”

“Oh, he did,” the lady agreed with a wistful smile. “As do I. There is a certain peace here, wouldn’t you agree?”

Gemma nodded slowly, feeling a bit of the tension ease from her shoulders. “Yes, it is beautiful. I have never seen a garden quite like it.”

“Blackridge is full of surprises,” the Dowager said, giving Gemma a sidelong glance. “Just when you think you have seen everything, it shows you something new.” Her words were pointed but delivered with a smile. “And it’s a place where one might find unexpected shelter from the storm.”

Gemma's steps faltered for a moment as she caught the implied meaning behind the Dowager’s words. She had thought of this estate as another form of entrapment, another gilded cage. But now, there was a suggestion that perhaps it could be something else entirely—if she allowed it.

Then, just as quickly, the Dowager Duchess’ expression brightened. “Oh! Look at that cheeky little fellow.”

Gemma followed her gaze and spotted a squirrel darting across the path, its bushy tail flicking behind it as it scurried up a nearby oak. The tiny creature paused on a low branch, chattering indignantly at them as if they had trespassed on its territory.

“That one has been causing all sorts of trouble,” the Dowager Duchess said with a playful smirk. “Last week, I caught him sneaking into the kitchen to steal nuts left out for a pie. Scared the cook half to death when he popped his head out from behind the flour tin.”

Gemma laughed, the tension easing from her shoulders. “I can hardly blame him. I’d imagine the pies here are worth the risk.”

“They certainly are,” the Dowager agreed with a conspiratorial wink. “But now the cook swears the entire squirrel family is plotting an uprising. She’s taken to calling him Lord Nutterly.”

Gemma’s laughter came freely then, the absurdity of it lifting the heavy cloud that had settled over her earlier conversation with the Duke.

The two women continued down the path, their steps lighter.

As the squirrel darted off, disappearing into the dense foliage, the Dowager gave Gemma a gentle squeeze on the arm. “You see, dear? Even the smallest creatures here at Blackridge make their own rules. And I have a feeling you will, too.”

Her words, though spoken in a jesting tone, carried a weight of understanding beneath them. It was a subtle reassurance, one that Gemma found herself clinging to, even if she wasn’t quite ready to admit it.

Vivian gave her a final pat before letting go of her arm. “Come now,” she said brightly, “let us head back inside before Frederick comes searching for us. He does so hate when I take liberties with his guests.”

Gemma couldn’t help but smile at that.

And for the first time since her arrival, she allowed herself to hope that maybe—just maybe —she could find a way forward here.