Chapter 14

Fourteen

C hristina barged into her bedchamber, slamming the door behind her with such force that the sound echoed through the room. Her jaw was clenched, her heart pounding with indignation. No, Carrot did not do that! He could not have! The accusation lodged itself in her chest like a splinter, driving her mad with frustration.

She began pacing the length of the room, her skirts swishing furiously against the polished floor. The injustice of it all gnawed at her—how dare Miss Peversly, how dare Victor even for a moment believe that sweet, innocent creature could have wrought such destruction?

The door opened quietly, and Christina spun around to see Addison standing there, holding Carrot in her arms. The sight of the small orange kitten, his soft fur ruffled as though he had just woken, tugged at her heart. Without hesitation, Christina crossed the room.

"Where did you find him?" she demanded, her voice sharp with urgency.

Addison looked startled by her tone but answered calmly. "He has been with me, Your Grace. All afternoon. I thought it best to keep him out of sight after hearing what happened."

Christina let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She took Carrot from Addison's arms, cradling him close to her chest, stroking the soft fur between his ears. "I knew it," she murmured, her voice softer now. "It could not have been him."

"No, Your Grace," Addison agreed, shaking her head. "He has been asleep in my quarters most of the afternoon. He could not have done such a thing."

Christina's hand stilled on Carrot's head, and she swallowed hard, her teeth grinding together as a wave of anger swept through her. "I know who is behind it," she said quietly, though her voice trembled with barely restrained fury.

"Miss Peversly?" Addison's voice was low, cautious.

Christina nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Who else? She has wanted Carrot gone from the moment we arrived. This was all part of her plan."

Addison watched her carefully. "What do you intend to do, Your Grace?"

Christina let out a long, frustrated sigh and walked over to the chaise by the window, sinking onto it with Carrot still held protectively in her arms. She gazed out at the grounds beyond, the peaceful scene a stark contrast to the turmoil raging inside her. "I do not know," she admitted, her voice a little hollow. "We have no proof that Miss Peversly lied about Carrot, only our suspicions. And suspicions are not enough to act on."

The ache in her chest deepened as she thought of Victor. He had said nothing in her defense. He had not believed her. The realization stung more than it should, and she couldn't shake it.

"What has she done to earn his trust so fully?" she muttered bitterly.

Addison remained silent, her brow furrowed with concern, waiting for Christina to continue.

Christina tightened her grip on Carrot, her fingers smoothing over the fur in slow, deliberate strokes. What was I expecting, truly? For him to take my side? To tell Miss Peversly that the affairs of the household were no longer her concern? She gave a hollow laugh, shaking her head. She was foolish to think he would ever see her as anything beyond the caretaker of his children.

Victor had made it clear from the very beginning—her role, her only role, was to be a mother to his daughters. That was the sole reason he had sought her out, the sole reason she had agreed to this marriage. No promises of love, no illusions of partnership—only the mutual understanding that the children came first.

And yet… She sighed again, her frustration and disappointment settling heavily on her shoulders. She had hoped, hadn't she? In some quiet, foolish corner of her heart, she had hoped that perhaps… just perhaps… he might come to trust her, to see her as more than a mere governess in his life.

But no. Victor had not stood by her. He had doubted her word, doubted her judgment, and that realization stung far more than it should have. She pressed her lips together, fighting back the wave of hurt that threatened to rise.

Focus on the children, she reminded herself firmly. They precede everything else. They are why you are here.

She glanced down at Carrot, who had curled into her lap, his small body warm and comforting against her. Yes, the children, she thought, closing her eyes for a moment. They are the reason. Not Victor's approval. Not his favor. Only the children.

Victor stepped into the drawing room, his boots clicking softly against the polished floor. The moment he crossed the threshold, all four girls rose from their seats and dipped into curtsies, their movements practiced and polite. He raised a brow, watching them with a measured gaze. Curtsies—something they had once found tedious and unnecessary, something they had all but refused to do in the past.

He ought to award Christina a point for this. The thought was not unwelcome, though he remained conflicted over the very notion of his wife wielding such influence over his daughters.

His gaze swept the room, noting immediately Christina's absence. Before he could ask, Annabelle spoke up.

"Christina will not be joining us this evening, Your Grace," she said, her voice clear, though she addressed his wife with the casual familiarity of first names.

Victor's frown deepened. "And why is that?" he asked sharply, his tone betraying the concern that flared within him.

Annabelle shook her head. "She is indisposed."

Katherine offered little more than a shrug, clearly as uncertain as her cousin. Victor wasted no time. He turned on his heel and left the room without another word, marching toward the stairs. His long strides carried him swiftly to the second floor, where he found Mrs. Brimsey emerging from the bedchamber.

"Mrs. Brimsey," he said, his voice tight, "is the Duchess ill?"

The housekeeper curtsied quickly. "Your Grace, she is asleep. It is nothing that requires a physician's presence—only rest."

Victor exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw clenching. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Mrs. Brimsey replied, her tone calm and composed. "She will be right as rain after some sleep."

Victor had no choice but to turn back. It unsettled him, this sense of helplessness when it came to his wife. He descended the stairs, returning to the dining room where his daughters sat in an unusual quiet.

As he took his seat at the head of the table, the soft clink of silverware against porcelain filled the silence. He observed the girls, noting how Agnes's wide eyes flicked toward Annabelle, copying her every movement with painstaking precision. A small, unexpected smile tugged at the corner of his mouth . Christina was right, he thought, her sister's presence was, indeed, good for the girls. Annabelle's influence had brought a sense of decorum, of order.

Midway through the meal, Cassidy broke the silence.

"Father," she said, her voice holding a trace of defiance, "are you going to send Carrot away?"

Victor's fork stilled, his brow knitting in confusion. "Who told you that?"

Amelia looked up from her plate, her eyes wide. "The servants are saying it. They say Carrot ruined a pillow and broke all those fancy porcelain things, so now he has to go."

Cassidy huffed, crossing her arms. "Mother won't let it happen."

Before Victor could respond, Agnes's lower lip trembled. She clutched her spoon tightly, her small face crumpling as tears welled up in her eyes. "Please, Papa," she whimpered, her voice trembling. "Don't send him away. He's so small and precious."

Amelia, sitting beside her, began to cry as well, her quiet sobs making the tension at the table swell. Victor felt a sharp pang of frustration, his fingers curling tightly around his fork. He could hardly think straight with two weeping children, their innocent faces pleading for something as trivial as a kitten.

He set his fork down, his jaw tightening as he met their tearful gazes. "Carrot is not going anywhere," he said, his voice firm. The words sounded strange, even to him—utterly ridiculous, as though he were making grand declarations about the fate of nations, not the future of a feline.

But the relief in the girls' faces was instant. Agnes wiped her tears with her sleeve, and even Amelia sniffled quietly, a small smile breaking through her tear-streaked face.

Victor, however, could not help but think of Christina. He knew all too well that sending Carrot away would have been an invitation to a battle with his wife—a battle he had little interest in fighting at the moment.

For now, keeping the peace was the wisest course. Christina's defiance remained a thorn in his side, but he could not deny the subtle victories she had achieved. The girls were… different. There was order where there had once been chaos, respect where there had been rebellion.

Victory, no matter how small, is still victory.

There was still disorder in his home, but it could be managed. And he knew exactly where to begin. Tomorrow.