Page 61 of Duke of Fyre

Peter shuffled closer to the massive desk, his small figure dwarfed by his father's imposing presence. His voice was small as he spoke. "I... I drew this. For you."

Elias took the paper automatically, his brow furrowing as he studied it, and for a long moment, there was only silence. Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, clearly fighting the urge to flee. Lydia could see the tension in his hands, the way he fidgeted with the fabric of his jacket.

Unable to bear the sight of the boy she was starting to consider as her son so nervous, Lydia moved closer to Elias's desk, leaning down as if to inspect the drawing herself. "We thought you might like to see Peter's artistic progress," she murmured softly, her breath warm against his ear. "Perhaps offer some... paternal encouragement?"

Lydia watched Elias closely, noting the subtle shift in his expression as he looked at the drawing again. His features softened, the lines around his mouth relaxing as his gaze lingered on the carefully drawn manor, the neat garden paths, and, at the center of it all, the three figures—one of them small, one with golden curls, and the third... taller, more imposing.

"This is..." Elias's voice was quieter now, the deep tone filled with something closer to admiration. "Quite remarkable, Peter." His fingers traced the details gently. "You've captured the garden beautifully, and the figures... the detail in the faces. Excellent work, son."

Peter's eyes went wide, his heart pounding with joy. "Really? You truly like it?"

Elias nodded, the smile that spread across his face lighting up his stern features. "Indeed," he said, his voice genuine. "In fact, I think we should have it framed. It would look well here in my study, don't you think? Perhaps above the fireplace, where I can see it while I work?"

Peter looked at him, stunned into silence, before bouncing up and down in a flurry of excitement. "You want to... keep it? Here?"

"Unless you object?" There was a hint of hesitation in Elias's voice, and for a moment, Lydia wondered if he was still unsure of how to express his feelings.

"No! I mean... thank you, Father!" Peter nearly leapt into his father's arms. "I'll draw you another one tomorrow, even better! Maybe with the stables, and..."

"Why don't you go start planning it now?" Lydia suggested gently, watching Elias already eyeing his paperwork. "While everything's fresh in your mind?"

Peter nodded eagerly. "Yes! Thank you, Father! Thank you, Lydia!" He rushed out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the hall.

Once the door closed behind him, Lydia turned to Elias, her gaze soft. "That meant the world to him, you know."

"I'm beginning to understand that," Elias admitted quietly, rising from his desk. His tone was almost self-deprecating. "Though I might have missed the opportunity if someone hadn't whispered instructions in my ear."

"Well," Lydia said with a playful smile, "someone has to remind the Beast of Fyre of his humanity from time to time." Her voicewas light, but there was a depth to it. "Peter tries so hard to make you proud. A little praise goes a long way."

Elias's eyes softened as he moved around the desk to stand before her. "I'm learning that," he said, his voice quiet. "Though I wonder... did you make any drawings I should praise as well?"

Lydia blushed, taken off guard by the question. "I... no, I'm afraid not," she managed.

Elias's smile deepened as he stepped closer, his voice low and filled with an unexpected warmth. "No matter," he murmured. "You make quite a lovely picture yourself."

Lydia's breath caught at the intensity in his gaze, the warmth of his proximity stirring something inside her. She opened her mouth to reply but found her words caught in her throat. Before she could formulate anything, Elias returned to his desk, resuming his usual businesslike tone.

"Thank you," he said, the change almost imperceptible. "For helping me understand what Peter needed."

Lydia nodded, unable to meet his gaze for a moment. As she turned to leave, she glanced back at their reflection in the window—her flushed cheeks, his intense eyes following her every movement.

Progress, she reminded herself firmly. They were making progress.

In more ways than one, it seemed.

CHAPTER 24

As midnight settled over Fyre Manor, Lydia found herself drawn to the study, where the portrait of Elias's late wife hung quietly on the wall. The candlelight flickered, casting a pale glow over the painting, and in the shifting light, the woman's eyes seemed to watch her, distant yet piercing, almost as if she were asking Lydia a silent question.

"Were you happy?" Lydia whispered, her voice soft as she reached out, her fingers barely grazing the edge of the frame. She felt a chill at her words, knowing this woman had been part of Elias's world in ways Lydia might never understand. "Did you love him? Or were you trapped here?"

A creaking floorboard made her whirl, hastily wiping her eyes, but it was only Mrs. Winters with an armload of fresh linens. The housekeeper's gray hair gleamed silver in the moonlight, her familiar presence somehow comforting in the strange intimacy of the hour.

"Oh! Your Grace, I didn't expect... that is..." The housekeeper's eyes darted between Lydia and the portrait, understanding dawning in her weathered face. Years of service had taught her to read the subtle currents that ran through the household, and something in Lydia's tear-stained face must have spoken volumes. "Shall I come back later?"

"No, please," Lydia managed a watery smile. "I was just... being rather silly, actually. Talking to portraits in the middle of the night like some character from a gothic novel." She attempted a light laugh, though it came out slightly shaky.

Mrs. Winters's face softened with understanding as she set down her linens. Her hands, worn from decades of service, smoothed the fabric in an automatic gesture. "Not silly at all, if you ask me. Many of us have spoken to that portrait over the years, wondering what might have been different if..." She trailed off, seeming to catch herself, years of discretion warring with what appeared to be a genuine desire to speak.

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