Page 46 of The Widow's Scandalous Gentleman
At last, Iris folded her arms. “And Jasper?”
Thalia didn’t look up. “He meant to leave this morning. I insisted on it.”
“And now?”
She finally raised her head. “Now, I don’t know.”
Christopher stepped forward and offered her a cup of tea someone had left cooling on the mantel. “Well, in the meantime, the ducal family is beneath our roof. And we have not yet given up our manners.”
Thalia accepted the cup with a ghost of a smile. “No. Nor our purpose.”
They stood together, among their scattered belongings and stacked intentions—waiting, uncertain, and not yet undone.
***
When Thalia entered the drawing room, she found Sebastian Vexley standing by the hearth, tall and still, his bearing unmistakably ducal even in modest attire. He did not lounge, or lean—he simply occupied the space with quiet authority. His eyes, dark and penetrating, turned to Thalia the moment she entered.
Beside him stood Margaret Vexley, elegant in navy, hands loosely clasped, her expression unreadable but not unkind. She turned toward Thalia as well, with the subtle grace of one used to reading a room before it announced itself.
Thalia crossed the threshold without faltering.
“Your Grace, my lady,” she said with formal composure. “Once again, thank you for honouring us with your presence. I only regret that your visit comes at a moment so… transitional.”
Sebastian inclined his head, his voice deep, measured. “We are grateful for your reception, Lady Greaves.”
Aunt Iris appeared beside Thalia with a rustle of silks. “Sebastian,” she said with evident warmth. “You might have written. I would have had the staff polish something unnecessarily.”
He greeted her with the briefest flicker of a smile. “Aunt Iris. We hoped to arrive without spectacle.”
Jasper, standing to the side until now, cleared his throat.
“I thought perhaps,” he said, “a short tour of the grounds might offer context. Much has changed since my initial letters.”
Margaret’s brows lifted slightly. “Indeed, your more recent letters have offered… less.”
Sebastian’s gaze flicked toward his brother—measured, unreadable.
“Then by all means,” he said. “Lead on.”
Outside, the morning had fully broken, and Seacliff Retreat glowed in the early light—its façade dignified, its future precariously uncertain.
The party emerged into the crisp air in quiet procession: Jasper at the fore, leading the way with quiet purpose; Lady Thornfield beside Margaret, their conversation light in tone but edged with pointed observation; and at the rear, Thalia walking alongside Sebastian, the two of them silent for several paces, their steps matched and measured until he spoke.
“My brother,” he said at last, “has written sparingly of his time here. But the little he has shared suggested a place quite unlike any I’ve encountered.”
Thalia glanced at him sidelong. “Then I fear your expectations may be challenged. This place—like its occupants—is difficult to categorise.”
“I rather thought that was the point,” Margaret offered from behind them.
They came to a halt before the conservatory.
Through the tall windows, unfinished canvases and overturned sketchbooks sat in quiet disarray. A violin case, half-latched, rested on a chair like an afterthought.
“This,” Jasper said, his voice quieter now, “is where most of the work happens. What you see in salons and exhibitions—this is where it begins.”
Sebastian studied the scene in silence, then turned to Thalia.
“And now?” he asked. “What happens now?”
