The Duke’s Sinful Bride (Vows of Sin #5)

Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

T he air between Yvette and Killian was heavy with tension and unspoken words. It had been three days since their heated argument, but the memory of his rejection still stung.

They avoided each other like strangers in the same house, exchanging only curt pleasantries when absolutely necessary.

Yvette busied herself with supporting Fiona’s budding courtship, accompanying her to social events and gatherings. Yet, even as she smiled and offered encouragement to her sister-in-law, her heart felt hollow.

It wasn’t that Fiona’s happiness didn’t matter to her—it did—but Yvette couldn’t summon the energy to bask in it. Her mind was elsewhere, tangled in the unresolved tension with her husband.

Yvette never knew where he was anymore. Each morning, he left before she awoke, and he returned late at night, long after she had retired to her room. He no longer worked in his study, and it was as if he were deliberately ensuring their paths wouldn’t cross.

The previous night, as Yvette stood outside his study door, she’d noticed the absence of light spilling from beneath it. Her heart had sunk. She had returned to her room, her hands trembling, and sat on the edge of her bed, willing herself not to cry. Crying wouldn’t change anything, she had told herself. It wouldn’t erase the distance that had grown between them, so she had taken a deep breath and gone to sleep.

This morning, however, she resolved to make the best of her day. She couldn’t control Killian’s actions, but she could decide how to spend her time. The opportunity came when Fiona suggested a walk in the park, and Yvette agreed readily, eager for a distraction.

The Season was at its peak, so it wasn’t a surprise when Yvette and Fiona arrived at the park, and it was bustling with activity, the light air carrying the laughter of ladies and the chatter of London’s fashionable crowd.

Yvette and Fiona strolled along the wide gravel paths, enjoying the soft weather, and little sunshine that peeked through the clouds.

“Are you alright, Yvette?” Fiona asked her when they’d settled by the lake, overlooking other nobles who were busy with different activities.

“I am,” Yvette nodded her head firmly, but it would seem her attempts to appear happy were futile.

Fiona considered her for a few seconds, and as though the younger woman could tell that Yvette was trying her very best to not dwell on whatever troubled her, she nodded.

“Perhaps it’s nothing then.”

Yvette was overly grateful to Fiona at that moment, because she wasn’t sure she could explain the issues she was having with her brother. Fiona was also an unmarried lady, and Yvette doubted she’d have any advice for her.

“Yvette?” a familiar voice called, drawing her attention. Turning, Yvette’s eyes widened in surprise as she saw her old friend Gemma and her husband, the Duke of Blackridge, approaching.

“Gemma!” Yvette exclaimed, her lips curving into a genuine smile for the first time in days.

Gemma was as radiant as ever, her luscious air framing a face full of warmth and mischief. Her husband, the duke, stood beside her, tall and composed, with an easy air of authority.

“It really is you!” Gemma said, her voice tinged with delight. “I thought I saw you from a distance, but I couldn’t believe it. The last time we saw each other, you were still at St. Catherine’s.”

Yvette blushed lightly, memories of their time at the nunnery flooding back. “It’s been years, hasn’t it? And yes, a lot has changed since then.”

Gemma’s eyes sparkled with curiosity.

“You’re married now. To the Duke of Braemore, no less! I’d heard rumors but wasn’t sure it was true. You must tell me everything, Duchess .”

Yvette colored at the title. It had been a few months, and even though Maisie called her that all the time, she still wasn’t used to hearing it from other people.

Duchess.

“It’s a long story,” Yvette replied, glancing at Fiona, who stood beside her with a polite smile.

“But suffice it to say, I’m glad I left St. Catherine’s.”

The duke chuckled.

“I imagine life with the Duke of Braemore is far more interesting than what you experienced at the nunnery. Though I must say I’m surprised that you left at all. You always expressed that you never would.”

Yvette’s expression shifted to one of deep thought.

“I learned a valuable lesson, and that is to never say never,” Yvette said as a lighthearted jest, which was received in good faith by the little group.

“Indeed. You were always so good-hearted, Yvette, and I always hoped you would leave. I’m glad your duke whisked you away!” Gemma said, and Yvette colored instantly at the insinuation. “I did hear you’d escaped and never returned.”

Yvette nodded her head.

“I was visited by the old nuns, claiming they had come to take me back to St. Catherine’s. One threat from my husband sent them scurrying away, and I haven’t heard from them since,” Yvette explained.

“So it is safe to say that you are free. Which is a good thing, after all the mistreatment you endured there.”

Yvette hesitated, the shadow of old wounds flickering across her face, but she nodded.

“I was excited when the Duchess of Islington became its patron. Things improved. Though, there are… some bad apples.”

Gemma’s husband, Frederick, frowned deeply.

“No woman should have to endure such treatment. Perhaps the Duchess of Islington should make the nunnery a safe place for young girls.”

Yvette nodded. “I agree. She has done wonderful things for St. Catherine’s. If anyone can root out the remaining issues, it’s her.”

Gemma reached out, clasping Yvette’s hands.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Yvette. I’ve missed you dearly. And it’s wonderful to see you thriving.”

Yvette smiled, though her heart ached with the knowledge that “thriving” was far from how she felt. Still, being with Gemma again, even briefly, brought a semblance of comfort.

Killian had always thought of himself as a man of resolve, someone who could set boundaries and maintain them with the sheer force of will. Yet, in the days following his argument with Yvette, his resolve seemed to waver every time he thought of her.

He had buried himself in his business dealings, attending meetings and finalizing contracts, trying to drown out the gnawing ache that had taken root in his chest. But no matter how many hours he spent away from Oakbourne Townhouse, the pull toward her remained.

The nights were the worst. Each time he returned home, his mind betrayed him with vivid imaginings of her waiting for him. Not just in the physical sense—though that temptation was strong—but also in the warmth she had started to offer him in quiet moments.

A place of solace he had never thought he needed, but now missed deeply. He would shake his head, forcing the thoughts away, convincing himself he was doing what was right.

Tonight was no different. He walked into his study, lit a single lamp, and poured himself a generous glass of scotch. The amber liquid burned his throat, yet it did little to soothe the restlessness that churned within him.

He stared blankly at the scattered ledgers on his desk, pretending to work, but his gaze kept shifting toward the door. A sigh escaped him as he abandoned the pretense of productivity and moved to the window instead.

Outside, the night was dark, the moon casting an otherworldly glow over the grounds. The scotch coursing through his veins left him a little dazed, but his sharp instincts noticed a flicker of movement in the distance.

He narrowed his eyes, straining to make sense of what he saw. At first, he thought it might be a stray animal, but the movement was too calculated. A shadowy figure then passed through the garden, and for a brief moment, his breath caught in his throat.

“Just the drink,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. His rational mind dismissed the sight, convincing himself it was a trick of the light or perhaps one of the staff. Still, unease lingered in his chest as he finally set the glass aside, resolving to call it a night.

The next morning, Killian woke later than usual, his head slightly foggy from the night before. As he dressed, he assumed the rest of the family had already finished their breakfast.

This suited him perfectly. The idea of facing Yvette after their fight filled him with dread whenever he thought about it, even though he wasn’t quite sure why he was avoiding her. He’d decided to take his meal in his study, away from prying eyes and lingering tension.

But as he made his way to the dining room to inform Mrs. Harrow of his plan, his intentions were hindered.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Mrs. Harrow greeted him with a polite curtsy. “The family has only just begun breakfast. Shall I have yours set up alongside theirs, or would you prefer it elsewhere?”

Killian hesitated.

His immediate instinct was to refuse, and have his meal sent to the solitude of his study. Yet, before he could respond, a familiar, cheerful voice cut through the air.

“Papa!”

Maisie’s head peeked out from behind the dining room door, her wide smile breaking any resolve he might have had. She darted toward him, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the table.

“Come sit with us! We have only just begun.”

Killian glanced toward the doorway, debating whether or not to excuse himself. But Maisie’s excitement was infectious, and he found himself nodding.

“Very well, Maisie. I’ll join ye,” he said, allowing himself to be led into the room.

The moment he stepped in, the atmosphere shifted. Fiona looked up from her plate, her eyes flickering between Killian and Yvette with subtle curiosity. Yvette, however, didn’t even glance his way. She remained focused on spreading marmalade on her toast, her expression unreadable.

Killian’s chest tightened as he took his seat. The tension was evident, a heavy presence that seemed to seep into every corner of the room. Maisie and Fiona exchanged brief looks. Despite her age, even Maisie was clearly aware of the strained dynamic but they were both too polite to comment on it.

“Papa, look at this!” Maisie said, breaking the silence as she held up a drawing she’d been working on. “It’s a picture of all of us at Duchess’s house! Aunt Fiona says she cannot tell which is supposed to be her,” Maisie reported with a slight pout.

Killian leaned closer to inspect the colorful mess of lines and shapes. Maisie had drawn what appeared to be a house with stick figures representing their family. No wonder Fiona could not find herself.

He smiled faintly, his heart softening despite the weight of the morning.

“Ye’ve quite the talent, lass,” he said, ruffling her hair. “But I think ye forgot to give me a sword.”

Maisie giggled, her laughter filling the room like a soothing balm. “You don’t need a sword, Papa!”

Killian chuckled, but his gaze flickered toward Yvette. She remained quiet, her fingers lightly gripping the edge of her plate.

“So,” Fiona began, clearly attempting to ease the tension, “what’s the plan for today? Will we be attending Lady Wimbledon’s garden party this afternoon?”

Yvette finally looked up, her eyes meeting Fiona’s. “Yes, you must go. It’s important for you to make an appearance.”

“And ye’ll be going as well, I take it?” Killian asked, directing the question toward Yvette.

Her eyes snapped to his, surprise flickering across her features. It was the first time he had addressed her directly in days. For a moment, she seemed unsure how to respond, but she quickly regained her composure.

“Yes,” she replied curtly.

Their exchange was brief, but it left further unspoken tension in its wake. Killian felt a pang of regret, though he wasn’t sure what he regretted more—asking the question or the strained silence that followed.

The rest of breakfast passed in awkward silence, broken only by Maisie’s chatter and Fiona’s occasional attempts to keep the conversation flowing. Killian couldn’t help but feel the weight of Yvette’s absence, even though she was sitting right across from him, and it seemed even Maisie had had enough.

“Papa, I haven’t seen you and Duchess smiling at each other like you usually do,” she said, her small voice cutting through the strained atmosphere like a sharp blade.

Killian’s hand paused in mid-air, his fork hovering above his plate. His eyes darted to Maisie before unconsciously flitting to Yvette, who didn’t miss a beat as she continued eating, her expression calm and composed.

“You should focus on your food, Maisie,” Killian said firmly, his voice low but strained.

Maisie’s little brows furrowed, her lips forming a small pout. “But?—”

“Yes, Maisie,” Fiona interjected smoothly, a playful smile on her lips. “You should focus on your food and let them handle it.”

Killian nearly sighed in relief, sending Fiona a brief glance of gratitude. Yet, as he returned to his meal, he noticed Maisie’s quiet disappointment and something in Yvette’s poised demeanor that made his chest tighten.

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, though the tension remained, swirling in unspoken words and unreadable glances.

Later that evening, as Killian climbed the stairs to his chambers, Fiona intercepted him, blocking the doorway with her arms crossed and an inquisitive tilt of her head.

“Ye’re not getting away so easily, brother,” she said, her voice laced with curiosity and concern.

Killian stopped, frowning at her.

“What are ye talking about, Fiona? Move aside.”

Fiona didn’t budge. “There’s something going on between you and Yvette. Don’t deny it. Even Maisie’s noticed.”

Killian clenched his jaw, his frustration mounting.

“It’s nothing for ye to worry about,” he replied gruffly, brushing past her to open his door.

Fiona stepped in front of him again, this time leaning against the doorframe, her arms still crossed. Her eyes softened, and her voice dropped a notch, losing its teasing edge.

“Is it fixable?” she asked gently.

Killian let out a low groan, running a hand through his hair.

“Fiona, it’s complicated. Leave it be.”

She didn’t move, her concern unwavering.

“Complicated doesn’t mean impossible, brother. If it’s worth fixing—and I know it is—you should try. Talk to her. Yvette always says that to me, and she’s right. Communication works wonders.”

Killian’s temper flared at her insistence, though he knew it was born of love. Still, he didn’t want anyone prying into his marriage, not even his sister. He exhaled sharply, his voice clipped as he replied.

“Go to bed, Fiona. I’ll handle my matters as and when I see fit.”

His tone was harsher than he’d intended, but he preferred it that way. It was a quick and effective way of shutting down further inquiry.

Fiona’s lips thinned, but she gave a small nod and stepped back.

“Fine, have it your way. But don’t let your pride ruin something good, brother. You’ll regret it.”

With that, she walked down the hallway, leaving Killian alone with his thoughts.