The Exchanged Heir

Chapter 9: The Blade in the Glass Conservatory (2)

Chapter 9: The Blade in the Glass Conservatory (2)

Lucy looked to Isabella, questioning. Isabella shook her head, but Lucy had already decided.

“Please tell his Grace,” she said to the butler, “I’d be happy to meet with him, but my sister must accompany me. As I said earlier, she advises me on family affairs.”

Richardson’s expression didn’t change, but Isabella caught a flash of irritation in his eyes: “His Grace emphasized ‘private,’ Miss Blackwood.”

“And I emphasized ‘must accompany.’” Lucy responded calmly. “If his Grace insists on privacy, I’m afraid our meeting will have to be rescheduled.”

It was the second public refusal. The conservatory fell silent again, all eyes fixed on them.

Richardson paused, then bowed: “I will convey your message, Miss Blackwood.”

When he left, Lucy turned to Isabella, murmuring: “Did I do the right thing?”

“You left him no choice.” Isabella said, her voice tight with tension. “But this might make him act more extreme.”

“Then we’ll face it together.” Lucy said, brushing Isabella’s hand under the table.

The touch was brief and secret, but enough to make Isabella dizzy with warmth. In this hostile space, where they could be attacked at any moment, that simple contact was their anchor, their secret, their fortress.

Minutes later, Richardson returned.

“His Grace has agreed to Miss Isabella’s presence,” he said, flatly. “Please follow me.”

The study, on the second floor, was a spacious room lined with hunting trophies and family portraits. Duke Winston stood before the fireplace, back to the door, holding a brandy glass. He turned when they entered, his expression one Isabella had never seen—no anger, no disdain, just cold, calculating calm.

“Miss Blackwood,” he said, ignoring Isabella, “I think we have some misunderstandings to clear up.”

“I don’t think we do, Your Grace.” Lucy said, standing in the center of the room, posture straight. “You wanted a private meeting; I wanted my sister present. We found a compromise.”

The duke’s mouth twitched: “Yes, a compromise.” He set down his glass and walked to the desk. “But let’s speak of what matters. The future of the Blackwood family, your duties as heir, and... those who might hinder your success.” His gaze finally landed on Isabella.

Isabella’s spine chilled. She knew what was coming—he’d try to drive them apart, paint her in the worst light, warn Lucy that staying close to her was dangerous.

But the duke chose a subtler tactic.

“The Blackwood family is in a delicate position,” he said, his voice softening, almost kind. “As the new heir, you need to build new alliances, solidify the family’s standing. And I, as a long-time friend and neighbor, am willing to help.”

He picked up a document from the desk: “This is a proposal I’ve prepared—how to manage the Blackwood estate, invest, maximize profits. Merely suggestions, of course. But I think you’ll find them... valuable.”

Lucy took the document but didn’t open it: “Thank you, Your Grace. I’ll read it carefully.”

“But the problem is,” the duke continued, walking to the window, back to them, “to implement these plans, you need a clean, unblemished public image. Any... controversy, any scandal, any unusual attachments could ruin it all.”

He turned, his gaze fixed on Isabella: “I don’t mean to criticize you, Miss Isabella. You’ve lived in this house for nineteen years; you have feelings for the Blackwoods, that’s understandable. But the truth is, your very existence is a controversy. People will talk, speculate, question.”

He stepped closer, his voice dropping, menacing: “Worse—some already whisper about your... unusual closeness. Two young women, living under the same roof, inseparable, even sharing a bedroom...”

Isabella’s blood turned to ice. She’d expected gossip, but not this fast, this vicious.

“That’s a lie.” Lucy said, her voice trembling with anger. “Isabella is my sister, we...”

“Not by blood.” The duke cut her off, cold. “Not by law, not in society’s eyes. You’re just two young women living together. And that, under certain... interpretations, can take unflattering meanings.”

He moved closer to Lucy, his voice softening, almost consoling: “I’m not judging you, Miss Blackwood. I’m trying to protect you, protect the Blackwood name. Perhaps, for everyone’s good, Miss Isabella should consider... leaving temporarily. Travel abroad for a while, until things calm down.”

The air grew thick, hard to breathe. Isabella looked at Lucy—at her clenched fists, her eyes blazing with anger. She wanted to speak, but fear choked her throat.

Then Lucy laughed.

Not a happy laugh, but a cold, sharp, powerful one.

“Your Grace,” she said, her voice cutting through the air like a blade through glass, “let me be clear. First: Isabella is my family, and she will not leave. Second: our relationship needs no one’s approval or interpretation. Third: if anyone spreads rumors about us, I’ll know where they started.”

She stepped closer, meeting the duke’s eyes: “In Devon, we say: spit in the well, and you’ll be the one to drink it. Remember that, Your Grace. Now, if there’s nothing else, we’ll take our leave.”

She turned, extending a hand to Isabella—a public, fearless gesture.

Isabella took it, feeling a strength she’d never known surge from that touch. Together, they turned for the door, shoulders straight, steps in sync.

“Miss Blackwood,” the duke’s voice called after them, all pretense gone, only raw threat left, “you’ll regret this decision.”

Lucy didn’t look back.

“There’s one thing I already regret,” she said, her voice calm and clear, “thinking you were a gentleman.”

They left the study, left the mansion, and climbed into the carriage. When the door shut and the carriage moved, Lucy collapsed onto the seat, hands trembling.

“Did I... go too far?” She asked, vulnerability finally showing in her voice.

Isabella looked at her—this brave, strong girl who’d challenged the world to protect her. She felt something in her chest melt, crumble, reborn.

“No.” She said, her voice thick with emotion. “You just did what I’ve been too afraid to do my whole life.”

Lucy turned, tears glistening in her gray-blue eyes: “I was scared, Isabella. Scared he’d hurt you, scared he’d have worse tricks, scared...”

Isabella didn’t let her finish. She reached out, brushing a tear that was about to fall from Lucy’s cheek.

“I’m not scared anymore.” She said, softly but firmly, like a vow. “Because you’re here with me.”

The carriage rolled through London’s streets, into the dimming twilight. The compartment was dark, only occasional gaslight glinting across their faces.

At one moment, in one slant of light, Isabella leaned in, pressing her forehead to Lucy’s.

“Thank you.” She whispered.

“For what?” Lucy asked, barely audible.

“For choosing me.” Isabella said. “In this world, of all the choices you could have made—you chose me.”

Lucy’s fingers found hers, lacing tight.

“I’ll always choose you.” She said. “Always.”

The carriage continued on, toward an uncertain future, toward more fights, more dangers, more plots.

But in this small, dark space, in this simple clasp of hands, Isabella found something she’d never had before:

Belonging.

Not to a title, not to a status, not to a family or a place.

But to a person. To a brave, true, loving girl.

Outside, London’s lights flickered on, like stars scattered in the dark.

Inside the carriage, two girls who’d broken every rule held hands, ready to face the world’s hostility together.

For tonight, that was enough.

For now, having each other was enough.