NO MERCY, MY DUCHESS

7

One night, the manor was steeped in the profound quiet of late hours. Duke Julian, returning from a solitary perusal of ledgers in his study, found himself passing the guest wing where his new Duchess was supposedly recuperating.

The usual silence of the corridor was suddenly, subtly, broken. A low, muffled sound reached his ears, then another. Giggling.

He paused, a frown creasing his brow. It was well past midnight. He wondered why she wasn't asleep at this time. Her supposed delicate health seemed to preclude any exertion during the day, yet here she was, apparently quite lively.

He took a slow, deliberate step closer to her door, his keen ears straining. The giggling intensified, joined by another voice, unmistakably Eleanor's. Then Livia's voice, clear and undeniably mischievous, carried through the heavy oak.

"...and then, El, you should have seen his face! All serious, sending for the physician! As if a Duke's touch could instantly cure all ailments!" Livia's voice was laced with a familiar, biting wit, followed by another burst of laughter.

Julian's jaw tightened. So, the stomach ailment was a farce. A petty, calculated deception. The faint amusement he had occasionally felt at her defiance vanished, replaced by a cold surge of irritation.

Then, Livia's tone shifted, becoming more earnest, but no less defiant. "I swear it, Eleanor. He will never touch me. Not him. I would rather—" Her voice dropped slightly, but in the silence of the corridor, every word was distinct. "I would rather give myself to Thomas. He deserves to be my first.

Not the Duke. No matter how scandalous it makes me. Thomas is the love of my life."

The words struck Julian with the force of a physical blow. The cold irritation that had been simmering within him exploded into pure, unadulterated rage.

It was a different kind of fury than the calculated disdain he'd felt after the bath chamber incident.

This was raw, primal, and deeply personal. Not only had she made a mockery of him, his household, and their forced union, but she had brazenly declared her love for another man, a man she intended to share her intimacy with, while still under his roof, his name, and his protection.

The humiliation was scorching. His wife, mocking him, refusing him, and openly declaring her devotion and s****l intent for a Baron's son.

The sheer audacity of it, the flagrant disrespect for his position, his honor, and the binding vows they had exchanged, ignited a firestorm within him. The very idea that she would even contemplate such an act, let alone boast of it, was an unbearable affront.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white. The veins in his neck stood out, stark against his pale skin. For a moment, the meticulous control he prided himself on threatened to shatter.

He wanted to burst through that door, to confront her, to demand an account for her unforgivable insolence.

But Julian Blackmoor was not a man who allowed his emotions to dictate his actions. The rage surged, but beneath it, the cold, calculating mind began to whir.

He would not give her the satisfaction of seeing him lose control. He would not grant her the opportunity to witness the depth of her transgression.

He turned, his movements sharp and precise, abandoning the door. His footsteps were silent, deliberate, as he returned to his bedchamber. The anger was a burning ember in his gut, fueling a chilling resolve.

Lady Livia had chosen to defy him, to mock him, to insult him in the most profound way possible. She had promised herself to another.

Very well. He would show her the true meaning of a Duke's will. His initial intentions for this marriage had been purely pragmatic, a matter of reputation salvaged. But now, it was personal. He would have what was rightfully his, and she would learn that there was no escape from a Blackmoor's claim. He returned to his chamber with a silent, terrifying promise of retribution.

Her giggling would cease. Her defiance would be broken. And Thomas, the love of her life, would become nothing more than a painful memory. The game, for Livia, was about to become infinitely more dangerous.

********

The following morning, a crisp, unforgiving dawn broke over Blackmoor Manor. While Livia, oblivious, likely planned her next theatrical performance, Duke Julian was already at his desk, a man of cold, simmering purpose. The fury from the night before, rather than dissipating with sleep, had solidified into a chilling resolve.

He had just finished dispatching a series of urgent messages when a knock sounded at his study door.

"Enter," he commanded, his voice clipped, devoid of its usual measured tone.

It was Mr. Finch. "Your Grace, you sent for Lady Eleanor?"

"Indeed," Julian replied, his gaze unwavering as he stared at a point beyond the butler. "Send her in."

Eleanor entered, her usual cheerful demeanor subdued by the palpable tension radiating from her brother. She had heard whispers from the servants, a pervasive unease that settled over the manor like a fog.

She looked at Julian, a questioning glint in her eyes, wondering what new turn her brother's inscrutable mind had taken.

Julian didn't mince words. He didn't even offer a customary greeting. "Eleanor," he began, his voice dangerously quiet, "I have made arrangements for you. You will be leaving Blackmoor Manor this afternoon."

Eleanor's brow furrowed. "Leaving, Julian? For where?"

"For St. Augustine's Academy for Young Ladies in Kent," he stated, his voice flat. "It is a reputable establishment. Your trunks are being packed as we speak."

Eleanor gasped, her composure momentarily cracking. "A boarding school? Julian, I am past the age for such institutions! What is the meaning of this?"

Julian finally looked at her directly, his eyes like chips of ice. "The meaning, Eleanor," he said, each word enunciated with chilling precision, "is that I will not tolerate insubordination or mockery under my roof. You dared to join Lady Livia in mocking me. You conspired with her in her deceits. You have shown a distinct lack of judgment and loyalty." His voice dropped, becoming even colder. "And while I may be bound by blood to acknowledge you, I am not bound to suffer your presence when it becomes a liability." His words carried a stark, brutal reminder of her precarious position: after all, she was an illegitimate child, her place in the family always conditional, dependent on his grace.

Eleanor's face paled. The truth of his statement, the raw power of his decision, struck her with the force of a physical blow. She opened her mouth to protest, to plead, but no words came out. The sheer unfairness of it, the abruptness, the utter lack of compassion, stole her breath.

As the day progressed, the news rippled through the manor. Lord Gareth, observing the rigid set of Julian's shoulders, the dangerous glint in his brother's eyes, and the sheer force of anger radiating off him, wisely kept his distance.

He knew Julian well enough to recognize the signs of an implacable fury. Even their parents, the Duke and Duchess of Blackmoor, having just returned to discover their eldest son's whirlwind marriage and subsequent act of banishment, didn't dare ask what was wrong or why he was sending Eleanor away. The elder Duke merely exchanged a knowing, grim look with his wife.

They understood that some battles, when Julian's will was fully engaged, were best left untouched. The silence surrounding Eleanor's sudden departure was thick with the weight of Julian's unspoken rage and the chilling assertion of his absolute authority within his domain.