NO MERCY, MY DUCHESS

11

The sun, now high in the sky, streamed through the large windows of Julian's bedchamber, illuminating the opulent room. Lord Gareth, ever the restless spirit, found himself drawn to his brother's wing.

The manor was still buzzing with suppressed whispers about the Duchess's "illness" and Julian's unprecedented seclusion. Curiosity, and a genuine concern that even his formidable brother might be succumbing to some strange malady, compelled him to investigate.

He pushed open the door to Julian's bedchamber, expecting to find his brother brooding, perhaps, or meticulously working through some reports.

Instead, the sight that greeted him stopped him dead in his tracks.

Julian was seated on the edge of his massive four-poster bed, propped against a stack of pillows, a silver tray laden with breakfast balanced precariously on his lap. And there, perched precariously on Julian's lap, wrapped in one of his dark, voluminous dressing gowns that swallowed her small frame, was Livia.

Her hair, still damp from her bath, clung in wisps around her face, and her eyes were wide, startled by Gareth's intrusion. Julian was holding a spoon to her lips, patiently feeding her her food, a piece of scrambled egg, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

Gareth paused, his brain struggling to reconcile the image before him with the events of the past few days. The defiant, screaming girl, the raging, ruthless Duke. This... this tender, almost domestic scene was utterly jarring.

Then, a low chuckle escaped him, which quickly escalated into a full-bodied, uninhibited roar of laughter. He clutched his stomach, tears springing to his eyes.

"No!" he gasped, barely able to breathe. "Mother has to see this!"

With that, he spun on his heel and rushed out, his booming laughter echoing down the corridor.

Julian didn't even glance up. His gaze remained fixed on Livia, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.

He continued to hold the spoon, waiting patiently for her to take the bite. Livia, for her part, felt a furious blush creep up her neck and face, staining her cheeks a deep crimson.

The humiliation of being seen in such a compromising, infantilizing position, especially after all her defiant boasts, was almost unbearable. She swallowed the food, avoiding Julian's intense gaze.

True to his word, Gareth had indeed gone to fetch his mother. He found the Duchess in the morning room, sipping tea.

"Mother! You simply must come! You won't believe it!" he exclaimed, still breathless with mirth.

The Duchess, accustomed to Gareth's dramatics, followed him, her expression one of mild curiosity. She entered Julian's bedchamber to find the improbable scene still unfolding: Julian, poised with a spoon, Livia, crimson-faced, on his lap.

She stood in utter shock for a few seconds, her refined sensibilities struggling to process the intimacy, the sheer domesticity of it all, especially after the tumultuous events and the whispered rumors of the past twenty-four hours.

Her eyes then softened, moving from her stoic son to the vulnerable girl nestled against him.

She approached the bed slowly, her voice uncharacteristically gentle, laced with a genuine concern that cut through the tension.

"Child," she murmured, reaching out a hesitant hand towards Livia, "are you alright?" She had indeed heard Julian's screams yesterday, thin and chilling, echoing through the manor, and had worried for her.

A mother's intuition, perhaps, had sensed the true nature of the events.

Julian's head snapped up, his gaze immediately hardening.

"She is fine," he snapped, his voice sharp, a clear warning in his tone.

The softness he had shown Livia vanished instantly. His eyes, now cold and authoritative, glared past his mother, fixing on Gareth, who stood behind her, still trying to suppress his laughter.

"Why are you in my room?" he demanded of his brother, the implicit question being, 'Why have you brought Mother here?'

Gareth, though chastened by the glare, managed to compose himself.

"Oh, the Prince sent for you," he said. "A letter came. It's in your study."

Julian's rigid posture eased infinitesimally. The Prince. That was different. The Prince was a close friend, and their communications were rarely trivial.

He wondered what the issue was, a flicker of professional concern replacing his personal ire.

He looked at Livia, then at his mother. The silent command was clear. His mother understood him perfectly. With a graceful, practiced movement, she reached for Livia, her hand gently touching her arm, urging her to rise.

"Come, my dear," she said softly, making her seat next to her on the bed, providing a cushion of female solidarity between Livia and the Duke.

Julian, seeing his mother's intervention, smoothly lifted Livia off him, releasing her from his lap. Livia, though grateful for the Duchess's presence and the momentary reprieve from Julian's overwhelming proximity, couldn't suppress a small, involuntary whimper.

Her core ached, a deep, persistent throb that was a constant, raw reminder of the previous night.

The Duchess's eyes met Julian's as she settled Livia beside her. For a brief second, her gaze held a silent, yet powerful, glare – a mother's unspoken reprimand. Julian, however, merely offered a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, a challenge that acknowledged her disapproval but dismissed its effect.

Then, with a decisive turn, he rose from the bed and strode out of the room to see the letter he had been sent, leaving Livia under his mother's care, the silent battle lines of their complex new marriage drawn.

*********

The palace gardens were a riot of color and scent, a stark contrast to the clipped formality of the Prince's expression. Prince Arthur, known for his sharp mind and even sharper tongue, gestured for Julian to take a seat on a wrought-iron bench beside him. Julian settled, outwardly composed, but with an underlying tension that only those who knew him intimately might detect.

"So, I hear you got married," the Prince mused, his eyes twinkling with a familiar blend of amusement and shrewd curiosity. His gaze, however, lingered on Julian's face, seeking out any tell-tale signs. "To a viscount's daughter, no less."

Julian gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "Forgive me for not inviting you," he stated, his voice even. "It was... rushed."

"So I've been told," Prince Arthur replied, his tone dry. He plucked a loose petal from a nearby rose and twirled it between his fingers. "Care to tell me why you refused to wed Lady Clara?"

Julian rolled his eyes, a rare, unguarded gesture. He knew immediately that Clara might have complained to him. She was, after all, a close friend of the Prince, a constant presence in the more exclusive court circles. "She called off the betrothal," Julian stated, his voice flat, "instead of standing at my side." The unspoken accusation hung in the air: Clara, in her pursuit of maintaining an unsullied image, had publicly abandoned him at a moment of scandal.

The Prince's eyebrows rose slightly. "So you chose a mere viscount's daughter? One that is as young as Eleanor, if not younger!"

"It's a matter of dignity and my reputation," Julian replied, his voice hardening.

The scandal had touched him directly, and a swift, decisive action was required to stem the tide of whispers. Livia, for all her infuriating defiance, had become the necessary means to that end.

Prince Arthur chuckled, a low, knowing sound. "You think you can handle a child, Julian? One that apparently prefers a Baron's son to a Duke?"

A slow, predatory smirk spread across Julian's lips, a chilling counterpoint to the gentle beauty of the garden. The Prince, observing it, gave a slow, knowing nod. There was no need for further explanation. Julian's smirk spoke volumes of his intentions and his absolute certainty in his ability to bend Livia to his will.

"Very well," Prince Arthur conceded, a flicker of something akin to pity for Livia crossing his aristocratic features. "I will let Clara know I tried my best." He knew Julian Blackmoor.

Once he set his sights on something, it was as good as claimed. And it was clear that his new Duchess, for all her spirit, was no exception.