She drew near with hushed footsteps, sinking to her knees beside him.
Her gaze lingered upon his weary countenance. He seemed adrift in a world far removed from the present—estranged even from his own suffering.
A soft murmur escaped her lips, her eyes a turbulent sea of wonder and misplaced pity.
"Ha… who could have imagined such a facade, Duke Lecrone? You cut a truly wretched figure."
For a long interval, she remained motionless, watching his features drown in the depths of some nameless torment.
She exhaled a slow, heavy breath, attempting to stifle an unfamiliar flicker of emotion beginning to take root in her breast.
Turning toward the door, her fingers curled hesitantly around the handle. She faltered.
As if compelled by some unseen force, she cast one final, lingering glance over her shoulder.
"He will endure," she whispered to the empty air. "There is no cause for concern. He is Matthieu, the titan of the battlefield. A mere fever shall not fell him."
With forced resolve, she slipped from the room, pulling the door shut behind her as if she could lock away her treacherous thoughts along with him.
The Restless Night
Retreating to her chambers, Olivia donned a nightgown of shimmering silk and sat upon the edge of her bed.
She sought refuge in a book plucked blindly from the shelf. But the ink upon the parchment was nothing more than a blur.
The letters danced meaninglessly, eclipsed by the haunting image of a man writhing in solitude, besieged by the ghosts of his own transgressions.
With a sudden, sharp motion, she slammed the volume shut. It was a desperate attempt to silence the clamor in her mind.
Rising in a fit of restless agitation, she made straight for Isabella's quarters.
Two sharp raps echoed before the door swung open, revealing her assistant. Isabella's arched brow spoke of profound boredom.
"What is it now?"
Olivia's lips twisted into a wry, sardonic smile. "What a chillingly warm reception, my dear partner. I merely came to see how you fared."
Isabella's eyes narrowed, sharp with suspicion. "And I am expected to believe that?"
Olivia fell silent, her poise wavering as she weighed the gravity of her next words. After a moment of visible hesitation, she spoke.
"I find myself... with a question."
"A question? Regarding what?"
Olivia hesitated, the air between them thick with unspoken tension, before she chose to venture further.
"Since we are—as you so aptly put it—navigating these treacherous waters in the same vessel, I suppose a few... personal inquiries might be permitted."
Isabella arched a brow, her expression sharpened by a glint of mocking interest. "Personal, you say?"
Taking a steadying breath, Olivia spoke in a tone that felt foreign even to her own ears.
"In ordinary circumstances... when a husband is struck by illness, what is the expected conduct of a wife? I mean to say... if a man is of formidable strength, surely he has no need for her ministrations?"
Isabella stared at her, stunned into silence for a heartbeat.
Suddenly, she struck her palm against her forehead with a resounding smack. A groan escaped her, as if she were witnessing an act of profound absurdity.
"Please," she muttered, "tell me you are not speaking of the Duke."
Olivia offered a thin, glacial smile. "Of course. Who else warrants such a thought?"
Isabella's eyes widened, a mixture of shock and biting sarcasm dancing in her gaze.
"Let me grasp the rhythm of this melody," she began slowly. "Your husband lies ill, and instead of tending to his bedside, you have abandoned him to his solitude? My, what an exemplary wife you've proven to be!"
Olivia's eyes narrowed into slits, brushing aside the sting of the reproach. "Why do I detect a note of mockery in your voice?"
"Because it is there," Isabella countered with a crooked smirk. "You play the part of the cunning fox with such grace, yet in the theater of marriage, you are reduced to a bewildered lamb."
"Guard your tongue," Olivia commanded, her voice dropping to a dangerous chill.
But Isabella was undeterred.
"You've earned every syllable. Who leaves a man to suffer simply because he is 'strong'? Or is this perhaps a new design of your father's? Have you finally moved on to poisoning him?"
She leaned in, her eyes glinting with a malicious curiosity.
Olivia let out a dry, derisive chuckle. She leaned forward, her voice a silk-wrapped blade.
"Darling, if I had poisoned him, do you truly think I would confide in you?"
Isabella fell silent, the weight of her own foolish question settling upon her. She exhaled a weary sigh.
"What is it you want from me, then?"
Olivia waved a hand dismissively. "Advice, naturally. What course should I take?"
"Go to him," Isabella replied flatly, as if the answer were written in the very stones of the castle.
"Tend to him. If his condition withers, you shall be the first to bear the crown of blame—especially since you were the last soul to grace his chambers."
Olivia sighed, lifting her hands in a gesture of reluctant surrender. "Fine. I concede the point."
She turned to depart, but paused at the threshold. A mischievous, predatory smile curved her lips.
"By the way, do keep your head firmly upon your shoulders. I shall need it intact if I am to deliver you to your father."
A cold shiver raced down Isabella's spine. Her hand rose instinctively to her throat, her voice trembling as she muttered:
"And if my head should part from my body, rest assured, I shall not be the only one to fall."
Olivia's light, melodic laughter echoed through the hall, savoring the terror she had sown.
She vanished into the shadows of the corridor, leaving her assistant to wonder if she had found an ally or merely a catastrophe waiting to unfold.
The Cold Water
She traversed the dimly lit corridors, the nursing supplies clutched in her grip with a hurried, restless energy.
When she reached his sanctuary, she dispensed with the triviality of knocking.
She thrust the door open with a sharp click, expecting to find him exactly as she had left him—succumbing to the haze of fever and the scent of stale tobacco.
Instead, she froze.
The bed was a hollow mess of silk and shadows. It was empty.
A surge of suspicion clouded her gaze as she scanned the room. No trace of his presence.
Then, the rhythmic sound of rushing water caught her ear.
Setting her burdens aside, she approached the bathroom with cautious steps, nudging the door open to reveal a scene more peculiar than her darkest imaginings.
There sat Matthieu, submerged in the bathtub and fully clothed.
The frigid water cascaded over him, a desperate, drowning attempt to quell the fire raging within his veins.
Olivia lingered in the doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms folded across her chest.
"I was unaware that the Duke of Lecrone preferred to bathe in his finery."
He lifted his head with agonizing slowness. Water cascaded from his drenched locks.
He exhaled a ragged breath, as though he had spent the final reserves of his patience.
With heavy, sodden steps, he rose from the tub, water splashing onto the floor with every movement. He raked a hand through his hair, clearing the wet strands from his sight.
"So," he began, his voice rasping and sharp, "you have seen fit to return after the sermon on pity you delivered earlier?"
The words had scarcely left his lips when his strength failed him.
His knees buckled, and he nearly collapsed under the weight of his own frailty.
Olivia remained motionless, her stare unwavering and cold.
"How about you tend to your own survival for once, rather than sharpening your tongue? Had you not been feigning sleep during my previous visit, I should have had nothing to say."
Struggling to right himself, he leaned heavily against the porcelain edge of the tub. He eyed her from the periphery of his vision.
"Why have you returned? Do you require something of me?"
Their gazes locked—two glaciers colliding.
"No," she replied.
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Finally, he looked away.
"Olivia," he said with a forced calm, "I must change. You may wait in the outer room."
She did not stir.
It was as if his command had dissolved into the air. She tilted her head slightly, her voice maintaining its icy edge.
"Was it not you who once boasted of having seen everything? Well, I am merely returning the favor."
He studied her for a long moment, then let out a sigh of weary resignation.
"Do as you wish. I find I no longer care."
The Unspoken Warmth
Olivia retreated from the bathroom, granting him a semblance of peace to change.
She paced to the window, her fingertips tracing a path through the steam on the glass. She watched the infinite stretch of night.
It was not long before his voice summoned her back.
"Since you are here..."
He faltered, then continued in a low, level tone.
"Fasten my buttons. My hand is... compromised."
She turned to find him standing before her. His shirt draped open, and his fingers fumbled futilely with the ivory buttons.
Saying nothing, she closed the distance between them.
Her fingers began their silent work, moving from one button to the next.
Even through the damp fabric, his heat radiated against her—a feverish warmth that the cold water had failed to extinguish.
As she worked, her eyes were drawn to the jagged burns that marred the skin of his hand.
Noticing her scrutiny, he instinctively tried to shield the scars from her sight. Yet, he did not pull away entirely.
Instead, he gestured toward the chair beside him.
"Sit," he commanded softly, the shadows of the room closing in around them.
"I know this is madness, given the hour... but will you drink with me?"