A few days after the Frasner family dinner, Rafael sat in the manor's sunroom with a stack of correspondence spread across the low table like a minor threat.
He was dressed for comfort - soft lounge clothes, a house robe, and hair pinned back in the loose way that said, 'I am not receiving anyone unless the Empire is on fire.' The staff, meanwhile, had entered a new era of devotion: refusing to even entertain the concept that their pregnant lord might so much as look pale while the Duke was at the palace. Someone had placed a glass of water exactly within reach. Someone else had placed a bowl of bland biscuits like they were talismans.
Rafael ignored both and opened letters with the bored elegance of a man reviewing battlefield reports.
