–Chapter 26–
The mini boat rolled up to the scant marina. Estella clasped her arms around herself, her lips trembling against clenched teeth, quivering with the cold.
Siberian winds battered her at every turn, and Estella adjusted the skirt of her gown all the way down so that it covered her shoes, her ankle tipped upwards, pressing against the wooden board she sat on. She regretted not heeding her father's warning then. She should have worn a blanket, not just a shawl. If she'd come with even a scarf, it would have served her some meagre comfort. But she'd come with neither one of those options.
Throughout the drive, she kept thinking up ways to escape. The coach ride all the way to the port before boarding the Baron's private boat had been impossible to flee. Not only did the roads seem to drag through slick mud, with the coach jostling her up and down, left to right, making it impossible to come up with a plan, but her father sat directly across from her, eyes fixed on her the entire time—never blinking, never dozing.
She agreed that once they terminated at the dock of Châteaubriant, she would find a leeway to escape her father's watch. But even that proved impossible now. Right above them, horizontally aligned in a straight line, were three men, musclebound as they were tall, dressed in official uniforms. Without saying, Estella could tell they were from the Duke's house. That meant there was no eluding them. She was cooked.
"Baron Estefan!" one of the men shouted.
"That would be me!"
Estella sluggishly watched her father jump to his feet and ascend the short steps leading away from the boat, never once glancing back to check if she was following. His lack of consideration for her might have proven useful if one of the men hadn't stretched out his hand to help her climb out of the boat.
Reluctantly, Estella took the man's hand, ditching the wobbly boat for solid ground. She looked in the direction to her right, where she could see bigger ships four times the size of her father's mansion. The bustle of the place only seemed to amplify the cold. She shuddered.
She followed the troop. The walk leading up to the coach was packed with families voyaging out. Women dressed in high fashion wearing proud, colorful hats, little girls no older than 10 careening their mothers' hands, and a father quietly strutting beside them. The sight of these families, so bonded, so united, tugged at her heartstrings, pulling tight.
"His Grace asked us to get you," the man who had helped Estella out of the boat said the minute all three of them—he, Estella, and the Baron—had settled inside the coach. The others took a different coach.
"Thank y—"
"His Grace, however, does not tolerate tardiness, nor does he appreciate being kept waiting," the man cut the baron off. "We've been out here a full good hour. You should have sent prior notice that you would be late," the man finished.
"I will apologize to His Grace personally when we reach there," the Baron said. "But do you know if the Earl, Vincent, could also make it? Is he alone with His Grace right now as we speak?"
Estella released her arms from around herself. The inside of the coach was warmer than the outside had been, and she let out a quiet sigh, grateful for the change. She turned her head toward her father, eyes landing on him. Frowning, she studied him, noticing how he shook slightly as if waiting for the man's response before deciding whether to crumble completely or hold his head high. Estella couldn't understand any of it.
Looking out, the coach speeding up, the happy, curious faces flying by, Estella still wouldn't give up her attempt to figure out a way to make a run for it. She knew what she had to do, and that entailed not letting her father drag her back to the Viscount, who was patiently waiting to see her the next day.
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"What do you think will happen when she gets here, Your Grace? Do you think she will make a scene? Cry and beg for you to withdraw your talk of her having stolen something of value from you? Do you think she would do that?"
Félix's hand stopped moving. It hovered just a little above the scroll he was writing on. Bach had burst in suddenly, and though he should have scolded him for it, he let it slide. He had been too charged up for nothing that morning and all after Coralie left. Did he forget for a second who he was? He was the Duke of France, and no one could bend him to do their bidding anyhow. No use getting unnecessarily offended on that matter of the princess' threats. He could make good to call the whole thing off right this instant. Perhaps he should be moving to do that rather than bury himself in a pile of paperwork, hoping they would help him forget her fits.
"Lauren says the baron and the girl are on their way now, and they will be here in a matter of minutes."
Well, that was long overdue, Félix internalized, returning to his writing.
But his mind wandered at what Bach said. Between Bach, himself, and the girl, he held a secret that must not come out. He had kissed her by force out in the open, and that wasn't just wrong; it bordered on him being perverted. A pervert, he was not. Why, then, had he done it and… liked it?
"I have asked Mihaela to prepare the padded second parlour for your private talk with the baron. To avoid eavesdropping. I know you do not let just anyone into your study. And I reckon the situation would not call for such closeness."
Félix nodded absently at Bach's words.
"Cornelia and the hospitality team will see to it that they're well entertained downstairs when they arrive before your official welcome," Bach went on. "I will also ask—"
"Get her up here," the duke cut in.
"Pardon, Your Grace?"
Bach blinked, then furrowed his brows deep.
"The girl," Félix stressed. "When they arrive, sneak her to my bedroom. She meets me there."
"Your… Your bedroom? But Your Grace…" Bach's eyes widened so much they looked ready to pop from their sockets.
"She and I have scores to settle. I'll deal with the baron after. But Estella comes first. No stupid questions from you also. Just do as I say."
"Y—yes, Your Grace."