23- The weight of expectaions

The afternoon sun streamed through the grand windows of the Viscount's estate, casting warm golden hues over the polished marble floors. The remnants of the Duke and his son's visit lingered in the air—half-drunk tea, the faint scent of cologne, and the hushed voices of servants tidying the drawing room.

Felicia sat stiffly in an ornate chair opposite her parents. The Viscount, Matthew, man of measured words and sharp expectations, sat with his hands clasped before him, his gaze piercing. His wife, Catherine, elegant and ever-watchful, regarded Felicia with quiet scrutiny.

The room was silent, save for the distant chirping of birds outside the open balcony doors. A light breeze rustled the curtains, but it did little to ease the weight pressing on Felicia's shoulders.

"Well?" her father finally asked, his voice cool and expectant. "How did your conversation with Edward go?"

Felicia kept her expression serene, though she hesitated for the briefest moment. "It was… pleasant."

Her mother arched a delicate brow. "Pleasant?"

"He was courteous," she continued, choosing her words carefully. "Polite."

The Viscount let out a slow breath, his expression unreadable. "Felicia, this engagement is not merely a formality. It is an opportunity. The Duke's alliance will solidify our standing, and Edward—" he paused, narrowing his gaze, "—will be your husband. I trust you conducted yourself well?"

Felicia kept her posture straight, her fingers tightening over the embroidered fabric of her dress. "Yes, Father. All is well."

The Viscount studied her for a long moment, his sharp gaze searching for any sign of uncertainty. Felicia held steady, refusing to let her disappointment surface.

Her mother, more perceptive, leaned forward slightly. "You seem unsettled, my dear."

Felicia forced a soft smile. "I am only fatigued from the afternoon."

Her mother's lips pursed, but she nodded. "Very well. Get some rest. There is much to prepare for."

Felicia rose gracefully and curtsied before excusing herself. As she stepped out into the corridor, she released a slow breath she hadn't realized she was holding in, the corridors of the manor were quiet, save for the distant crackling of the hearths and the faint murmur of the household.

She ascended the grand staircase, her hand trailing along the smooth, polished banister. The conversation replayed in her mind—her father's firm reminder of duty, her mother's expectant gaze, and Edward's indifferent demeanor.

Reaching her chamber, she pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped inside. The warmth of the fire did little to ease the cold knot of disappointment in her chest. Her lady's maid moved to assist her, but Felicia waved her away with a soft, "Not tonight, Anna."

Once alone, she exhaled and crossed to her vanity. Sitting before the gilded mirror, she studied her reflection. Her golden hair was still perfectly arranged, her gown uncreased, her expression composed. Yet beneath the surface, a storm brewed.

Edward had barely looked at her, had spoken to her as one might converse with a distant acquaintance. Was this to be her future? A marriage of convenience, where she was nothing more than a means to an end?

Her fingers curled against the polished wood of the vanity. No.

If she was to marry Edward, then she would not simply be tolerated. She would be seen. She would find a way to capture his interest, to make him realize that she was not just an obligation—but a force to be reckoned with.

A slow smile formed on her lips, her disappointment hardening into resolve.

If Edward thought he could ignore her, he was sorely mistaken.

The carriage rocked gently as it made its way down the winding country road, the afternoon sun filtering through the curtains. Inside, the air was thick with unspoken words.

Sitting across from his son, the Duke's gaze was sharp, his expression one of quiet authority. Edward, however, stared out the window, his jaw set, his fingers drumming idly against his knee.

Finally, the Duke spoke. "You embarrassed me today."

Edward's fingers stilled, but he did not turn to face his father. "Did I?"

"You know very well that you did," the Duke said, his tone carrying the weight of disappointment. "Your behavior toward Lady Felicia was barely polite. You hardly spoke to her, barely looked at her. Is this the impression you wish to leave?"

Edward sighed, shifting his gaze from the rolling countryside to his father. "I was civil."

"Civil?" The Duke scoffed. "Edward, you are to marry this girl. Our future—your future—depends on this union. Felicia is well-bred, intelligent, and by all accounts, eager to be your wife. Do you think you can afford to be indifferent?"

Edward set his jaw. "I do not need to fawn over her simply because it is expected of me."

The Duke's eyes darkened. "No, but you do need to give her a chance. The Viscount is placing his trust in this arrangement, and I will not have you jeopardizing it with your arrogance."

Edward exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I do not oppose the match, Father. But must I pretend to be smitten like some lovesick fool?"

"No one expects you to be lovesick," the Duke said sternly. "But respect, courtesy, effort—those are not too much to ask. Felicia is not some nameless debutante. She will be your wife, and I suggest you start acting like it."

Edward fell silent, his gaze flickering downward. The weight of his father's words settled over him, heavy and inescapable.

The Duke studied him for a moment before leaning back against the seat. "Like it or not, your duty is set. If you cannot bring yourself to care for the girl, then at the very least, do not make an enemy of her."

The carriage continued its journey, the rhythmic sound of hooves against the dirt road filling the tense silence between father and son.

When the carriage slowed near a fork in the road, Edward reached for the door handle. Without looking at his father, he spoke, his voice calm and deliberate. "I'll be heading to the Undercity."

The Duke didn't react, as if he had been expecting this. In truth, he had. He let out a quiet sigh, reached into his coat, and pulled out a sleek, silver-plated pistol. With an air of practiced ease, he extended it toward Edward.

"You'll need this," the Duke said simply.

Edward took the weapon without hesitation, flipping it open briefly to check the rounds before slipping it into the hidden holster beneath his coat.

"I trust you won't be reckless," his father added, his voice measured.

Edward met his gaze, his expression impassive. "I'll be careful."

The Duke nodded once, a silent acknowledgment that neither of them would say more on the matter. There was no point in debating Edward's choices—he had always done as he pleased, and the Duke had long since learned to choose his battles.

With that, Edward stepped out of the carriage, the door closing behind him with a soft click. As the carriage rolled away, leaving him at the outskirts of the city, he adjusted his coat and started down the shadowed path leading to the Undercity.

The room was quiet now, save for the steady clicking of Charlotte's knitting needles. The meal had been cleared away, the scent of roasted lamb and warm bread lingering faintly in the air.

Victoria stood by the coat rack, slipping into her dark wool coat. She adjusted the lapels with practiced ease, her movements unhurried. Charlotte did not look up from her knitting.

"So," Charlotte said, her tone neutral but knowing, "you're going to the Undercity."

Victoria smirked, fastening the buttons of her coat. "I am."

Charlotte's needles paused, though only for a fraction of a second. "And I suppose nothing I say will make you reconsider?"

Victoria pulled on her gloves. "You already know the answer to that."

Charlotte sighed, setting her knitting aside. "Of course I do." She studied her for a long moment, her sharp eyes unreadable. "Do you have a weapon for protection?"

Victoria reached into her coat pocket and tapped the concealed weapon. "Always."

Charlotte nodded, then leaned forward to resume her knitting. "Then I won't waste my breath telling you to be careful."

Victoria chuckled. "That's very unlike you."

Charlotte's fingers worked the yarn methodically. "No, it's very much like me. I know you'll do whatever you please, but that doesn't mean I'm not thinking it."

Victoria moved toward the door, pausing briefly. "Don't wait up."

"Off you go"

Victoria smirked and stepped outside, the cool afternoon air greeting her as she disappeared into the streets.

Charlotte continued knitting, but the stitches were tighter than before, her fingers pressing just a little too firmly against the needles.