Claiming the Duchess-II

The Montclair carriage waited near the edge of the market square, its polished black surface gleaming under the lantern light. Berith opened the door for Marcella.

But, she hesitated before stepping in. She turned to face him, "I can take my stand on my own. You didn't need to interfere." 

Berith raised a brow, "Is this how you thank your to-be husband?" His lips curled, just slightly, as if the words had bitter taste.

Marcella crossed her arms, the damp cloak still hanging heavily from her shoulders. "I didn't ask for your help," she retorted. "So why should I thank you?"

He moved closer, bringing the shadows along with him. "I guess you're forgetting something, Lady Marcella. The third condition of our marriage."

Marcella stiffened, "The third condition?" 

"Yes," The corner of his luscious mouth twitched. In the moonlight, his lips were purple, like a fresh bruise or squashed blueberry. Strangely, her mouth watered at the thought.

Berith's gaze skittered quickly around the market square. "You are the future Duchess of Ashenholt, and you're not allowed to fight or argue with noblewomen in public. If you continue showing such unruly behavior, I will disown you." he said almost mockingly.

Her jaw tightened, with frustration boiling over. "What an insufferable man you are!" she snapped. "Don't you dare threaten me with your ridiculous conditions. For your kind information, I don't want to be tied to you either."

Marcella tried to stifle a shudder and stepped into the carriage then pulled his cloak around her arms, trying to pretend it was only the winter air making her shiver. 

Inside, a cushioned bench awaited her. She sat stiffly in her seat. The damp fabric of her gown clung uncomfortably to her skin, but it was the least of her concerns.

Her fingers toyed absently with the edge of the cloak draped over her shoulders. She pinched the soft fabric between her thumb and forefinger, pulling it slightly, releasing it, and repeating the movement.

Marcella had spent her entire second chance carefully plotting her path, rewriting her mistakes step by step, yet this man—seemed intent on spoiling her plans entirely.

Her eyes flicked to his profile, lingering on him for a moment too long. Berith Montclair sat across from her, his long legs stretched out, his tall frame angled slightly toward the window. His hand rested casually on the back of the seat; his fingers relaxed as though he gave no damn about the world.

Marcella sighed, bracing herself. Then, she tore her gaze away, forcing herself to stare out of the window instead. The faint glimmer of the moon reflected off the trees, casting long shadows over the estate road. Her thoughts churned relentlessly, knotting themselves into questions she couldn't answer.

Her fingers clenched the cloak tighter, the movement betraying the frustration she refused to show on her face. What is he thinking? The thought sank deeper into her mind, filling the space between her breaths.

"You're very quiet," came a compliment from behind her.

Marcella didn't turn to look at him. "Perhaps I'm simply enjoying the peace and quiet for once," she replied coolly, her fingers brushing against the folds of the cloak as she spoke.

Berith threw a dark chuckle. "Peace and quiet? That's a surprising choice of words, given the spectacle you just made back there."

He spoke with honest curiosity, but Marcella couldn't help feeling like it was an insult. "I made a spectacle?" Her head snapped toward him, "You're the one who swept in like a storm, throwing your cloak over my shoulders and declaring me your property in front of half the noblewomen of the empire."

"And yet, here you are, wearing the cloak." The Duke sounded displeased.

Her fingers twitched, and she quickly released the edge of the fabric, as if it had burned her. "I didn't ask for it," she said tersely.

"No," he agreed, his smirk deepening. "But you didn't refuse it either."

Marcella opened her mouth to retort, but the words died on her tongue. She clenched her jaw instead, her glare hardening. A faint, frustrated breath escaped her, soft enough that it barely made a sound.

 After some time, the carriage came to a gentle halt in front of the Valemont manor. 

Berith stepped out of the carriage. The driver stood nearby, ready to assist her, but he dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Instead, Berith extended his hand toward her.

Marcella hesitated for only a moment before accepting the Duke's hand as she descended to the ground. His fingers were warm despite the cold night air. 

Her damp gown clung uncomfortably to her legs, but the moment her boots touched the ground, she was quick to undo the clasp of his cloak.

"Leave it," Berith said abruptly.

Marcella paused. She looked up at him, her brows arching in surprise. "What?"

"Keep the cloak," he repeated, his dark gaze unwavering. "I don't want it back."

"Why?" Her lips parted in protest.

"Consider it a gift."

"A gift?" She wrinkled her nose. "I'm not sure what to make of a man who gives out his belongings so freely."

Berith cast her a wry look. "And I'm not sure what to make of a woman who argues over a cloak instead of saying thank you."

Marcella's lips twitched, but she caught herself before she could smile. Instead, she gave a slight shake of her head and stepped back. "Fine. I'll keep it." she grumbled, ducking past him.

Marcella turned abruptly, the damp folds of her gown swishing as she ascended the steps toward the manor. She paused at the door, glancing back at him over her shoulder. "Thank you for the ride." 

Berith clicked his tongue, "You're really quick with expressing thanks." 

Without another word, she pushed the door open and stepped inside, the heavy wood closing behind her with a quiet thud.

~~~~~~~~

The door to her room clicked shut behind her. Marcella let out a long breath. Her shoulders slumped as the weight of the evening finally hit her.

The cloak still hung around her shoulders. She unclasped it carefully, letting it slide off her shoulders and onto the edge of her bed.

For a long moment, Marcella stared at it.

The faint scent of cedar and smoke still clung to the fabric, wrapping itself around her thoughts. Her fingers brushed over the surface of the cloak, her thoughts drifting back to the way he had said, "Consider it a gift."

"What are you playing at, Berith Montclair?" she muttered to herself.

In her past life, Berith had been cold, distant, and utterly indifferent to her existence. She didn't trust him. Not yet. But something about his actions, his words, had unsettled her in a way she couldn't explain.

Marcella let out another breath, standing abruptly. She crossed the room and opened the window, letting the cool night air wash over her.

The faint sound of the carriage wheels fading in the distance caught her attention, and her thoughts returned, once again, to the man who had just left.

"Whatever game you're playing, Berith," she murmured harshly to herself. "I won't lose."