Chapter 13.

"Get used to it, Miss Antonio."

Jacob’s voice grazes her ear—low, warm, deliberate.

"That’s the streets of London for you."

He lingers, then shifts back into his seat.

Therese stares, stunned.

"Is that all you’d say, Your Grace?" she demands, eyes flashing.

Mrs. Fletcher pales, horror striking her face. She turns quickly to Jacob, apologetically.

He doesn’t even glance at her.

His attention stays on Therese.

"What else would you have me say, Miss Antonio?"

His tone is calm. Not offended—curious.

"You should at least show sympathy. Take action against such abuse on that child." Her voice lifts, gestures sharp in the direction they'd come from. "You said so yourself—you swore to protect the land. That boy is one of them. One of the many you vowed to protect."

Mrs. Fletcher, clearly rattled, nudges her side. Futile.

"Let her speak freely, Mrs. Fletcher," Jacob says.

He doesn’t raise his voice, yet it silences the older woman at once.

"Go on, Miss Antonio. What would you have me do?"

The question isn’t a dismissal. There’s genuine interest, unsettling in its intensity. Therese struggles to keep her focus, his gaze unnerving her.

"You’re a duke," she says, steadying herself. "You should do something. Anything. You could have at least reprimanded that gentleman for what he did to that child."

She can still see it—the child, small and scared, flung to the cobblestones, eyes wide with pain.

Silence falls. Heavy.

Jacob’s jaw tightens. Her words strike home. He knows them to be true.

He’s seen these children; hungry, neglected, unseen by the peers he sits among.

Lords who call them vermin.

He’s heard it echo through parliament, their sneering disdain for the lower classes, their refusal to remember that all men return to dust.

King or pauper. None of us own our breath.

He turns back to Therese, voice quiet.

"I’m only one duke, Miss Antonio. There is little I can do."

Disappointment laces his words. Not in her. In them. His peers.

"But you can speak for them. Among the Lords. Fight for them. You sit in Parliament, do you not?"

“I do,” Jacob says. His voice is tight now, simmering with frustration. Not at her. At them.

Therese startles, but he presses on.

“I never used to attend those damned meetings. But after last year, I started. And you know what I saw? Men who didn’t give a damn.”

His voice thickens.

“When miners gathered in Dawley this February—men, women, children—pleading for their lives after their wages were cut... I was there. I listened to my fellow Lords plot how to suppress them. Not one asked how we might help. Not one. They spoke of safety, of order. Of the French Revolution.”

He sees it again—the fear in that chamber. The shallow concern. The hard lines of Lord Sidmouth’s mouth as he demanded swift retribution.

“I tried,” Jacob says. “I tried to reason with the Prince Regent himself. We’re close. But even he brushed it aside.”

His voice is heavy with memory.

“They sent in the yeomanry. Crushed the protest. Silenced them.”

Jacob’s eyes lock with hers again. There’s pain there. And weariness.

“In the end, they were more interested in horse flesh and the price of waistcoats.”

Therese says nothing. She doesn’t have to. She sees it now. The truth of what he’s confessed.

But he’s wrong. Not about the system. About himself.

“You don’t have to fix everything,” she says gently. “But you can do something. Just one life, Your Grace. Start with one. Set a pace. That’s all.”

Her voice is soft, but her words hit hard.

Something in him shifts.

She’s stirred a part of him long buried—left behind in Portugal, in another life. With his mother’s cousins. With their secret society.

Back then, he knew what it was to stand for the voiceless. That’s why he started his ventures—to create work, to give purpose. Sailors. Seamstresses. Laborers. Hands.

He had remembered them.

But returning to England, to the ton, had dulled him.

Now she’s here, reminding him who he is.

His gaze burns into hers. Something stirs. Something real.

The world fades around them. Nothing exists but the sharp thudding of their hearts, the tension tightening like a drawn bowstring between them.

The carriage jolts to a stop. They blink, startled back to reality.

But their eyes linger. Too long.

Jacob wonders—has she felt it too? This pull?

He’s never known anything like it. And he likes it.

The gates swing open. The carriage rolls forward into the grounds.

Wilson House. Grand. Imposing. Beautiful.

The townhouse rises proudly on Berkeley Street. A mix of Italian grandeur and French elegance. Its vast walls tell a story of power, legacy.

Gerald Cavendish Wilson—the first Duke—had earned the title in 1743, saving King George II at the Battle of Dettingen. A bayonet, a heartbeat, a life changed.

The carriage door opens. A footman bows.

Jacob alights, then turns to Therese. She stands still, eyes wide.

The gravel crunches beneath her feet. The garden walls—twisting hedges, alive and blooming—enchant her. The lawn is flawless. Gaslight poles dot the space like sentinels.

At night, the place glows with golden light. It becomes a dream.

Jacob watches her. Wonders what she’d look like then, bathed in that warm glow.

She is bold. Beautiful. Bursting with fire.

He wonders, wickedly, what she’s like when she lets herself go.

But mostly, he admires her bravery.

He clears his throat. His tone turns formal.

“Miss Antonio.”

She turns, expression soft with wonder.

“I hope you’ll accept my offer of the cottage near Mrs. Fletcher. It will spare you discomfort.”

She pauses, pensive. He presses on.

“It would be good for you to have a home. A place to call your own.”

Something in her eyes flickers. His words have struck a chord.

What are you hiding, sweetheart? he wonders.

Let me in.

The thought startles him. He frowns inwardly.

Why her? Why now?

Last time he’d let a woman in, it had ended in heartbreak—and death.

He masks his thoughts with a cool nod and turns away.

He’s nearly at the entrance when her voice rings out.

“Your Grace! Can I move in today?!”

He freezes. Smiles.

He hadn’t expected her to say yes. Hadn’t expected anything at all after the storm inside him.

But he’s glad.

Glad he’s cracked through her walls.

Glad she might, at last, have a place to breathe.

Still turned, he tips his head just slightly.

A nod.

Then he strides into the house, a small smile on his lips.