Chapter 10
Do You Think My Words Are a Request?

“Where is Mr. Remmer?”

The duke’s question fell upon Layla as she bowed politely.

“Uncle went into town for a while. Is something the matter, Your Grace?”

Layla scrubbed at her lips again and again before finally managing to answer.

Matthias gave a short nod, then turned his gaze away from her. When he looked back at Kyle, his lips curved into a perfectly social smile. Only then did Kyle loosen the instinctive tension in his shoulders.

After offering a few words of thanks to the physician who tended the Dowager Duchess’s health, Matthias shifted his eyes once more—back to Layla.

“Fetching roses is a task Miss Llewellyn could handle.”

The faint smile vanished from his lips as he spoke slowly.

“Roses, Your Grace? Do you mean the ones in the garden?”

“Cut a few. Bring them to the pavilion.”

With nothing more than that curt gesture of his head, Matthias dismissed the matter. He left without waiting for an answer.

Layla looked down in despair at the biscuit crumbs covering her blouse and skirt. She brushed frantically, but the humiliation would not come off so easily.

“That’s enough. They’re gone now,” Kyle said with a laugh, watching her scrub at her lips.

“Of all times, why did he have to appear just then?”

“So what? As if the duke has never eaten a crumb in his life.”

“Still…”

She unconsciously rubbed at her lips again.

“You chew with your mouth wide open in front of me. What’s so different?”

“You’re my friend.”

“And he’s a stranger. Why fuss more over a stranger than your friend?”

“That’s true, but… I don’t know. He just makes me uncomfortable. Stifled. I hate it.”

“And me? You’re comfortable with me, right?”

Kyle asked with hopeful eyes. Layla let out a laugh, as though he’d said something ridiculous, and tugged her hat on.

“Of course, Mr. Etman.”

Pleased, Kyle’s grin grew even wider.

“I knew it. Want me to help with the errand?”

“No, it’s nothing. You should head home.”

“Then I’ll wait here.”

“It’s fine. If your mother finds out you’re hanging around again, she’ll be furious. Don’t get me scolded too—go study, Mr. Scholar.”

At her teasing rebuke, Kyle’s brows twitched. He couldn’t argue.

Still, his eyes followed the path where Matthias had gone.

This unease… it must just be nerves.

He clenched his lips. He wouldn’t frighten Layla with foolish words. After all, it wasn’t just any man—it was Duke Herhardt. A flawless nobleman, engaged and soon to be married.

“Layla!”

Her name burst from him anyway, a fragment of the worry he couldn’t swallow. But Layla only lifted her basket and shears with a bright smile.

“See you tomorrow, Kyle!”

Don’t go.

He swallowed the words and, as always, simply waved.

Yes. It was Duke Herhardt.

He repeated that thought like an incantation as Layla disappeared down the woodland path.

“Again.”

The voice struck Layla’s back just as she was turning to leave. It took her several blinks to realize those words were meant for her.

She turned, holding her breath. Matthias sat by the window, opposite his butler, reviewing a stack of papers spread across the table.

“In a subtler color,” he murmured, eyes still fixed on the document in hand.

“Again.”

This time, when he glanced up at her, his face carried a strangely warm smile.

Layla clenched her fists, forcing down the sudden rise of irritation. So that was the problem. The roses. The very ones he’d told her to cut “appropriately.”

As she glared at the flowers, Matthias had already turned away, listening to Hessen’s report and offering brief instructions. To him, the servant girl had already ceased to exist.

For Uncle Bill.

Muttering her silent mantra, Layla left the pavilion and returned toward the garden. Each step struck the ground with indignation. How could anyone call that man kind?

Even she knew the riverside pavilion was the duke’s personal retreat. Few servants entered, and guests were rarer still.

The roses must be for Claudine. Surely she would soon be frequenting the pavilion now that their betrothal was near. Layla had chosen bright blossoms to suit the young lady’s taste—and now she was being sent back like this.

The garden stretched bare and sun-beaten as she emerged from the trees.

Squaring her shoulders, she cut again, this time selecting roses in more muted shades—the very ones she herself preferred. The basket soon brimmed with them.

The sun scorched overhead as she trudged back, sweat clinging to her.

If that’s what you wanted, why not just say so in the first place?

She kicked a stone in frustration.

I hate you, Your Grace.

Words she would never dare speak aloud spilled instead into the sharp kicks of her shoes against dry leaves.

By the time dizziness overtook her, she had reached the pavilion once more.

The building stood partly over the water, elegant and serene. The first floor held the boathouse and a small kitchen; the second, the duke’s reception rooms, dining room, and bedchamber.

Carrying the basket of roses, Layla climbed the outdoor stair to the second floor. Hessen and a middle-aged maid were just leaving. Bowing to them, Layla slipped inside.

Matthias was still there, reclining, eyes closed. His hair fell untidily across his forehead.

Should I wait…?

Before she could decide, his eyes opened.

“I’ve brought new roses, Your Grace.”

She lifted the basket in both hands.

Matthias only looked at her. Jacket off, shirt open at the collar, he appeared more languid, more unguarded than before.

“Shall I… fetch more again?”

Her voice trembled. If she had to walk back out into that blazing sun once more, she might just fling the roses in his face.

“If I told you to, would you?”

His tone was lazy, touched with drowsiness.

“If I made another mistake, I would. But if that’s the case, please tell me the color you prefer this time.”

Yes, Your Grace.

That was what she meant to say, but something else slipped out instead.

Watching her freeze, Matthias straightened from his slouch.

“Sit.”

He gestured to the seat across from him.

“No, it’s fine. If the flowers are to your satisfaction, I’ll just—”

“You brought them. Isn’t it your task to put them in a vase, Miss Llewellyn?”

“But Your Grace, I’m no good at arranging flowers.”

“Then should I?”

His gaze swept the empty room, then returned to her. They were alone. Which meant, competent or not, the task was hers.

Cautiously, she sat at the small chair by the window instead of facing him directly.

As she worked, trimming stems and setting them in a vase, Matthias turned back to his papers. The snip of shears and the rustle of parchment filled the stillness.

Signing the last document, Matthias’s thoughts drifted to the canary in his chamber. Contrary to what the keeper had said, the bird had taken to him easily. It perched on his finger, even sang to him now—its tiny body trembling with bright notes.

A creature so absurdly small, and yet its voice filled the room.

While he sorted the papers, Layla carried a vase of water from the washroom. She moved quietly, like someone skilled at disappearing.

And as she had warned, her flower arranging was dreadful. She merely set the roses in the vase without thought.

“Do you like it?” she asked hesitantly, holding the vase.

“It’s terrible.”

His tone was dry, not scolding, yet her cheeks flamed with embarrassment.

“I’m sorry. I’ll fetch a maid who’s skilled at it—”

“Sit.”

“Excuse me?”

“Sit, Layla.”

The deeper timbre of his voice left no room for refusal. He pointed directly to the sofa across from him.

Setting the graceless vase on a side table, Layla obeyed stiffly.

“Eat.”

He indicated a silver-domed dish.

Awkwardly lifting the lid, she found a plate of sandwiches and a glass of lemonade.

Matthias watched her, expression unreadable. If such a trifle pleased her, he intended to pay her accordingly. The result was poor, but she had done the work.

“Thank you, but I’m fine, Your Grace.”

Her hands trembled as she lowered the lid. In front of the physician’s son, she could smile as bright as the sun—but now she looked only troubled.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going—”

“Layla.”

His voice dropped, little more than a murmur.

As she blinked at him, Matthias lifted his glass, taking a slow sip of whiskey soda. A bead of condensation traced down his long fingers.

“Do you think my words are a request?”

His lips curved into a faint smile, gleaming with the touch of water.