His Father's Bride 의 모든 챕터: 챕터 21 - 챕터 30

I told myself I would feel better the next morning. By the time I entered the breakfast room, the table had already been laid, and the morning light poured through the tall windows.Lord Rathcliffe sat at the head of the table, reading the newspaper, while Katherine swung her feet beneath her chair with restless impatience.David was in the midst of describing something with great enthusiasm.“And then it slipped straight through the fence and ran—”“Good morning, Mrs. Belle.” I paused just inside the doorway. William sat halfway down the table, a cup of tea in his hand. He inclined his head politely in greeting before returning his attention to the children.The formality of it struck me at once.Mrs. Belle.Not simply Belle, as he had grown accustomed to saying.Not with the quiet familiarity I had come to expect.Just polite. Respectful. Distant.“Good morning,” I replied, forcing my voice into the same calm tone.I took my seat across from him.Lord Rathcliffe lowered his newspaper.

The storm showed no sign of easing. Rain battered relentlessly against the carriage, each strike sharp and unyielding, while the wind howled through the trees as though intent on tearing the world apart. The carriage rocked faintly beneath it all, the wheels sunk deep into unforgiving mud. Cold crept in from every seam, damp and insistent, settling into bone. “The coachman has not yet returned.” I kept my voice measured, though it took effort. A shiver betrayed me despite it. Then another. “I think we should go look for him.” “I think not.” William’s voice came from the darkness opposite me, steady and unyielding. He rested his head back against the carriage wall, his features half-lost to shadow. “It is too dangerous for you to go out at this hour. These roads are not safe for you.” There was finality in it. Not unkind—but absolute. Silence followed. It pressed in, thick as the storm itself. I found I had grown tired of these silences—of all the things left unsaid within the

The mask sat lightly against my skin.A delicate thing—crafted from fine ivory lace and brushed with threads of gold, its edges curling into intricate patterns that framed my eyes just enough to make me feel hidden. Transformed.I studied my reflection one last time before turning as the door opened behind me. Emma walked in.“A gift,” she said. She held them out to me—golden hairpins, slender and elegant, shaped like delicate vines. At their tips, ruby stones gleamed—deep, rich, and almost too vivid beneath the candlelight. “From who?” I asked. “Lord Rathcliffe,” she said. “He said it is for your first season, and he hopes you will wear them tonight.” I hesitated only briefly before taking them.They were beautiful and I was stunned that he had gifted them to me. I slipped them carefully into the twists of my hair, securing them at the back where the rubies nestled against the dark strands. “I shall thank him,” I said, moving to leave the room quicky. My gown fell in soft layer

The carriage rolled to a stop outside the manor. Before the footman could properly assist me, I had already pushed the door open and stepped down, my movements quick—almost unsteady. The cool night air did little to calm the heat still burning beneath my skin.I walked inside without looking back.“Belle,” Emma’s voice reached me the moment I crossed the threshold.“You’re back.” There was a pause, her eyes drifting past me toward the open door, searching. “Where is Lord Rathcliffe?”“He is still at the ball. I was feeling unwell,” I replied quickly.Too quickly.I did not give her time to question it. I moved past her, my steps hurried as I made my way up the staircase. “Belle—” But I did not stop.I reached my room and shut the door behind me harder than intended. The sound echoed through the space, sharp and final.Silence followed.I stood there for a moment, my hand still resting against the door, my breathing uneven. My heart had not slowed.Not from the moment he had kissed

The drawing room was bathed in soft afternoon light, the tall windows filtering the sun into something gentler—muted gold that settled across the pale walls and polished furnishings. It was the kind of light that softened edges, that made everything appear more refined than it truly was. Even the silence felt curated. The faint scent of bergamot lingered in the air, delicate yet unmistakable, curling through the space like an invisible thread. It clung to the porcelain, the upholstery, the very fabric of the room itself—intentional, composed. Lady Ashbourne seemed to have thrived in such spaces. She stood beside the tea service with effortless poise, her movements precise without ever appearing rigid. The silver teapot gleamed beneath her hand as she tilted it just so, pouring the amber liquid into my cup with practiced elegance. “Just a touch more?” she asked, her tone gentle—almost indulgent, as though she were offering something far more significant than tea. I nodded, thoug