All Chapters of His Father's Bride : Chapter 31 - Chapter 40

Morning arrived not with rest, but with a slow, unwelcome awareness—the kind that crept in quietly, pressing against the edges of consciousness until sleep could no longer hold.I stirred faintly, the unfamiliar weight of wakefulness settling over me. For a moment, I did not move. Did not open my eyes. Because something felt—Different.Too warm. Too close.My breath caught.And then, slowly, memory returned.Not all at once. Not gently. But in fragments—sharp and unrelenting. The corridor. His voice and our actions.The way everything had unravelled so quickly. The feeling of him—still far too vivid to dismiss as a dream.My eyes opened.And reality followed.The room was dim, the early light of dawn just beginning to slip through the thin gap in the curtains. Shadows lingered across the walls, soft and quiet—but it was not the room that held me still.It was him.William lay beside me.Asleep.One arm draped over me, his breathing slow, steady—unaware.For a moment, I could not breat

The house had grown unnervingly quiet. Not with peace. Not with comfort. But with absence. Lord Rathcliffe had not attended breakfast. Nor luncheon. Nor dinner. For two full days. At first, it had seemed a small thing. Easily dismissed. A gentleman occupied elsewhere, perhaps detained by matters of business or society. But as the hours stretched into a second evening—and his place at the table remained untouched, unacknowledged save for the careful clearing by servants who did not dare comment—it became something else entirely. Something deliberate. Something felt. His absence lingered like a question no one dared to ask aloud. I noticed it most in the children. David, who once looked toward the door with an expectation he tried so valiantly to conceal, no longer did. He sat straighter now, quieter, as though trying to take up less space in a world that had suddenly grown uncertain beneath him. His laughter, when it came, felt practiced—too quick, too forced, as though he w

When I woke— He was gone. At first, I did not understand it. My body remained still beneath the covers, my eyes closed as though I might yet drift back into the fragile quiet I had fallen asleep in. But something felt wrong. Subtly at first. Then unmistakably. Cold. Empty. The warmth that had surrounded me only hours before had vanished entirely. My hand moved before I could stop it, brushing across the space beside me. Nothing. The sheets were cool—undisturbed in a way that told me he had not just risen, but had been gone for some time. My breath caught softly in my chest. And then— Everything returned. The night. The quiet confession. The way he had held me as though nothing else mattered...The way I had let myself believe, if only for a moment, that it might be enough. I opened my eyes slowly.The room looked exactly as it always did. Orderly. Still. Unchanged. And yet— It felt different. As though something had been taken from it. Or perhaps— As though s

The sickness woke me before the light had fully broken. It came without warning. I barely had time to sit upright before my body betrayed me, a hand flying to my mouth as I pushed the covers aside in haste. The room tilted faintly as I forced myself to stand, my steps unsteady as I made my way toward the wash basin. I barely made it when the wave overtook me, sudden and violent, leaving me gripping the edge of the table beside me as I tried to steady my breathing between heaving breaths. It passed as quickly as it came. But it left something behind. A weakness. A hollow, trembling exhaustion that settled deep into my limbs. I remained where I was, one hand braced against the cool wood, the other pressed lightly to my stomach as I tried to make sense of it. This had happened before. Once— I had dismissed it. Twice— I had ignored it. But now— A third morning. The thought formed slowly. I witnessed my mother go through this many times. The door opened. "Bel—” Emma stopped short

9 days passed. 9 days since that night, and yet it lingered in everything. In the silence. In the glances. In the way Lord Rathcliffe no longer seemed entirely unaware of me. We did not speak of it. Not once. There was no mention of that night—no awkward attempt at recollection, no probing questions, no lingering suspicion voiced aloud. It was as though we had both silently agreed to fold it away, to place it somewhere neither of us would dare to reach. And yet… something had changed. Subtly. Unmistakably. He noticed me now. Not in grand gestures or overwhelming attentions, but in small, almost hesitant ways. A pause when I entered a room. A question directed at me during meals. The occasional attempt at conversation—brief, careful, but real. “Did you sleep well?” “The weather has turned colder.” “You should take a shawl.” They were simple things. But they were more than before. And each time, something inside me tightened. Because I knew what he believed. And I knew the tr