The following morning Amelie rose, driven by a newfound determination, and approached the mirror that hung above a dainty dressing table. In her reflection, she sought the strength of her convictions, the gentle firmness that had always guided her. There, in the depths of her dark eyes, she found the spark that would ignite her plea.
Your Grace," she practiced, her voice low and filled with purpose. "I come before you not to intrude upon your grief, but to share a concern that bears heavily upon my heart. The young master, your son, requires your guidance, your presence..." Her words faltered, and she paused, frowning slightly. No, it was not enough to simply state the facts. She needed to connect with the duke, to remind him of the bond that tethered him to the living world, to his son.
"Your son looks for you," she tried again, her tone imbued with empathy. "In his eyes, there is a yearning for the father he adores, the father he needs. I understand your pain, Your Grace, for it echoes through these halls, but I implore you, do not let it sever the precious tie that remains between you and your child."
Amelie exhaled, her breath misting the glass. It was a delicate gamble, invoking the memory of his late wife, the love they shared, and the son who was their legacy. She could only hope that beneath the layers of his despair, the duke's heart still held a flicker of warmth for his offspring.
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed softly, marking the early hour. Time was slipping away, and with it, her opportunity to prepare. The meeting with the duke loomed like a mountain peak in the distance—formidable, yet not insurmountable."Today," she murmured into the darkness, "for the young master, for the future, I shall find the words."
The grandeur of the duke's office was not lost on Amelie as she stepped through its imposing doors, her hands slightly trembling from the gravity of the moment. The mahogany panels lining the walls gleamed with a rich patina, testament to years of diligent care, and the thick rugs underfoot muffled her footsteps, lending an air of hushed reverence to the chamber.
Pausing just inside, she swept a curtsy, deep and precise, in accordance with the protocol drilled into her by Maggy. Despite this display of respect, she did not let her gaze drop fully, keeping the Duke Ludwig Therna von Naria und Wartenburg within her sights.
"Your Grace," she began, her voice a melody of respect laced with steadfast resolve. But he only nodded in the direction of the crib.
She settled the young master into his crib—a sanctuary of plush linens and delicate lace—ensuring the child was comfortable before turning her attention back to the daunting figure behind the desk. As the silence stretched between them, a sense of anticipation swelled in the room like the crescendo of a symphony waiting to break free.
Duke Ludwig continued to pour over his documents, the feathered quill dancing between his fingers in a flurry of ink and parchment. It was only when he finally glanced up that the expected look of surprise registered on his features, his dark brows arching ever so slightly.
"Miss Huber," he observed, his voice carrying the gravelly timbre of a man interrupted. "This is unexpected."
Indeed, it was not Maggy, the ginger-haired nurse who usually tended to such duties. Amelie stood, the embodiment of determination wrapped in a modest dress, her practical attire a sharp contrast to the opulence surrounding her. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she would not be deterred.
"Forgive the intrusion, Your Grace," Amelie said, her tone apologetic, yet her stance unwavering. "I come bearing matters of importance regarding the young master."
Ludwig cocked his head, the amber of his eyes alight with intrigue. "Proceed," he commanded, the word hanging in the air like a decree.
Amelie took a breath, steadying herself against the weight of his gaze. This was her charge, her responsibility, and she would not falter. She explained her presence, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest, her words carefully chosen to appeal to the duke's sense of duty and honor.
"Your Grace, I believe it is paramount that we address certain concerns pertaining to your son's wellbeing and stature."
As she spoke, the duke's expression remained inscrutable, yet there was a flicker in the depths of his eyes—a hint of vulnerability that betrayed the stoic facade he presented to the world. Amelie pressed on, aware that this was her only chance to advocate for the child.
"May I speak freely, Your Grace?" she asked, her request laced with a respectful boldness that seemed to give him pause.
"Very well," he conceded, setting aside his quill and leaning back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under the shift of his weight. "State your requests."
Amelie felt the weight of silence in the grandeur of the duke's office, a space where opulence met the austere demands of duty. The walls, adorned with portraits of forebears who had long watched over the duchy, seemed to lean closer, their eyes fixed upon her as she stood before Duke Ludwig.
Amelie's pulse quickened. The moment had come to voice her concerns, to fulfill her purpose. With each word, she wove a tapestry of conviction and care, her pleas for the child's recognition deftly crafted to resonate with the duke's own sense of legacy.
"Your Grace," she began, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest, "it is imperative that the birth and name of the young master be announced forthwith. He has seen three months of life under your roof, and while the war and the Duchess's passing have granted us grace, any further delay will invite whispers among the peerage and the people."
The words hung between them, draped in the gravity of implication. Amelie held her breath, knowing full well that the etiquette of their stations demanded deference, yet the urgency of her plea could brook no silence.
Duke Ludwig set aside his quill, its ebony shaft catching a glint of the morning sun streaming through the tall windows. His gaze was sharp, like the fine edge of the blade he undoubtedly wielded in the war that raged beyond their lands. With a tilt of his head, he pierced her resolve with a question that bore the chill of disdain.
"And who are you to say that?" His tone drew a line in the air, one not to be crossed by the likes of her. "And what do you know about nobility?"
"Your Grace, I may not wear the cloak of nobility, nor claim the bloodline of the exalted," she replied, her voice carrying the subtle strength of conviction, "but I am entrusted with the care of the heir to your name and titles. It is my duty to speak on behalf of his interests, as it is yours to uphold the honor and future of this noble house."
There, she had said it—the question that had haunted her, the worry that gnawed at her very soul. The duke's reaction would reveal much, not only about his character but also about the future she hoped to secure for the innocent life entrusted to her care.
In her words echoed the echo of the late duchess's own sentiments—the welfare of the child paramount above all else. The duke's eyes narrowed, evaluating the woman who dared stand before him, not as a servant, but as a protector of his lineage.
Duke Ludwig regarded her with a depth that pierced through the practiced armor of nobility. For a heartbeat, their worlds collided, the boundary between servant and master blurred by the common thread of concern for the child.
"Your Grace, I have not been idle. My research into the customs of nobility—limited though my resources may be—has led me to understand that a further delay will not only raise eyebrows but could also taint the duchy's esteemed reputation." She held her breath, watching the Duke's reaction closely.
Duke Ludwig's eyes darkened like a storm over the moors. He rested his elbows on the mahogany desk that separated them, fingers interlacing in contemplation. The ornate clock on the mantle ticked rhythmically, underscoring the silence that stretched between them.
"Reputation," he echoed, his voice low and measured, almost to himself. The duke knew all too well the power it wielded; it was as much a shield as it was a sword. Respect came easy due to his lineage and the iron fist with which he ruled, but affection from his subjects was a rarer commodity—one he had never truly sought.
"Indeed, Your Grace," Amelie pressed on, sensing the shift in his thoughts. "The people respect strength, but they also value tradition. The announcement of an heir is a momentous occasion, one that reassures and unites."
Ludwig leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, his amber eyes studying her with an intensity that would have made a lesser woman quail. Yet Amelie held his stare, knowing her cause was just, her intentions pure.
"Very well," he said after a pause that seemed to last an eternity. "The heralds will make the proclamation by week's end." His words fell like a gavel, final and irrevocable.
"Thank you, Your Grace," she replied, dipping into a curtsy that belied the tempest of emotions within her. As she straightened, her eyes lingered on the crib where the young master rested. The infant's chest rose and fell in the innocent slumber of the unaware, cradled in silk and secured by his station.
"Speak clearly, Miss Huber," he demanded sternly as she remained rooted to the spot, "You wish for the announcement to be made—what else do you seek from this audience?"