Amelie's arm trembled under the weight of the Duke, Ludwig Therna von Naria und Wartenburg, whose inebriated state rendered him nearly as helpful as a sack of grain. She grunted softly, straining to keep both of them upright and moving down the dimly lit corridor, her other hand resting on the swell of her belly. The sharp scent of alcohol wafted from his breath, mingling with the subtler notes of expensive cologne that clung to his disheveled evening attire.
"Careful now, Your Grace," she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rustling of their combined efforts. She was reminded of the countless times she had maneuvered her own brother through the backdoor of their family home, his youthful indiscretions a secret kept between siblings. But the duke, with his tall and imposing figure, made for a more daunting task, especially with the added burden she now carried.
The moon, a silvery crescent in the velvet sky, cast a pale glow through the windows as Amelie tiptoed down the servants' corridor. Her stomach rumbled quietly, an echo of her unborn child's demands for sustenance. The stillness of the house wrapped around her like a cloak, and she moved with practiced ease, a silent shadow amidst the grandeur.
Maggy, bless her soul, was asleep on the couch next to the crib, her breaths deep and even. With a gentle touch, Amelie had reassured herself of the little one's slumber before venturing forth from their shared room. Now, with the nursery behind her, she navigated the less ornate passages meant for those who served rather than those who were served.
But she didn't know that the hunger pains were not what would trouble her most; it was the unexpected encounter that had led to this quiet procession. The Duke had been a specter in the shadows, his presence as surprising as it was burdensome. He had stumbled upon her by chance, his frame swaying, his speech slurred from the intoxication that seemed to be his only solace.
"Your Grace," she had whispered, steadying him with more courage than she felt. But he didn't answer.The shadows draped around them like velvet curtains, concealing their clandestine journey from prying eyes. Amelie's mind wandered to the murmurs she'd overheard from the servants, tales of the duke's nightly wanderings, each return thudding into her consciousness as she lay awake, restless with the growing discomforts of pregnancy. She wondered whathorrorsdrove him to seek solace in the bottom of a bottle, what phantoms caused such sorrow in those amber eyes that they turned to dregs for reprieve.
"Almost there," she coaxed as much to herself as to the duke, her voice imbued with an encouraging lilt. They reached the ornate door of his chamber, its heavy frame looming before them. With a gentle push, it swung open, revealing the opulence within—a stark contrast to the turmoil that seemed to haunt the man beside her.
Easing him onto the edge of the bed, Amelie steadied her breathing, the sweat beading along her hairline. She brushed a few loose strands behind her ear, her practical habits never deserting her.
"Rest now," she said, ensuring he was settled before she contemplated her retreat. She couldn't help but observe the softening of his features in slumber, the harsh lines of authority and grief smoothed away by the grace of sleep. It was as though, in these quiet hours, he could almost pass for the innocent child she tended to during the day, rather than the brooding figure that paced the halls at night.
A pang of empathy pierced her heart. The Duke had been adrift ever since the passing of his beloved Esther, each day a struggle against the tides of grief. She, too, knew the sharp sting of loss, the hollowness left by her brother's supposed death—a wound that never quite healed. And now, the thought of Edric, possibly lost to her as well, sent a shiver down her spine that rivaled the coldness of the night.
As she stood there, watching over him, a wave of exhaustion washed over her. The weight of her responsibilities as a wet nurse, the uncertainty of her own future, and the secret she bore within her—all these threads wove a tapestry of silent fortitude. But for a moment, she allowed herself to simply be Amelie Huber—a woman caught between worlds, witnessing the fragility of a man whom others only saw as unyielding.
Perhaps it was the maternal instinct in her or the shared understanding of loss that softened her gaze. She reached out, brushing a stray lock from his face, much like she would for little Adrian after a nightmare.
Amelie hesitated for a moment, the sight of the duke in his troubled sleep stirring a well of empathy within her. He tossed slightly, a grimace distorting his handsome features, and she knew from experience that he was in the midst of some unsettling dream. His dark hair lay matted against his forehead, beads of sweat glistening like morning dew upon leaves. Ludwig's chest rose and fell unevenly beneath the fine fabric of his shirt, and every now and then, a soft groan escaped his lips.
She moved closer to the bed, her own breaths shallow in the silence of the chamber. With great care, Amelie reached down to remove his shoes, which were carelessly brushing against the pristine sheets. They were heavier than she expected, well-made leather that spoke of the duke's status. She placed them on the floor with a gentle thud, her movements deliberate to avoid waking him.
Next, she contemplated the buttons of his top, each one fastened meticulously. Her fingers trembled slightly, not from the weight of him, but from the proximity to this man whom circumstance had thrown her against in such an intimate manner. As she began to unbutton his shirt, revealing the tanned skin beneath, it struck her how often she had performed this task for her brother in times past, or even for the little ones when they had been ill. But never before had she been so close to a man like Edric, let alone the Duke.
It was then that her eyes caught sight of a smudge of red upon his neck—a mark of lipstick, bold and brazen against his skin. Amelie's cheeks flushed with a heat that rivaled the warmth of the room. The stark reminder of Ludwig's escapades outside the confines of these walls sent a jolt through her, a mix of embarrassment and something else—an emotion she could not quite place.
Amelie forced her thoughts away from the implications of the mark, focusing instead on the need to ensure his comfort. With care, she eased the shirt open further, allowing air to reach his skin in hopes it might cool the flush from his fevered dreams.
The quiet of the night stood in stark contrast to the knowledge that had filled her mind ever since she realized she was with child. In her quest to understand her condition, she had unearthed more about the intricacies of relations between men and women than she had ever wished to know. The estate's extensive library had been both her teacher and her tormentor, providing glimpses into practices and liberties far beyond the borders of the empire—customs far more liberal than anything she had been raised to comprehend.
Her stomach twisted at the thought of what the duke might have been doing before their paths crossed this evening. Amelie pushed the images away, unwilling to delve deeper into conjecture. After all, she had her own mystery to contend with, one that left her with more questions than answers.
With the task complete, she looked down at Ludwig, whose breathing had steadied somewhat. There was a certain peace that seemed to settle over his face, a reprieve from the burdens he carried. It was a fleeting glimpse of the boy who once found solace in the company of his cousin Esther, before life's cruel hand reshaped him into the sorrowful figure he now was.
Taking a step back, Amelie allowed herself a final, lingering look at the duke. Despite the chaos of his nocturnal wanderings, there was an undeniable nobility still clinging to him, a vestige of the strength and tenacity required to bear the title he held. For a fleeting moment, she saw past the titles and the sorrow, to the raw humanity that connected them both, however imperceptibly.
Quietly, Amelie turned and made her way toward the door, her exit as silent as her entrance. The reality of her situation, unwed and with child, weighed heavily on her as she navigated back through the servants' corridor. Each step was taken with the utmost discretion, a dance of shadows and moonlight that she had mastered during her time at the estate.
Back in the safety of her room, Amelie exhaled a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. She sat on the edge of her bed, hands resting atop the swell of her belly. Life, with all its complexities and trials, grew inside her, an innocent yet powerful affirmation of hope amidst the uncertainty.
In the solace of her quarters, surrounded by the muted hues and soft fabrics, Amelie closed her eyes. She allowed herself the luxury of imagining a future where secrets did not loom as large as the walls around her, where the whispers of scandal and judgment did not define her existence.
For now, she would endure, bearing her secret with the grace and fortitude that had become her armor. The dawn would bring with it the resumption of her duties, the continuation of carefully constructed facades. But in this moment, alone with her thoughts and the life growing within her, Amelie embraced the quiet determination to survive and thrive, for herself and for the child who would soon enter this grand, complicated world.