-CHAPTER 19-
Félix ascended the stairs with the light-feathered gait of a heron or a crane. Once. Twice. He halted on the steps, his hand clamped tightly around the iron railing as if, in doing so, he might somehow feel better. As if the nagging voice in his head would quiet, his conscience go still, and his thoughts divorce themselves from dwelling on Estella and her endless misfortunes.
Trust his overly dramatic mind to instantly colour up the image of a frail-looking Estella — so weak she could hardly lift herself off the floor, dragged down and crushed in that dark place, with no one to help her.
It was still difficult to reconcile the image of the spitfire who had boldly challenged him that night with that of a broken castaway, now fighting for her life at the edge.
And to think she was being treated that way at the hands of her very own father…
Iron-fisted, the duke mounted up the steps. His mood shifting from self-absorbed guilt to something else entirely. Simmering just beneath the surface.
A rage almost unbearably powerful slithered through his spine, its noose roping around his neck, drawing too tight until his veins popped. Eyes blazing with fury, a growl escaped him as the one name quivered near the edges of his lips.
BaronEstefan.
Reaching the landing, he rounded a few turns on that floor before coming upon a door he thrust open without constraint.
"Your Grace, you…you are back," Coralie said, deep panting, as if she'd been caught red-handed in the act of mischief.
"How… how did it go? And who came to visit?" she asked hesitantly, a hand flying up to her neck while the other stationed on her hip, the draping fabric peeking behind her back.
Félix stood frozen by the door, his mind racing to process what he'd just witnessed fully. The sight of the princess sniffing into his overcoat was the last thing he'd expected to find when he came upstairs. It was his own fault—he'd allowed himself to get swallowed up in thoughts of Estella to the point of forgetting the princess's presence altogether.
He admitted to startling upon barging in to find her in his space, but what unsettled him even more was what he'd caught her doing. A muscle ticked in his jaw, his eyes narrowing as he turned the intimacy of her actions over in his mind.
"Oh, about this," she said with feigned composure, bringing the overcoat from behind her back, holding it out to him, and pushing her chin out. "I was merely checking for loose stitches, an error your—you know, what's his name again—the one who came here with all those maidens?"
"Benoît," Félix supplied.
"Yes, him. I wanted to make sure everything around here is pitch-perfect."
"That is hardly your jurisdiction, Princess." Félix's stare deepened, his arms folding across his chest.
"I disagree," Coralie replied, her voice teeming with forced confidence as she walked over to the king-sized bed and tossed the garment carelessly onto it. "I will become the duchess in a matter of months. As such, if I come in here and notice anything is out of place, I must have someone fix it."
"Except you didn't do that. You didn't call someone in to fix it. Instead, you had it stuffed in your face the whole time," Félix retorted, seriously annoyed. "Riddle me this, Princess: Did it smell different, too? Was that something you needed to check?"
Coralie's eyes faltered at that.
Félix's hands unwrapped themselves suddenly, slapping vehemently against his sides. "Listen and listen good, Princess." He locked pointed glances with her. "It is true that you're engaged to be my wife. It is also true how you've mindfully forced your way into being here this morning, refusing to answer how long you plan to stay—"
"Your Grace."
Félix held up his hand to her, taking a moment to steady his breaths. "You're not my bride—the duchess yet. I have not officially claimed your hand from your father, the king. So for as long as you'll be here, do not trespass by coming near my things. Do not also enter my room unless invited. For now, I will have the staff prepare a room for you as long as you remain here."
Coralie let out a wry laugh, then scoffed, raising her eyebrows. "Your Grace, do you realise who you're talking to? This is the Princess of England standing before you."
And he was the Duke of France, or had she forgotten that? Something clicked inside the duke's mind as soon as she said that.
Stifling a growl, he crossed the floor to get to her. He stopped merely a hair's breadth away, jaw clenched as he went on, "It seems you've forgotten what our agreement was from the start."
Coralie flinched back, her delicate face twisting into a snarl of disgust. "What agreement?" she asked, pretending not to know.
"From the beginning, I made it clear that our marriage was one of convenience, nothing more. You agreed to it," Félix said, taking a step back. "Or did you forget?"
"I wasn't thinking straight when I agreed to such a ridiculous request." The princess huffed, then went ahead to say, "Did you think I approached you from the start because I didn't have feelings for you? I always have, from the time we were kids. While I was eight—"
"I had no reason to think that at such a young age, you were secretly growing feelings for me," the duke said.
"Well, I did, and though you were older and still are, it doesn't mean I am out of my mind when I say that. You should also know that I could never accept being tied to a man I do not care about. I had many suitors before you; even now, they still come to the castle gates in numbers, but I do not want them. Only you, Duke Félix of Chateaubriant…"
Her voice trembled as she said, "Haven't I done enough to prove that? What's so hard about trying your hardest to love me, even if just a little bit?"