The Duke's Unwanted Second Wife

Eilika was in the middle of knitting a sweater for Roman in the bedroom of the cottage when a low knock sounded at the door. Before she could answer, a servant stepped inside, bowing deferentially.

”Your Grace, the Duke has returned.”

Eilika lifted her gaze at once, setting the unfinished wool aside as she rose to her feet. ”He is back early today,” she murmured to herself just as Damian entered the room. The servant bowed once more and quietly withdrew, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

Eilika dipped into a slight, graceful curtsy. ”You returned early today, My Lord. Was the court business finished so soon?”

”I am not early. I am quite on time,” Damian replied, crossing the room toward her, his fur coat still pinned securely over his broad shoulders. His eyes fell upon the ball of yarn and the row of fine loops resting on the table. ”I did not know you were skilled with needles.”

”I learned the craft several years ago,” Eilika said softly. ”I thought it would be fine to make a sweater for Roman as a gift.” She stepped closer to him, her fingers moving to unfasten the silver clasp of his thick mantle. As the heavy garment slid from his shoulders, she caught the lined fabric and set it carefully over the back of a nearby chair.

”Roman will treasure anything made by your hands,” Damian said, watching her movements. He paused, his expression softening. ”I bring good news as well. The tensions along the northern border have eased. The neighboring kingdom has agreed to terms for a peace treaty. Commander James’ diplomatic efforts were successful.”

”That is wonderful news indeed,” Eilika replied, a sense of relief settling over her.

”It is,” Damian agreed, crossing the chamber to sit upon the lower edge of the bed.

Eilika turned to the table, pouring water from a ceramic pitcher into a polished silver goblet before handing it to him.

”Thank you.” He took a few quiet sips, handing the goblet back to her before reaching out to touch the soft wool of the half-finished sweater. ”Where did you acquire the yarn and needles?”

”A local vendor came by the cottage grounds this morning,” she explained. ”I wished to make good use of my idle hours. The winters here are harsh, and I wanted Roman to have something warm to wear.”

Damian smiled faintly. Reaching out, he took her hand and gently drew her nearer until she stood between his knees. His arms slid around her waist, his head tilted up to meet her gaze.

”Teach me,” Damian said calmly. ”I want you to teach me how to knit.”

Eilika stared down at him, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. ”Why would you suddenly ask to learn such a thing?”

”Last winter, Roman asked my mother for a hand-knitted muffler,” Damian explained, his tone growing quiet and reflective. ”But my mother’s eyesight has dimmed with age, and the strain brings her severe pain. Louis mentioned to me later that the boy was disheartened when his companions at court showed off garments made by their own mothers and grandmothers. I promised him then that I would make one for him myself. But with the duties of the Duchy, and my own negligence, the matter completely slipped my mind. The winter will reach Varos by next month, and I would be a poor father to break a promise to my son twice. Had I not seen you with this sweater, I would have forgotten it entirely. So... will you teach me?”

”I will,” Eilika said softly. ”If you wish to knit a muffler for your son, I shall gladly teach you. Though you must know, it is hardly considered a man’s pursuit.”

”With you, I have come to learn that a man ought to be capable of whatever his family requires of him,” Damian replied, a quiet conviction in his tone. ”It should not always fall upon a woman’s shoulders. Besides, I learn quickly enough. I am certain I can master the stitches before winter sets in.”

”If you are determined, you surely will,” Eilika said, her lips curving into a gentle smile. ”Though I must say, very few men in your position share such thoughts. You even began learning to cook for my sake.”

Her eyes shone with a warm admiration as she looked down at him.

”For now, go and get changed. I will look into the lunch preparation,” Eilika answered. She turned around and left the room.

Damian, on the other hand, held the half-knitted sweater and mumbled, ”She is fast.”

~~~~~

”Your Highness,” Samir began as they both stepped down from the carriage. ”I believe I just saw Xenia.”

”Who?” August arched an eyebrow, the name failing to register in his mind.

”The young woman you helped a few days ago,” Samir reminded him.

”What is she doing in a place like this?” August muttered.

”How should I know? I only caught a brief glimpse of her,” Samir insisted quickly. ”And please, do not mistake my notice for interest. It was entirely coincidental. She happened to pass by the carriage window.”

”I make no such assumptions,” August replied dryly.

Before he could take another step, a heavy, stumbling form collided sharply against his shoulder. August’s expression darkened instantly as the reeking drunkard began to slur obscenities and yell in his face.

August’s fists clenched at his sides. Samir immediately stepped forward to intervene, but the prince held up a hand to check his guard. Reaching out with lightning speed, August seized the drunkard by the hair, forcing the man’s head back.

”Ahh! Let me go!” the drunkard bellowed, flailing his arms blindly in the air as he tried to strike his captor, entirely oblivious to the dangerous nobility of the man holding him.

August struck the man’s cheek with a light slap before gripping his jaw tightly between his fingers, forcing the drunkard to meet his eyes.

”Look at me,” August demanded, his voice dangerously low. ”Do you recognize who stands before you? I am August Van Kingsley.”

The name seemed to cut through the haze of alcohol. A sudden flicker of terror crossed the drunkard’s face, and he stumbled over a frantic, slurred apology. August shoved him away with disdain.

”Never cross my path again, or you will not survive it.”

A collective gasp echoed through the gathered crowd at the prince’s warning. August turned his sharp gaze toward the onlookers, and within seconds, the spectators scattered in every direction, desperate to escape his notice.

August ran a hand through his hair and passed through a group of young ladies, who happened to admire his cold attitude.

August ran a hand through his dark hair, striding past a group of young noblewomen who were watching him with open admiration, drawn to his cold, imperious demeanor.

”Did you see how he handled that fool? He carries himself with true royal blood,” one of the ladies remarked, fanning herself.

”If you harbor any foolish hope of marrying him, set it aside,” another replied with a light scoff. ”Half the noble daughters in the capital are likely lined up for his favor.”

The others offered a soft chorus of laughter, until the fifth lady spoke in a muted, sharper tone. ”Let them line up. Who truly wishes to become the wife of a bastard? He is only half-royal, after all. His mother destroyed the King’s household.”

August had not walked far, and despite the chatter of the bustling street, the harsh words reached his ears clearly thanks to his sharp hearing.

Samir quickly caught August by the sleeve, his grip firm. ”Your Highness, restraint. You cannot engage in a public brawl with noblewomen.”

”She called me a bastard,” August muttered under his breath, his knuckles turning white. ”I will slit her throat.”

”It ill becomes a lady to speak ill of a prince,” a clear, ringing voice suddenly cut through the air.

The group of noblewomen turned, their haughty gazes falling upon the young woman stepping toward them.

”And who might you be?” sneered the same lady who had disparaged August. ”We do not entertain beggars.”

”I possess far more dignity than you, my lady,” Xenia stated smoothly, a faint, mocking smile touching her lips.

”What did you just say?” the noblewoman snapped, her cheeks flushing red.

Her attendant immediately lunged forward to slap Xenia, but Xenia caught the woman’s wrist mid-air. With a swift twist, she forced the attendant’s arm behind her back and shoved her forcefully into the group of startled ladies.

”How dare you raise your hand against us!” the noblewoman shrieked, clutching her skirts. ”You and your family will pay for this insolence!”

”Lower your voice, Miss,” Xenia replied calmly, stepping closer. ”Unless you wish me to file a formal complaint for treason, specifically for calling Prince August a bastard in front of so many people. I am certain His Majesty would be deeply interested to hear of your words, and equally eager to punish the parents who failed to teach you proper speech.”