The Duke's Bed Warmer

The next day, Alina stepped into the garden to find a cutting table waiting there.

It wasn’t like the uneven board they had been using, which wobbled and had to be braced against the wall to stay steady. It was a professional cutting table. The wood was new, still carrying the faint scent of sawdust and varnish.

It had appeared overnight. The women were gathered around it, curiosity written across their faces. Lady Brennan ran her hands over the surface as if she couldn’t quite believe it. Marguerite was already spreading fabric across it, testing the space. Evelyn was grinning while Lady Talbot examined the table’s stability.

"It’s solid," Lady Talbot said.

Mr. Harrington stood at the edge of the garden, his hands clasped behind his back, a neutral expression on his face. He had been the steward for fifteen years, delivering thousands of messages, approving hundreds of requisitions, and witnessing dozens of dukes’ whims. But this was new, even for him.

"His Grace approved the workshop requisition," he said and left.

Alina walked to the table slowly and put her hand on it. It was perfect, the kind of table used in high-end tailor shops.

Austin hadn’t just approved a requisition. He had this built in a day. She smiled. It wasn’t an apology, but he had given her something that made her work easier and better. It was his language. That was how he spoke.

Marguerite came to her then.

"Who asked His Grace for this?" she asked.

"I don’t know," she replied, picking up her measuring tape. "But it’s his way of apologizing."

Marguerite stared at her.

"What?"

Alina didn’t explain and began marking the fabric for the next batch of collars. Marguerite left, looking confused.

After a while, she set the work aside. She needed to go to the library to look through old designs. Taking a sheet of paper and a pen in her hands, she stood up. On her way out, she spotted Lady Pemberton in the corridor and paused.

Not wanting to ruin her good mood by talking to her, she turned and took another route to the library.

The corridors were quiet, bathed in the warm glow of the afternoon sun. As she passed through the east wing, she heard the sound of piano from the wing again.

She stopped and looked around. The corridor was empty. She walked to the door and knocked. The sound stopped. She thought for a moment, then crouched and slid a note under the door.

"I am Alina. Who are you?"

For a second, nothing happened. Then someone picked up the paper, and she heard the soft rustle of it being read. A reply came a minute later.

"No one."

Alina wrote another note.

"I used to be a nobody too when I arrived in this castle. But things are changing. I can keep you company, if you’d like."

She slid it under the door and waited. The response came sooner this time.

"I’m scared. What if His Grace knows?"

Alina pressed her palm on the wooden door.

"He won’t," she said.

The person on the other side stood, walked a little , then knelt again by the door. They wrote another note and slid it to Alina.

"I would be glad to have you as my company."

Alina smiled.

"I have to go now. But I’ll come back. I promise."

Then she stood up and walked away, already planning her next visit.

Dinner that night was louder than usual. The castle still hadn’t settled after everything that had happened. And then Austin stood up again to make an announcement.

"The military uniform commission is being expanded. The east garden workshop will produce an additional hundred sets for the border troops. Wages are increased by fifteen percent to reflect the additional workload and the quality of output, which has exceeded expectations."

Whispers started instantly.

"Exceeded expectations?"

"Fifteen percent?"

"The border troops? I thought they had their own..."

Then he sat down and returned to his food.

Lady Pemberton stared at her plate while Lady Hargrove stared at Austin. Lord Whitmore stared at Alina, and Lord Ashby smiled into his wine. Marguerite grabbed Alina’s arm under the table, her fingers digging in.

"Did he just.."

"Yes."

Across the hall, Audrey smiled.

"Wonderful news, Austin. The women have worked so hard. They deserve it."

Everything looked normal, but beneath the calm, something was quietly unravelling.

By the time he arrived that night, she was already in the bed. The room was dim, shadows stretching across the walls.

"About the table..."

"It was a workshop requisition," he replied.

"And the expanded commission?"

"The border troops need uniforms."

She sat up and looked at him. He was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Stop pretending everything you do for me is operational efficiency. You got the table ready within a day. The commission expansion was your idea. Lord Ashby told me the border troops order wasn’t submitted until this morning. You created the order to justify the expansion."

He remained silent, not refuting.

"You’re making efforts. I can see it. But you’re doing it in your language. You’re wrapping every apology in paperwork so it can’t be called an apology. I..."

"Is it working?"

Her frustrated disappeared, and she smiled. She hadn’t expected that answer.

"The table is nice, and since more work means more money...the sewing circle is happy."

"And you?"

The question lingered in the air.

"I’m happy...but I need time."

"How much?"

She lay back down and stared at the canopy.

"I don’t have a specific timeline. That’s not how it works."

He nodded. Then he walked to the desk and wrote something. He folded the paper and came to her side of the bed.

"Read it in the morning," he said, putting the folded paper on the bedside table.

She looked at the paper, curious, then at him.

"Goodnight," he said.

"Goodnight."

She hardly slept that night. She kept glancing at the note, again and again. The urge to read it tugged at her, but she stopped herself. He had asked her to wait until the morning, and she was going to respect that.

Morning came slowly. She didn’t know when she had dozed off. When she woke, he was gone. She reached for the paper and unfolded it.

"I won’t drop it."

Not "I’m sorry" or "forgive me." But "I won’t drop it."

She smiled as she understood the meaning behind his words. He was talking about his hand at her waist, about the trust. He was promising not to drop it again, not to withdraw, and not to choose evidence over instinct.

She folded the paper carefully, and held onto it for a moment.

I believe you, Austin!