A DUKE'S CRIMSON SCANDAL

Two months later...

Soren and Rowan were sitting beside Lucien as the carriage moved through the woods.

As the wheels galloped slightly, Lucien’s gloved hands reached for the sides of his head, pressing them there as he shut his eyes.

"The pain seems to be getting worse," Rowan whispered.

"This could simply be avoided if only he slept," Soren said.

Soren was not pleased that he had to leave the comfort of his chamber to start travelling everywhere with Lucien just to make sure the Duke wasn’t dying yet.

Lucien was a very stubborn patient. After his return from the river village, the man had refused to do anything beneficial for himself.

No eating, no sleeping, no resting.

His body was deteriorating slowly and if he kept going like that, he’d break down.

"I’m fine," Lucien murmured, straightening and looking out of the window.

Rowan sighed. "Love... stupid..." he whispered.

Soren turned to Rowan, slowly raising his brow. "Stupid?" he asked.

Rowan shrugged. "It makes one... like that." He pointed to Lucien, shaking his head. "I never want to be in his shoes, no offense, cousin." He sighed.

Soren’s gaze narrowed at Rowan. "You won’t be like that if you do the right thing... be honest when you feel something for someone." He said and finally looked away from Rowan.

Rowan nodded. "You’re right. I know that." He replied.

"We’re arriving, Your Grace," Finn spoke beside the coachman outside.

"Where are we exactly?" Rowan asked Lucien.

Lucien didn’t speak immediately. His hands were clenched above his knees, his face set into a hard mask.

"Rowena’s late mother’s funeral memorial," Soren provided.

"Right... and why are we travelling all the way here and not to the palace?" Rowan questioned.

"Because the law allows the remembrance to be done in the lady’s maternal home," Soren answered calmly.

Rowan scoffed. "Right."

The carriage came to a stop and Finn gently pulled the door open.

"We have arrived, Your Grace," Finn spoke beside the door.

The carriage door opened fully. Lucien stepped down onto a gravelled, sizeable courtyard. A cream-colored house stood at its center, elegant yet understated, its walls soft against the late morning light. Rowan and Soren followed closely behind him.

People bowed as he entered the gates — servants, distant relatives, and guests already gathered for the memorial.

Lucien barely responded. A curt nod here, a distant glance there. His head ached fiercely, a dull, pulsing pressure that made every sound sharper than it should have been.

He needed rest. Badly.

A maid in mourning black approached and bowed low. "Your Grace, Lady Rowena is receiving guests in the main hall. Please, this way."

She led them through the quiet corridors into a large, softly lit hall. Black ribbons and white flowers decorated the space. At the far end, Rowena sat in a high-backed chair, dressed in deep mourning attire, accepting quiet condolences from those who approached.

The moment her eyes found Lucien, her composure cracked. Soft sobs escaped her as she rose and hurried toward him. When she was close enough, she threw her arms around him, burying her face against his chest.

"Lucien..." she whispered, voice thick with tears.

Lucien’s gloved hands rested lightly on her back. He whispered soothing words against her hair — empty, practiced comfort — even as the pain in his skull intensified. His eyes moved restlessly over the room, searching for any quiet doorway, any escape from the heavy air and the weight of her grief.

Soren and Rowan stepped forward in turn, offering their formal condolences with quiet, respectful words. Rowena nodded through her tears, still clinging to Lucien’s arm.

After a long while of sitting beside her, enduring the soft murmurs of guests and the pressure of her hand in his, Lucien slowly stood. He leaned close to her ear.

"I need some air," he whispered.

Rowena nodded, reluctant but understanding.

Lucien’s gaze locked onto a narrow door in the corner of the hall. He moved toward it with controlled steps, slipping through before anyone could stop him.

The door led into a short hallway that opened onto a very small, secluded garden. The air outside was cooler, scented with damp earth and late-blooming flowers.

Lucien inhaled deeply, the fresh air a temporary relief against the throbbing in his head. He grunted quietly under his breath as he searched for a place to sit.

Just as he was about to lower himself beside a tree, a very familiar soft chuckle drifted through the garden.

His entire body froze. His heart began beating uncontrollably, slamming against his ribs. For a moment he could not move.

Then, ignoring the exhaustion weighing down his limbs and the sharp pain that shot through his skull, he straightened. He winced, but forced himself to step toward the sound.

Perhaps his sickness was getting worse and making him imagine things...

Or perhaps his sickness had finally found its cure.

The soft chuckle floated again, closer this time, and Lucien’s carefully constructed control began to crack.

He walked toward the small shrub, drawn by that soft, familiar chuckle. His boots moved carefully over the garden path, every step measured as if he feared the vision would vanish the moment he got too close.

There, kneeling beside a small white bunny that hopped gently near the base of the shrub, was a figure with long, waist-length brown curly hair. The curls spilled freely down the back, catching the soft light, longer than Lucien had ever seen them. The figure’s hands moved with quiet tenderness, offering a few blades of grass to the little creature.

Lucien almost lost his balance and fell.

His heart slammed so hard against his ribs it hurt. For a second the world tilted. He gripped the nearest tree trunk to steady himself, pain flaring through his already aching head. He could never mistake that figure — not when it had haunted every waking second and every nightmare for two long months. The set of the shoulders, the way the head tilted slightly, the soft sound of that chuckle... it was burned into him.

He could have been fooled by how long Elian’s hair had grown. It now fell in thick, wild waves past the waist, softer and more untamed than before. But Lucien was sure. Bone-deep sure.

It was Elian.

His throat closed. Words failed him. He stood frozen only a few paces away, green eyes locked on the kneeling figure as if afraid that blinking would make him disappear again.

The bunny hopped closer to Elian’s hand. Elian let out another quiet, gentle laugh — the same soft sound that had once filled the cabin and the quiet moments between them.

Lucien’s gloved fingers curled tightly at his sides. His voice, when it finally came, was rough and barely above a whisper.

"...Elian."

The name left his lips like a prayer and a wound at the same time.

The garden held its breath as the two men finally stood in the same space again after months of silence, pain, and desperate searching.

Slowly, the kneeling man stood, letting the bunny eat the blade of grass he had given it.

Lucien’s heart was pounding harder than his headache as he watched Elian turn around. And the moment those beautiful blue eyes locked on his, harsh air left his lungs as he gasped.

Shocked, amazed, impressed, relieved.

Elian looked flawless. His skin looked so smooth, the golden sunlight highlighting the golden undertones of his color. He looked perfect, more pretty and very well-taken care of... his skin had that healthy glow that made Lucien want to reach out and touch it.

"Good morning, sir."

Lucien’s admiration halted harshly.

He blinked his delusions away and really focused on looking at Elian.

Elian was smiling... not what he expected.

He expected pain, anger, hate, accusations; hell, he needed them... deserved them.

But the man in front of him was calm... too calm.

"Elian..." Lucien murmured hoarsely, gulping down the lump in his throat.

Elian nodded with a smile. "Yes, that is my name." He replied.

Lucien wanted to speak but suddenly doubled over in pain, grunting.

"Sir, are you alright? Do you need my help?" He asked gently, walking over to Lucien.

Lucien tried to straighten. He needed to speak to Elian, but his head seemed to have reached its limit; the pain was unstoppable.

"I’m... fine—ugh!" He staggered.

"Here, let me help you," Elian quickly walked over to Lucien and gently placed Lucien’s hand over his shoulder.

"Easy, there’s a bench over there," Elian whispered softly, leading Lucien toward the small bench.

Lucien grunted as he sat down but also as a part of protesting as Elian slid away from him.

"I will help you get help. Who do I ask for? A friend? A brother? A wife? A child –"

"You..." Lucien said, inaudible.

"What did you say? Can you speak louder, sir? I really need to get you help, you look sick–"

"Over here!" Rowan’s voice echoed at a distance and in the next second, he appeared with Soren beside him.

"Elian?" Rowan stepped dead in his tracks, eyes widened.

"Hello, sir, can you help him? He seems very unwell," Elian pointed at Lucien who was clutching onto his head.

"Sir?" Soren murmured, frowning.