Reborn To Change My Fate-Chapter 84 - Eighty Four

Esme, understanding her cue, lunged forward, crawling on her knees on the dusty road. "Your Grace!" she cried, her voice high and desperate, aimed not at Marissa, but at Derek. "Please, you must reconsider! The suburbs? That place is so far away! It is so remote!" She turned her terrified gaze to the silent crowd. "If that terrible Lord Ashford, the man who burned our home, decides to seek revenge there, what will she do? She will be all alone! How can my lady possibly defend herself?"

Senna, seeing her maid’s perfect play, made her own move. She slowly, weakly, stepped away from Derek’s supporting arm. She tried to stand on her own, a picture of frail, tragic nobility. She turned to him, her voice a heartbreaking, fragile whisper.

"Your Grace," she murmured, her eyes overflowing with new, genuine-looking tears. "You have already done too much. I am so, so sorry to have disturbed you so late in the evening." She turned to her maid, her back straight, a brave survivor ready to face the cold, dark night. "Esme, let us go. We will not burden the Duke and Duchess any longer."

This was the final, devastating blow to the crowd. Their whispers erupted.

"Where will she go? She has nothing! Her home is ash!"

"He’s just letting her leave? In the dark, after she was attacked?"

"I heard she lost everything!"

"Even if she is his mistress, you shouldn’t refuse to help someone in such a state. It is simply cruel!"

"How heartless. And after she was attacked because of him! What a disgrace!"

The words, "cruel," "heartless," "disgrace," were like small, sharp needles, pricking at Derek’s pride. He looked at the crowd’s angry, judging faces. He looked at Senna’s small, shivering, retreating back. He was being publicly shamed at his own gates. He was the Grand Duke, and he was being made to look like a weak, uncaring brute.

"Wait!" he commanded, his voice a low growl.

Senna stopped. She turned back, her soot-streaked face a perfect, tragic mask of hope and confusion.

Derek was torn. He looked at Senna, for whom he felt a confusing mix of responsibility and growing irritation. He looked at his grandmother, her face a mask of annoyance at this messy, public scandal. And he looked at his wife, Marissa, who stood silent, her face calm and unreadable, as if she were watching a play.

Beatrice, her patience completely gone, spoke into the tense, heavy silence. "Derek," she said, her voice sharp and cold. "This is no longer your decision to make." She turned her hard, appraising gaze on Marissa. "Marissa manages the household now. She will decide what is to be done with our... guests."

The entire, simmering, chaotic mess was dropped, suddenly and heavily, into Marissa’s lap.

Every eye—Senna’s, full of desperate, manipulative hope; Derek’s, full of conflicted, frustrated anger; and the crowd’s, full of a hungry, judgmental curiosity—turned to her.

She was trapped. If she refused Senna entry, she was the "cruel, heartless Duchess." The public would despise her. If she agreed, she was inviting this clever, manipulative snake into her home.

Marissa held Senna’s gaze for a long, calculating moment. She saw the panic, the desperation, and the faint, almost invisible flicker of triumph in the other woman’s eyes. Senna thought she had won. She thought she had backed Marissa into a corner.

Marissa’s lips curved into a small, unreadable smile. You think this is your victory? she thought, her mind cold and clear. You think you have forced my hand? Fine. But it is so much easier to watch your enemy when she is sleeping in the room next to yours.

She stepped forward, her expression shifting, melting into one of deep, graceful, and wifely understanding. Her voice, when she spoke, was clear, calm, and full of a surprising, generous warmth.

"Lady Senna has suffered a terrible ordeal," she announced, her voice carrying to the silent, watching crowd. "And, as her maid has pointed out, it was because she helped my husband, the Grand Duke." She looked at Derek, her eyes hard for just a second. "We are not heartless. By reason, the Thompson family should protect her."

She turned her warm, welcoming smile on Senna, who was staring at her, her face a mask of stunned disbelief.

"You may rest here, in the east guest wing," Marissa said, "while you recover and your home is rebuilt."

Senna’s face, under the soot, flooded with a relief so profound it looked like pure, unadulterated joy. She had done it. She was in. She and Esme curtsied deeply, their bodies trembling. "Thank you, Your Grace! Thank you! You are so kind!"

The crowd, their anger instantly forgotten, erupted in a new wave of whispers.

"Her Grace is so magnanimous!"

"What a kind, generous heart. To help someone in need!"

"She handled that with such grace!"

Marissa gave Senna a tight, polite, and utterly false smile. She then turned, her gaze sweeping over Derek. It was a glare so cold, so full of silent, icy fury and blame, that he almost flinched. You did this, the look said. You brought this circus, this mess, to my door. You will pay for this.

She said nothing. She simply offered her arm to Beatrice. "Let us go inside, Grandmother. The night air is cold."

They turned and walked back into the house, leaving Derek standing alone on the steps with his new, complicated, and deeply problematic "guest."

Later that night, the estate was finally quiet. The guest wing had been prepared. Senna had been bathed, fed, and put to bed.

In her own bedchamber, Marissa was finally alone. The day’s clothes were gone. She had just finished a long, hot bath, scrubbing the memory of the day from her skin. The room was warm, smelling of lavender and the clean, faint scent of soap. She sat at her vanity, her mind quiet, her body exhausted. She was wearing a simple, silk nightgown and a heavy, cashmere robe. She slowly, carefully, pulled the last of the heavy pins from her hair, letting the long, dark, and still-damp curls tumble down her back.

She was brushing it out, the simple, repetitive motion calming her, when a soft, hesitant knock came from her door.

She frowned. It was late. Lily had been dismissed. She was not expecting anyone.

She walked to the door, her bare feet silent on the thick carpet. She opened it, her hand, still holding her hairbrush, clutching the edge of her robe. She had to tuck a long, stray strand of hair behind her ear as she looked up.

Derek was standing there. He looked... awkward. Uncomfortable. He was dressed for the night, his formal coat gone, his cravat loosened.

He smiled. A small, nervous, almost shy smile.

"Thank you," he said, his voice a low, awkward murmur.

Marissa’s face, which had been soft and weary, instantly hardened into a cold, polite mask. She did not open the door further. She stood, blocking the entrance. "Lady Senna is settled in the east wing," she said, her voice flat. "It’s fine. The matter is handled."

"I... I know," he said, shifting his weight, his gaze falling to the floor. "I just... I wanted to thank you. For... for letting them stay. Temporarily."

"You are welcome, Your Grace," she said, her tone making it clear the conversation was over. "It is late. Let’s talk tomorrow." She began to close the door.

"Wait!"

His boot, a heavy, black, leather boot, suddenly shot out, stopping the heavy oak door from closing.

Marissa froze. Her hand, still on the doorknob, tightened. She looked down at the boot that was now invading her private space, and then up at his face, her eyes as cold as a winter tomb. "Your Grace?" she asked, her voice a low, dangerous warning.

He looked trapped, his face a mixture of desperation and a strange, unreadable emotion. He clearly didn’t know what he was doing, only that he couldn’t let her close the door, not yet.

"It is not what you think," he blurted out, the words a clumsy, desperate rush. "Between Senna and I. It’s... it’s not what it looks like. It’s not what you think."

He said, trying, and failing, to explain himself.