ADRIAN NEARLY CHOKED ON HIS TEA. "Grandchildren?" he repeated, his brows furrowing as he stared at his father. Surely, he must have misheard.
Lord Percival, utterly unfazed, reclined in his chair as though discussing the weather. He took another leisurely sip from his cup before answering. "Of course." His eyes flicked between his son and new daughter-in-law, gleaming with mischief. "At least then, I'd have something better to do than worry over the two of you. I imagine myself running after little ones in the halls, reading them bedtime stories by the fire—now that sounds like a fine use of my time."
Adrian blinked, momentarily lost for words. The request—or rather, the command—landed with all the subtlety of a cannonball. Grandchildren. Already? He stole a sideways glance at Lady Evelina. Her cheeks had turned the color of rose petals, her head bowed low over her untouched breakfast. He couldn't tell if she was embarrassed or mortified—or both.
Across from them, his sister Lillian was calmly buttering her toast, pretending not to hear any of it. Adrian sighed inwardly. Trust his father to turn a morning meal into a public inquisition.
"Father," he began carefully, setting down his fork, "I just got married."
"And so?" Lord Percival cut in, his eyes sharp and amused. "I had you nine months after my wedding day. The timing of the marriage is of no consequence, my boy—it's how swiftly you plant the seed that matters."
Adrian pressed his lips together, inhaling through his nose. It was impossible to win when his father was in this mood. The man could twist the most private matter into a jest and somehow make everyone else the uncomfortable one.
Before he could respond, Lillian's gentle voice broke the tension. "Father, do give them a little peace, please."
Percival turned to her, arching one brow. "You say that as though you don't want a niece or nephew yourself."
"I do," she replied, smiling faintly, "but you're frightening our new sister-in-law. Look at her—she hasn't touched her meal."
Lord Percival's gaze shifted to the young duchess. Indeed, Evelina's face was flushed to her ears, and she was nervously biting her lower lip. He sighed, setting down his teacup with mock defeat. "Very well, very well. I shall stop... for now. But I do expect to see some progress soon. I've no desire to meet my grandchildren when I'm too old and creaky to play with them."
Adrian seized the chance to end the exchange. "We'll... work on that, Father," he said dryly.
"Good." Percival gave a satisfied nod and turned his attention back to his plate.
"Now please, let's eat," Lillian murmured, relief evident in her tone.
The rest of the meal passed in a more bearable quiet, broken only by the soft clatter of cutlery and the occasional rustle of napkins. Adrian kept his eyes on his plate, though his attention drifted now and then toward the woman beside him. Evelina's hands trembled slightly each time she lifted her fork. She was barely eating—again.
Was she always this nervous? he wondered.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "Don't trouble yourself over what he said," he murmured. "He's always like that."
She looked up at him then, startled, her eyes wide and uncertain. Her cheeks were still burning. "Of course... your—Adrian," she stammered, correcting herself shyly.
A small, unexpected smile tugged at his lips. "Good."
He returned to his food, though his appetite had all but vanished. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see her picking at her meal, pushing peas around her plate rather than eating them. His brows knit slightly, but he said nothing more.
When the meal finally ended, Adrian excused himself under the pretense of work. In truth, he simply needed to get away. His father's presence had a way of pressing down on him.
He made his way to his study, closing the door behind him with a weary sigh. The room was dim, the curtains drawn so that only thin ribbons of sunlight slipped through. He sank into his chair, resting his head against the backrest, the faint smell of parchment and ink settling around him.
He knew his father meant well, but he didn't like how the old man voiced out everything in his mind.
Adrian had just begun to relax when a soft knock came at the door. "Come in," he said, his tone resigned.
Butler Blake entered, every inch the picture of dignified service. "Your Grace," he greeted with a bow.
Adrian didn't open his eyes. "What is it, Blake?"
"The King and Queen have sent their wedding gift, Your Grace," the butler announced. "And... they have also requested your presence at the state ball next week."
Adrian groaned softly, opening his eyes. "A ball?"
"Yes, Your Grace. It is to celebrate His Majesty's birthday. They have asked that you attend with Lady Evelina."
A muscle in Adrian's jaw tightened. The last thing he wanted was another parade of formality and watchful eyes. Still, refusing was out of the question. "Very well," he said finally.
Blake inclined his head. "Shall I make the arrangements?"
"Yes. And... inform the staff that I do not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the morning."
The butler hesitated. "Of course, Your Grace." His gaze softened slightly. "Is something troubling you?"
Adrian shook his head. "No. I just need rest, that's all."
"Very well." Blake turned to leave, but Adrian's voice stopped him at the door.
"One more thing, Blake."
"Yes, Your Grace?"
Adrian paused for a moment, fingers drumming the armrest. "See that the duchess is sent some food later. She barely touched her breakfast."
A faint smile flickered over the butler's face—subtle, approving. "Of course, Your Grace." He gave a polite bow before departing, the door closing quietly behind him.
Left alone, Adrian exhaled, rubbing his temples. His father's teasing, the nervous wife beside him, the weight of expectation—it was all too much for one morning. Yet, somewhere in the back of his mind, he couldn't shake the image of Evelina's flushed face and trembling hands.
He had told himself their marriage was one of duty, of necessity, and he hoped it stayed that way.