Updated Apr 18, 2026 • ~13 min read
Chapter 16: The Avoidance
Emmeline
Emmy wakes the morning after the Duke kissed her with hope blooming in her chest—fragile and tentative but real—because surely after admitting he cares, after kissing her like he was drowning and she was air, after finally being vulnerable instead of distant, the Duke will continue moving toward actual connection instead of retreating behind his walls again.
She’s wrong.
The Duke avoids her completely for the next three days—sending messages through servants about which social events they’ll attend, arriving at balls and dinners separately from Emmy and maintaining polite distance throughout, never dining with her privately or seeking her out in the townhouse—and by the fourth day Emmy is furious instead of just hurt because apparently one moment of vulnerability frightened him enough to completely withdraw from their marriage.
She finally confronts him on the fifth morning after the kiss—tracking him down in his study where he’s clearly hiding from her, barging in without knocking because if he won’t speak to her willingly then she’ll force the conversation—and when the Duke looks up from his desk his expression is carefully blank in ways Emmy hasn’t seen since the early days of their marriage.
“Emmy,” the Duke says, standing with formal courtesy that makes Emmy want to throw something. “I wasn’t expecting—”
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Emmy interrupts, closing the study door behind her with more force than necessary. “For nearly a week. Ever since you kissed me. And I want to know why.”
The Duke’s jaw tightens fractionally—the only indication that her directness has affected him—but his voice remains carefully controlled when he responds.
“I haven’t been avoiding you,” the Duke lies. “I’ve been managing estate business that requires my attention.”
“You kissed me and now you pretend I don’t exist?” Emmy challenges, repeating his own pattern back to him. “That’s avoidance, Sebastian. Don’t insult me by pretending otherwise.”
The Duke sets down his pen with careful precision, and Emmy watches him struggle visibly with how to respond to her anger.
“I needed time to think,” the Duke says finally. “To process what happened. To determine how to proceed.”
“It’s been five days,” Emmy points out. “How much thinking does it require to decide whether you want to actually engage with your wife or continue hiding from anything that might make you feel something?”
“That’s not fair,” the Duke argues, but there’s little heat in his protest.
“Nothing about this marriage is fair,” Emmy counters. “But I thought we were making progress. I thought when you admitted caring about me, when you kissed me like you meant it, that maybe we were finally moving toward actual partnership. Instead you’ve retreated even further than before. You won’t look at me. You won’t speak to me. You barely acknowledge my existence except when absolutely required for public appearances. That’s worse than where we started.”
The Duke stands and paces to the window—that familiar gesture he uses when conversations become too difficult—and Emmy watches his shoulders tense with emotion he’s trying to contain.
“That kiss was a mistake,” the Duke says, his back to Emmy so she can’t see his expression. “I let my guard down. Let myself feel things I shouldn’t feel. Act on desires I should keep controlled. It can’t happen again.”
“Why not?” Emmy demands, moving closer because having this conversation with his back feels impossible. “Why can’t you kiss your wife? Why can’t you let yourself feel things? Why must everything be controlled and distant and carefully managed instead of real?”
The Duke turns from the window with an expression that’s harder than Emmy has seen in weeks—colder, more closed off, more like the empty man she married on Christmas Day.
“Because you felt something? God forbid the Duke has feelings!” Emmy throws his own walls back at him, her voice rising with frustration that’s been building for months. “God forbid you actually want your wife instead of just tolerating her as a necessary obligation!”
“You don’t understand—” the Duke begins.
“Then explain!” Emmy interrupts, refusing to let him dismiss her concerns. “Explain why one kiss terrified you so much that you’re willing to destroy whatever progress we’ve made just to avoid feeling anything.”
“Because I can’t!” the Duke shouts, his careful control finally cracking. “Because I don’t know how to feel things without being consumed by them! Because when I kissed you I wanted more—wanted everything—and that terrifies me because wanting everything means risking losing everything and I can’t survive that kind of loss again!”
The raw pain in his voice makes Emmy’s anger deflate slightly, and she sees the fear beneath his withdrawal—genuine terror that caring about her will lead to devastation he can’t survive.
“So your solution is to push me away?” Emmy asks more quietly. “To return to pretending our marriage is just a business arrangement instead of risking actual intimacy?”
“It’s the only solution I know,” the Duke admits, and he sounds defeated. “Distance keeps both of us safe. From pain. From loss. From the devastation of caring too much.”
“It’s not keeping me safe,” Emmy argues. “It’s making me miserable. I’m trapped in a marriage to a man who kisses me like I matter and then immediately retreats like I’m diseased. That’s not safety. That’s torture.”
The Duke flinches at her words, and Emmy sees genuine regret flash through his expression before the familiar emptiness returns.
“I’m sorry,” the Duke says quietly. “I know I’m failing you. I know you deserve better than a husband who can’t manage basic emotional engagement. But this is all I can offer, Emmy. Careful distance and public performance and eventual heir. That’s what I have capacity for.”
“That’s what you’re choosing to have capacity for,” Emmy corrects sharply. “You could try. You could push through the fear and actually engage with our marriage instead of just managing it from a safe distance. But you won’t. Because maintaining your walls is more important than my happiness or our marriage or anything that might require you to actually be vulnerable.”
“Vulnerability destroyed me once,” the Duke says, and there’s actual anguish in his voice. “Caroline’s death destroyed me. Losing my son destroyed me. I’ve spent five years rebuilding walls that keep me functional, and I can’t tear them down just because you want more than I can safely give.”
“I’m not Caroline,” Emmy says for what feels like the hundredth time. “I’m not going to die giving birth to your heir. I’m not fragile or weak or going to break at the first difficulty.”
“You don’t know that,” the Duke argues. “Caroline seemed healthy too. Until she wasn’t.”
“So I’m supposed to accept being held at arm’s length for our entire marriage because you’re terrified of a tragedy that probably won’t happen?” Emmy challenges. “That’s not fair to either of us.”
“Life isn’t fair,” the Duke says flatly. “I learned that when I watched my wife and son die on Christmas Eve while I stood there powerless to save them. Fair stopped mattering a long time ago.”
Emmy wants to shake him—wants to grab his shoulders and force him to see that living in fear isn’t actually living at all—but she knows from three months of marriage that the Duke won’t hear reason when he’s this deep in his defensive walls.
“Fine,” Emmy says, giving up on this impossible conversation. “Maintain your distance. Keep your walls. Pretend that kiss didn’t mean anything. But Sebastian, eventually one of us is going to break from living in a marriage that exists on paper but not in any meaningful reality. And I suspect it will be me.”
She turns to leave—done fighting for connection with a man who’s determined to avoid it—but the Duke’s voice stops her at the door.
“Emmy, wait—”
She turns back despite her better judgment, and finds the Duke looking at her with an expression that’s less empty than usual—something almost desperate beneath the careful control.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” the Duke says quietly. “That’s never been my intention. But I don’t know how to be what you need without risking everything I’ve carefully protected.”
“Maybe some things are worth the risk,” Emmy suggests. “Maybe protecting yourself from pain means missing out on everything good too.”
“I can’t risk it,” the Duke says, and he sounds certain. “Not yet. Maybe not ever. I’m sorry that’s not the answer you want, but it’s the truth.”
Emmy nods because what else is there to say when your husband has explicitly told you he values his emotional safety more than your marriage, and she leaves his study without responding because staying will just lead to more pointless arguments that change nothing.
She spends the next two weeks attending social events with the Duke maintaining perfect public devotion while privately treating Emmy like a distant acquaintance he’s obligated to be polite to—dancing with her at balls because refusing would cause scandal, escorting her to dinners because appearances matter, performing the devoted husband role while making it clear in private that the performance is exactly that.
It’s exhausting.
It’s heartbreaking.
And Emmy is starting to wonder if she made a terrible mistake believing the Duke could ever move past his grief enough to actually be present in their marriage.
Lady Cordelia continues stirring trouble—making pointed comments about how the Duke and Emmy don’t seem particularly affectionate in private despite their public performance, spreading new rumors about the marriage being a convenience that will inevitably end in annulment or scandal—and Emmy is too tired from fighting with her husband to properly defend against Cordelia’s machinations.
“You look miserable, darling,” Cordelia observes at one ball, cornering Emmy while the Duke is across the room speaking with his solicitor. “Trouble in paradise? Or just the inevitable reality of being married to a man who can’t actually love anyone?”
“My marriage is none of your concern,” Emmy says with less heat than she intended because honestly Cordelia is right—Emmy is miserable, and her marriage is falling apart, and maybe the Duke truly isn’t capable of loving anyone after Caroline.
“I did try to warn you,” Cordelia continues with false sympathy. “Sebastian is broken beyond repair. He’ll never give you what you need. Never be a real husband instead of just a title and financial security. You’d be happier annulling this farce and finding someone capable of actual affection.”
“And I suppose you have suggestions for who that someone might be?” Emmy challenges.
“Not me, if that’s what you’re implying,” Cordelia says with her sharp laugh. “I learned my lesson about damaged men. But surely someone out there could make you happier than Sebastian ever will.”
Emmy wants to argue—wants to defend the Duke and their marriage and the progress they made before he retreated—but the words stick in her throat because how can she defend a marriage that barely exists, a husband who won’t touch her, progress that evaporated the moment it got difficult.
“I’m fine,” Emmy lies. “My marriage is fine. Thank you for your concern, but it’s misplaced.”
She escapes Cordelia’s predatory sympathy and finds a quiet corner where she can collect herself before returning to the performance of happily married duchess, and she’s standing there trying not to cry from sheer frustration when the Duke appears beside her with an expression of clear concern.
“Are you well?” the Duke asks, apparently noticing Emmy’s distress despite maintaining careful distance for weeks. “You look upset.”
“I’m fine,” Emmy lies again, because what’s the point of being honest when honesty just leads to the Duke retreating further.
“You’re not fine,” the Duke observes. “What did Cordelia say to you? I saw her corner you near the refreshments.”
“Nothing I haven’t already figured out myself,” Emmy responds bitterly. “That you’re broken beyond repair. That you’ll never be capable of actual love or partnership. That I’d be happier with someone capable of basic affection instead of careful distance.”
The Duke’s expression shifts to something that might be actual pain beneath his usual control.
“She’s wrong,” the Duke says quietly. “About me being incapable. I’m capable of caring. Of wanting. Of—” He stops, clearly struggling with whatever comes next.
“Of what?” Emmy prompts, too tired to be patient with his constant stopping before actually saying anything meaningful.
“Of loving you,” the Duke finishes, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m capable of that. I just don’t know how to do it without being terrified.”
Emmy’s breath catches at this admission—the Duke using the word love for the first time in connection with her—but before she can respond they’re interrupted by another couple requesting the Duke’s attention about some political matter, and the moment passes without resolution.
They return home in silence that night, the Duke walking Emmy to her chamber door with the same careful courtesy he’s maintained for weeks, and when they reach her rooms Emmy decides she’s tired of waiting for him to be brave enough to actually cross the threshold.
“Come in,” Emmy says, opening her chamber door with deliberate invitation. “Talk to me. Actually talk instead of just saying cryptic things and then retreating.”
The Duke looks at the open doorway like it’s dangerous—like crossing into Emmy’s chambers would mean crossing a line he can’t come back from—and Emmy watches him struggle visibly with how to respond.
“I can’t,” the Duke says finally. “Not yet. But Emmy—I meant what I said tonight. About being capable of loving you. I just need more time to figure out how.”
“How much time?” Emmy asks with exhaustion. “Weeks? Months? Years? How long am I supposed to wait for you to be brave enough to actually engage with our marriage?”
“I don’t know,” the Duke admits. “But I’m asking you to be patient. To not give up on me even when I’m failing spectacularly at being a husband.”
“I promised someone I would be patient,” Emmy says, thinking of her father’s deathbed request. “However long it takes. But Sebastian—patient doesn’t mean I’m not also lonely and frustrated and desperate for my husband to actually want me instead of just being terrified of wanting me.”
“I do want you,” the Duke says, and his voice is rough with emotion. “More than you know. But wanting and being able to act on wanting are different things.”
He leaves after that cryptic statement, and Emmy closes her chamber door feeling more alone than ever because knowing the Duke is capable of loving her but too afraid to actually do it is somehow worse than believing he’s incapable of emotion.
At least incapability would be unchangeable.
Fear can be overcome.
But only if the Duke is willing to try.
And right now, Emmy has no idea if he ever will be.
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