The Dying Heir Fell for His Brother’s Maid

Eileen's POV

The silk robe might as well have been paper.

I pressed my spine against the mahogany paneling outside the Duke’s chambers, counting my breaths to keep from shaking. Four in the morning. The corridor was a tunnel of shadows and frost, the marble floor like ice beneath my bare feet. Snow tapped against the windows in uneven rhythms—like impatient knuckles demanding entry.

I had been waiting since midnight. Waiting to become someone else.

My legs had gone numb an hour ago. My fingers, hidden inside the robe’s sleeves, felt like frozen claws. But I couldn’t leave. Not until he called for me.

Not until Edmund—the Duke, my lady’s husband—summoned “his duchess.”

The latch clicked.

My pulse stumbled. The door opened just enough for a sliver of warm lamplight to spill across the floor.

“Come in.”

His voice. Low. Tired. But unmistakably commanding.

I stepped inside.

The room was warm from the dying embers in the hearth. Edmund stood beside the bed, half-undressed, his coat discarded, his shirt open at the throat. His gray eyes tracked me immediately—hungry, expectant, as though he’d been the one waiting.

“My lady,” he murmured, and the way the title left his lips made my skin tighten. “You kept me waiting tonight.”

I bowed my head the way Cecilia had taught me. Controlled. Graceful. Silent.

He reached for me.

His hand closed around my waist, drawing me closer until the silk robe did nothing to keep his warmth from seeping into me. His breath touched my cheek; his fingers trailed along my jaw, tilting my face up to his.

“You’re trembling,” he said softly. “Are you cold… or is it something else?”

I didn’t answer. I wasn’t meant to speak.

His smile deepened. “Still shy, even now.”

He kissed me then—slow, claiming, a performance I had perfected under Cecilia’s instruction. I kissed him back, exactly the way his duchess would. Exactly the way his wife refused to.

Later, when his breathing grew even and his grip loosened around me, I waited. Counted the heartbeats. Listened for the shift in air that told me he was in a deep, dreamless sleep.

Only then did I slip carefully from beneath his arm.

I gathered my robe, padding silently across the carpet toward the door. One breath. Two. The handle turned without a sound. I stepped out into the dim corridor and pulled the door closed behind me.

The cold hit me like a slap.

I ran.

Down the corridor, around the corner, into the servants’ wing where Cecilia waited awake, as she always did.

Her room glowed with firelight and scented candles. She sat at her vanity in silk pajamas, brushing her golden hair in slow, controlled movements—like a queen awaiting a report from her soldier.

“Well?” she asked without looking up. “Did he suspect anything tonight?”

I sank to my knees as the numbness in my legs gave out.

“No, my lady,” I whispered. “He didn’t.”

"You're certain?"

"Yes."

Her hand moved to my throat, hovering just above the bruises. "You'd better be. Because if Edmund discovers what we've been doing, if he learns that his precious duchess has been sending a servant girl to his bed..." Her fingers curled into a claw. "Your death would be the merciful option."

"I understand, my lady."

Her nails pressed against my skin, not quite breaking it. "You'd better remember your place, girl. You're a substitute. A body. Nothing more. The moment you forget that—"

"I won't forget." The words came out as a whisper.

She held my gaze for another heartbeat before releasing me. "Good. Now get out. I need to dress for breakfast."

I fled to my cramped room in the servants' quarters and collapsed onto the narrow cot. Only then did I let the tears come—silent, practiced, leaving no trace.

The next day, I was back in uniform.

The high-collared servant's dress covered most of the damage, though I'd wrapped extra fabric around my neck to hide the worst bruises. My hands still trembled as I arranged the breakfast service on the silver tray—fresh scones, jam, tea in the Duke's preferred blend.

I knocked on the chamber door with my elbow.

"Enter."

The Duke stood by the window, already dressed for the day. Cecilia sat at the breakfast table, looking radiant in a cream-colored morning gown, her hair artfully arranged. She glanced at me briefly, her expression warning me to be perfect.

I kept my eyes down and moved to set the table.

"The mute girl?" Edmund's voice made me freeze. "Why is she wearing such a high collar? Is she ill?"

My heart stopped.

"She's sensitive to drafts, darling." Cecilia's laugh was musical. "I had the housekeeper give her warmer uniforms. You know how these old manors can be."

Edmund crossed to the table, and I felt his gaze on me like a physical weight. I kept my head bowed, arranging the silverware with mechanical precision.

"Look at me, girl."

I had no choice. Slowly, I raised my eyes to his face, careful to keep my expression blank. Empty. The way a good servant should.

"Interesting." His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "You have rather delicate features. Pretty, even. What's your name?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it, remembering my role. I shook my head slightly, touching my throat in the universal gesture for silence.

"I told you, darling—she's mute." Cecilia's voice had an edge now. "I took pity on her. She has nowhere else to go."

"How charitable of you." But Edmund's eyes never left my face. "Such a waste, though. A pretty girl who can't speak."

Something in his tone made my skin crawl. I bobbed a quick curtsy and turned to leave.

"Why are you looking at her like that?" Cecilia's voice cracked like a whip.

I stopped at the door, my hand on the handle.

"Like what?" Edmund sounded amused.

"Like you're appraising livestock." She stood, her chair scraping against the floor. "Tell me, husband—have you developed a taste for servant girls? Should I be worried?"

The silence that followed was suffocating.

"You're being absurd." Edmund rolled up his sleeve, revealing the crescent of teeth marks on his forearm. "Unless you think this mute girl could have done this? Last I checked, it was my wife who bit me like a wild animal last night."

My lungs forgot how to work.

Cecilia stared at the evidence, her face pale. "I... I was having a nightmare. I didn't mean—"

"Of course you didn't." He buttoned his cuff. "Though it makes me wonder what kind of dreams would inspire such savagery."

He moved toward the door—toward me—and I pressed myself against the wall to let him pass. His hand brushed my shoulder as he left, just briefly, but the touch burned through the fabric.

"I'll be leaving for about three days," he said. "Try not to abuse the servants too badly while I'm gone, darling."

The door closed behind him.

I counted to three before moving. But I wasn't fast enough.

Cecilia's hand shot out, grabbing my arm with bruising force. She yanked me deeper into the room, away from the door, her perfect composure shattering.

"You bit him?" Her voice was barely controlled fury. "You actually bit him?"

"My lady, I didn't mean—"

The slap came without warning, snapping my head to the side. Stars burst across my vision.

"You little whore!" Cecilia shoved me backward, and I stumbled against the breakfast table. Hot tea splashed across my wrist, scalding.