The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 58: Wardrobe malfunction

The waltz wrapped around them, almost tender in its cruelty. Her spine held straight by force alone, every turn of the dance reeling her closer into a trap she hadn’t yet seen.

Berith was too close. His gloved hand lingered scandalously just above the small of her back, where propriety blurred into possession. His breath brushed the shell of her ear, warm, scented with smoke and something darker.

But it wasn’t his touch that sent the chill crawling up her bones.

No, it was something else. A prickle.

Rrrrip.

A soft sound, barely more than the hiss of silk parting. But it detonated down her spine.

Marcella’s body jerked before her mind caught up. A half-step stagger, the falter of a marionette whose strings had snapped.

Her breath hitched, stuck in her throat. She didn’t need to look. She knew, every cell in her body knew.

The gown.

Torn.

Split right down the back again like last time. Her blood receded from her face. Heat bloomed in her cheeks, sharp and violent, humiliation blooming like a bruise.

The chandeliers above swam in a golden blur. The gilded ballroom began to spin. Laughter hadn’t started yet, but it would.

The world narrowed, colors bleeding from gold to grey.

Her throat clenched shut.

No. It wasn’t possible.

She had checked the gown, reinforced the bodice with steel boning, added a lining of crimson silk beneath the velvet.

But, they’d changed it.

The music blurred at the edges. The silk lining beneath her corset clung damp to her spine, and in that place—that cursed place—all she could feel was air.

Cold. Mocking. Violating.

Through it all, the dread thickening in her throat, Marcella became aware of him.

Berith.

She felt him like gravity. His body a breath from hers, a wall of heat pressing against her spine, as though the tear had summoned him. His palm pressed flush to her spine, fingers gently curling over the exact place where the fabric had torn, where the shame might’ve begun.

His hand settled over her back just beneath the cascade of her hair. The heat of her exposed skin burning his hand.

"Don’t move." His breath brushed the shell of her ear.

The panic rising in her ribs had swallowed her voice whole. It built behind her sternum like a coming storm, pressure and silence and tremor all at once.

The tempo of the waltz slowed to match the beat of her panic, syrup-thick and suffocating.

Their bodies were too close now—scandalously close, far beyond the bounds of courtly decency. Her spine grazed his chest with every breath. His coat had shifted to drape behind her, hiding her.

Marcella was slipping, she could feel it—the moment where her dignity, her body would give out and send her crumpling to the floor.

Her spine stayed rigid against him, every muscle locked in place. But inside her chest, a bitter scream coiled in her lungs.

Why now?

Why was he protecting her now?

When once, not so long ago, he had done nothing.

Her mind burned with the memory. The precise tilt of his head as he stood there, while her dignity was peeled away layer by layer under this same chandelier.

His hand pressed at the small of her back, covering the tear like it mattered?

Where was this hand when I needed it before?

Her throat burned with the question she didn’t speak. Her mouth stayed shut, her body stiff against his.

Marcella let the music drag her feet let his arm bear the weight her pride refused to show. She gripped his sleeve tightly enough to feel the structure of his muscle.

His breath brushed her ear again as if he knew she was seconds from shattering—and that silence was the only thing that wouldn’t break her further.

Berith felt the tremor in her fingers, the stiffness in her spine, the way she barely dared to breathe.

And gods help him—

No matter how furious I am at you... I cannot watch her fall again.

You are still mine to protect, even if I no longer want the part of me that says so.

So he stepped closer. His body curved with hers, absorbing her silence, her fury, her shame. The press of his chest to her back became a shield. If the shame of it touched her skin again, it would have to pass through him first.

The final chord of the waltz faded, like the last breath of a dying star. Applause fluttered through the ballroom. Couples parted, stepping back.

But Berith didn’t release her.

Marcella was still in the curve of his arm, fingers cold in his hand. The ballroom blurred at the edges of her vision. Her skin seared where the silk had betrayed her.

One step. One turn. One wrong tilt of the head.

And it would come all of it, again.

Berith dipped his head enough for her to feel the heat of him. "Follow my lead," he murmured, the syllables threaded through her.

Marcella gave the smallest nod, her chin barely tipping.

Berith guided her gently. They did not rush. They traced the perimeter of the crowd, skirting the curious eyes and veiled glances of nobles who chose to look away.

To any outsider, they looked like lovers departing early. To Marcella, it felt like a blade being slowly pulled from her back.

They passed Lady Elyria, who lifted her wine glass, lips curled around a smile that didn’t touch her eyes.

Berith’s coat swept behind her like a cloak, hiding the tear at her back. His arm around her waist never wavered.

Marcella hated every inch she leaned into it.

Together, they slipped through a velvet-curtained arch, a threshold from the glittering ballroom into one of the Ashenholt’s side corridors.

The moment the heavy curtain fell behind them, Marcella tore herself from his arms like she’d been burned. She staggered a step backward, hands flying to her spine. The fabric was ruined. The corset lining gaped.

Her eyes stung, but she refused to cry.

"Don’t.." she snapped, her voice cracked like splintered glass, "don’t look at me."

Berith turned away respectfully. "I wasn’t," he said coolly. "But thank you for the invitation."

Marcella backed against the stone wall, the cold biting through the panic crawling under her skin. Her fingers trembled as they traced the ruin—the open seam down her back, the gaping mouth of betrayal.

She choked on a breath. "I checked it..." Her voice barely reached the space between them. "I remade it," she whispered, fingers clenching in the fabric. "I double-stitched it. Lined it in steel. I..I made sure."

Marcella sank slowly down the wall; the silk of her gown pooled around her knees. Her hands gripped her lap as if she could stitch dignity back into the fabric with will alone.

"...Thank you," she said quietly. "For what you did on the dance floor."

Berith turned his head slightly. Just enough that the line of his profile caught the candlelight. "It was necessary."

"Of course," Marcella drawled. "Everything with you always is."

"Would you rather I had left you there?"

"No. I’d rather you stop pretending to be a decent person just long enough for me to stop getting confused."

He turned then and that dangerous smile—the one that wasn’t quite smug but wasn’t kind either tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I think it’s a little late for that."

Her fingers twisted in the edge of her torn sleeve. She didn’t look at him but she didn’t tell him to leave, either.

After a moment, Berith stepped out of sight, into the dark corridor, and returned with a long cloak. He approached her and without a word, draped it over her shoulders.

Marcella gathered the cloak around her as she stood, shaky but proud, chin lifted like nothing had touched her at all. 𝑓𝓇𝘦ℯ𝘸𝘦𝑏𝓃𝑜𝘷ℯ𝑙.𝑐𝑜𝓂

****

When they stepped back into the ballroom, the hush hit first. The music still played, the crystal still chimed, conversations still fluttered like butterflies over wine.

Berith walked beside her, he hadn’t removed his hand from the small of her back.

"Did something happen to her gown?"

"Why did the Duke leave with her?"

"Do you think something happened between them?"

Marcella felt it all. Every glance, every breath held too long and yet she didn’t flinch.

She was raised to bleed behind a smile. So she did.

A subtle lift of the chin. A curve of the lips. The duchess was untouchable.

And across the ballroom, Lady Elyria saw everything. She stood poised near the orchestra dais, fingers wrapped around a slender flute of golden wine she hadn’t touched all night.

Her smile was painted in frost.

But her eyes were tracking every movement like a hawk watching the flick of prey’s tail before the strike.

Beside her, Lord Cassar leaned on his cane, his gaze following the couple across the marble like a man watching two pieces slide together on a board he thought he had already won.

"Well," he said, voice silk smooth. "that didn’t go as planned."

Elyria didn’t blink. "It never does when Berith chooses to get involved."

Cassar’s smirk was subtle. "Do you think he suspects?"

"No," she replied, gaze still pinned to the floor. "But he reacted. That’s worse. Reaction becomes instinct and instinct becomes loyalty."

Lady Elyria lifted her glass, let it hover near her lips—but didn’t drink. "She’s meant to be alienated. Not..." Her lip curled slightly. "...wrapped in his name like armor."

Cassar tilted his head, watching Berith’s stance with a touch of admiration. "Perhaps you underestimated her."

Elyria’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. "I don’t underestimate. I provoke."

He arched a brow. "And if the wolf you baited decides to bite back?"

She sipped this time, a small one just enough to taste the gold. With chilling calm, she answered, "Then we remind him that wolves don’t rule kingdoms. We do."