The Devil's Duchess-Chapter 69: A gentleman behavior

The morning sun slipped through the slats of the window blinds, casting golden bars across the inn’s chamber walls. Marcella blinked, momentarily dazed by the warmth and the odd stillness of a room not hers.

A strange calm sat in the air, wrapped in the scent of herbs and leather and something that smelled like Berith.

Her hand reached instinctively to her side, seeking warmth, only to meet smooth, cool sheets. The oversized bed was empty save for her.

Marcella frowned, sitting up as strands of silver hair tumbled down her bare shoulders. Then she noticed it.

The expensive-looking rug beside the bed.

Crumpled and a pillow—neatly fluffed but unmistakably used.

Marcella exhaled, her lips curling into a quiet, amused line. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝔀𝓮𝒃𝙣𝓸𝒗𝒆𝒍.𝙘𝒐𝒎

So the infamous Duke Berith Montclair, feared across the continent and infamous for his callous indifference... had slept on the floor.

Like a gentleman.

Unbelievable.

Marcella shifted to the edge of the bed, toes brushing against the velvet rug as she leaned forward to look closer. Berith had even folded the extra blanket—neat, careful, without a trace of arrogance.

But where was he?

Her eyes moved to the grand windows, pushing herself up to glance outside. Below stretched the bustling Southern Plaza, alive with music and carts, children darting between market stalls, and merchants hollering their morning prices.

Still, no Berith.

A flicker of something uneasy tugged at her chest. He was injured. Even if he didn’t show it. Even if he masked it with those cold eyes and biting sarcasm.

Marcella turned back toward the room, startled as soon as seeing him out of nowhere.

Berith stood at the door. Arms crossed. One brow arched. A half-smirk playing on his lips like he had been standing there long enough to know she was searching for him.

"Were you looking for me?" he asked dryly, stepping further in.

Marcella blinked and then she did what any sane woman would do in the moment.

She pretended. "Oh—good morning!" she said, feigning innocence. Marcella even added a stretch for dramatic flair, as though she had just woken.

Berith wasn’t fooled. Of course, he wasn’t. He stepped closer, holding something in his hand—a rectangular package wrapped in southern parchment.

He extended it toward her.

She blinked again. "What’s this?"

"New clothes," Berith said without meeting her eyes. "To survive your day."

Just like that. Like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like he hadn’t gone out into the bustling city just to bring her something she didn’t even ask for.

Her heart gave an embarrassingly loud flutter. "Are you serious?" Marcella asked, lips twitching.

The Berith she had known in her past life was... not this.

That man had been cold, cruel, and calculating. A man who didn’t spare sentiment, let alone packages. But this Berith—this version—had gone shopping.

Shopping.

Marcella held the package carefully, as if it might combust from the sheer emotional confusion it caused. "Thank you," she said softly, sincere.

Berith shrugged. "Breakfast will be in the conservatory. I’ll meet you there." Just like that, he turned and left, cloak swishing behind him like a page from a story.

Marcella stood there a moment longer, the package in her arms, her heart far too loud. She whispered, "You’re such a contradiction, Berith Montclair."

**********

Steam filled the air as Marcella stepped into the warm bath and soaked the sleep from her body. She allowed her thoughts to settle, let herself smile.

His wounds weren’t as bad as they looked. Berith was still alive. He had bought her a dress. He had slept on the floor without saying a word or making a show of his decency.

Who even are you?

By the time Marcella dried herself and slipped into the new gown, her mood had shifted into something... lighter. Her fingers traced the fabric of the dress as she laced up the bodice. It was violet.

Her favorite color.

The gown was southern in design—simple, and elegant. Full sleeves, a corseted top, and a skirt that didn’t flow obnoxiously. The color complimented her silver damp hair, which she left open. She didn’t bother with jewelry.

When Marcella caught her reflection in the tall mirror, she tilted her head. It had been a long time since she had seen herself look... like this.

She straightened her shoulders and stepped out of the room.

The conservatory was exactly where he said it would be. The scent of freshly brewed southern coffee, eggs, and warm bread filled the air. It felt like the kind of morning Marcella had always imagined in stories, back when she still believed in happy beginnings.

Berith sat at the table already, a book in one hand and a cup of black coffee in the other. He looked up the moment she entered. For a second—just one second—his eyes stayed on her a little too long.

Marcella caught it.

Berith set down the cup without saying anything and gestured for her to sit. "You’re late," he pinpointed.

"You didn’t give me a time."

"Then you’re late by assumption."

Marcella rolled her eyes but smiled as she sat. "Well, sir, your gift was lovely. I look like I walked out of a southern fashion catalogue."

"You look presentable," he said, turning a page in his book. But his gaze hadn’t returned to it.

Hearing him, her stomach did something ridiculous again.

This is not good for my sanity, Marcella thought, watching the man across from her pretend he hadn’t just delivered emotional whiplash in a perfectly neutral tone.

Not good at all.

But maybe... it was good for her heart.

Marcella bit back her smile as her eyes followed Berith who was, to her absolute astonishment, preparing breakfast.

He poured her tea first. The strong southern blend, but not too bitter—just the way she liked it. A thin curl of steam rose from the cup as he placed it before her.

"Milk?" Berith asked, already reaching for the small jug.

"...Yes," Marcella replied, her eyes narrowing.

Next came the toast. He took two slices of fresh bread from the basket, slathered them with golden butter from a crystal dish, and even cut them diagonally before placing the plate in front of her like some kind of nobleman’s butler.

She stared at the toast then at him then back at the toast again.

Was this a fever dream?

"What’s gotten into you?" Marcella finally asked, blinking as if to clear the illusion. "Why are you behaving like this?"

Berith didn’t answer. He simply poured himself another cup of coffee, black as night, and took a slow sip.

"I mean it," she insisted, voice rising a pitch. "You... bought me a dress of my favorite color. You prepared breakfast for me. It’s suspicious. Are you dying? Should I get you a doctor?"

His brows lifted with lazy arrogance, but his eyes didn’t meet hers. "I am merely returning the favor," he said flatly.

Marcella paused, confused. "What favor?"

Berith finally looked at her, and the steel in his gaze could have frozen fire. "You tended my wound last night, put medicine on it."

She blinked. "That wasn’t a favor. That was basic decency.."

"I don’t need decency," Berith set his cup down, fingers steepled on the table’s edge. "So now," he continued, tone carefully impassive, "I’ve returned your kindness with a dress and breakfast. We’re even."

Marcella stared at him, heart sinking, that ridiculous flutter from earlier turning into a dull ache.

So that was it.

That warm moment from earlier—the violet dress, the soft way he had watched her enter, the pause in his gaze... It had been transactional to him?

She forced a tight smile. "So you’re just... cancelling out my kindness?"

He didn’t answer.

Berith Montclair, the ever-practical, emotionally bankrupt duke of misdirection and cruelty. She should’ve known.

"I see," Marcella said, schooling her face into neutrality. "You’re still keeping score."

"I always keep score," Berith replied without remorse. "It’s how people survive."

"It’s also how people stay alone." Marcella placed her tea down, a little too hard. The cup trembled, rattling slightly in its saucer.

She stood up slowly, smoothing down her violet gown. Berith stood as well, out of formality, but said nothing.

Marcella turned, walking away from the conservatory, away from the scent of buttered toast and tea, away from the illusion of warmth he had offered her for one precious moment.

Berith didn’t call after her nor stopped her.