Eloisa's gaze darkened, her nails digging into her palms, drawing a bit of blood. How could she fail to see the signs? The whispers, the hidden glances—she should have seen it. She was fooled by Linnea's simplicity.
All those years, Linnea had walked around the estate with her head bowed, her demeanor gentle and obedient. But it was all a ruse. She had hidden a son right under her nose.
A son. The duke's only son.
Her lips curled in disdain, her mind whirling back to that night—the night Linnea had given birth. The memory returned in fragments: the rushed whispers, the doors closed a little too quickly, Linnea's absence stretched longer than it should have. She had peeked at the baby's gender then and was sure it was a girl. Did they replace it?
Eloisa's hands clenched tighter. How dare they?
