She Thought She Took My Place as the Duchess… But She Only Inherited My Nightmare

Chapter 7

A few days later, Theodosia invited Lettuce for afternoon tea.

The table was beautifully arranged beneath the glass conservatory overlooking the gardens. Fresh pastries sat untouched between them. For a while they spoke of ordinary things — the weather, the coming harvest, the latest royal banquet. Theodosia laughed at Lettuce’s stories and poured her tea and was, by every measure, the picture of a woman content with her life.

Then Theodosia sighed deeply.

“I’ve failed his grace,” she said.

Lettuce reached across the table at once. “Don’t say that.”

Theodosia looked down into her teacup. “I do love him. But love isn’t always enough.” She paused, letting the silence do its work. “He deserves someone who understands his ambitions. Someone who can stand proudly beside a powerful duke.”

She looked directly at her friend.

“I don’t think that woman is me anymore.”

For a brief second, a spark appeared in Lettuce’s eyes. She tried to hide it, but Theodosia noticed.

Then she added one final sentence.

“He deserves someone stronger than I am.”

Lettuce quickly lowered her gaze to hide the smile forming on her lips. She spoke words of comfort — you’re being too hard on yourself, he’s lucky to have you — but her heart had already accepted the invitation. She spent the rest of the visit bright and distracted, already measuring herself for a crown that had never been offered.

Theodosia never truly offered it.

She had simply removed every reason for Lettuce to hesitate.

As Lettuce’s carriage disappeared through the estate gates that evening, Theodosia knew exactly what would happen next. She had not pushed her friend toward Ambrose. She had only made the path smooth, and oiled the hinges, and left the door ajar.

That night, after the household had fallen asleep, she opened the leather diary she had kept since her wedding day. Many earlier pages were stained with tears. Others contained prayers asking God to save her marriage — desperate bargains written in the small hours of terrible nights.

She turned to a blank page, dipped her pen into ink, and wrote only one sentence:

Today I stopped praying for my marriage to survive, and started preparing for my freedom.

Across the drawing room, Ambrose looked up from his newspaper and watched his wife in silence. He saw only a quiet, defeated woman who no longer argued. He smiled to himself, believing he had finally broken her spirit.

He never imagined that the greatest threat to his control was no longer rebellion.

It was a woman who had already decided to let him believe every victory was his own.

The quiet transformation continued for months.

To everyone outside Blackwood Estate, Theodosia remained the graceful, devoted wife of one of the kingdom’s most respected dukes. She attended every banquet on his arm. She hosted every dinner with perfect courtesy. She bowed to the queen, curtsied to the princesses, and smiled at the ambassadors with the serene face she had perfected over four years of practice.

Inside the estate, however, she became a woman Ambrose could no longer understand.

She never argued. She never raised her voice. She never openly disobeyed him. Instead, she became quietly disappointing.

If Ambrose requested his favorite venison for supper, it arrived slightly overcooked — never burnt, never inedible, just enough to irritate him. If he expected her to receive visiting nobles at precisely three o’clock, she arrived a few minutes late with a sincere apology. Whenever he criticized her, she no longer cried or begged for forgiveness. She simply lowered her head and answered calmly.

“I’m sorry, your grace. I’ll do better tomorrow.”

That answer frustrated him more than any argument ever had. There was nothing he could accuse her of, nothing serious enough for others to notice. And yet somehow she exhausted his patience day after day.

Ironically, outside their home she became an even more devoted wife. At royal banquets she proudly held his arm. Whenever someone praised Ambrose, she smiled and added, “My husband works harder for this kingdom than anyone realizes.” If someone complimented her gown, she always replied, “His grace has always taken wonderful care of me.”

Soon the entire kingdom began praising Ambrose even more than before. People admired his marriage. Young noblemen tried to imitate him. Young ladies dreamed of marrying a husband like Duke Ambrose Blackmore.

The admiration only made him more miserable. He was trapped inside an image he no longer wished to maintain, and the only woman who could set him free from it refused to give him a single excuse.

Meanwhile, Lettuce grew bolder.

During one afternoon stroll through the gardens, she said quietly, “A man of your position deserves a duchess worthy of your name.”

Ambrose remained silent.

Encouraged, she continued. “You carry this estate alone. You deserve a wife who inspires you instead of disappointing you.”

The seed Theodosia had planted months earlier was finally taking root.

Every carefully chosen sentence. Every calculated mistake. Every polite apology. Everything had led to this moment.