Page 28 of The Duchess’ Little Miracle

It was a fair assumption. Seraphina knew the weight her words carried under her pseudonym, E. R. Voce. She had spent the last few months listening to society debate her columns in drawing rooms and crowded ballrooms. Men of wealth and high standing had practically turned purple with rage over her essays on parliamentary reform and the enclosure of common land. She had overheard self-important lords call her writing dangerous and absurd, unaware that the writer they were vilifying was standing three feet away, sipping lukewarm tea and smiling politely behind her fan. There was no way a man as rigid and traditional as William agreed with every word she put to paper.

William hesitated. He took a slow breath, then turned and began walking back toward her.

Seraphina watched him approach, a swell of satisfaction rising in her chest. Truthfully, she had no idea why she had called out to him. Her original intention for asking to visit the library so late at night had been simple. She needed quiet.

The library was the one place she was certain would see her often. After the events of the day, her mind had felt like a tempest. She had sought out the library to calm the chaos, to ground herself among things that were quiet, logical, and permanent.

Yet, when William had made his turn to leave, a sudden panic had seized her. She had not wanted to be left alone in the silent room. She wanted to pry open the iron vault of his mind, to test his limits, to see what lay beneath that flawless composure. Asking him about her writing was a gamble, but it was the only key she had.

William stopped and leaned on the shelf across from her. “You are correct,” he said. “I do not agree with all of it. In fact, your essay from two years ago. I think it was the piece addressing grain duties and import tariffs. It was remarkably shortsighted.”

Seraphina’s eyebrows shot up. “Shortsighted?”

“Entirely,” William replied smoothly, leaning one hand against the shelf. “You argued that the immediate lowering of grain tariffs would instantly relieve the working class without destabilizing agricultural markets. You wrote — if I recall your exact phrasing — that the hoarding of grain behind protective walls is an insult to the hungry, masked as national security.”

A spark of heat bloomed in Seraphina’s chest. “It is an insult! Artificially keeping grain prices high to protect the profit margins of wealthy landowners while laborers cannot afford a loaf of bread is morally indefensible.”

“It is a complex economic ecosystem, Seraphina,” William countered calmly. “If you drop tariffs overnight, foreign markets flood the trade, local farms go bankrupt, tenants are evicted, and the very laborers you pretend to champion are left without employment at all. Your argument was built on passion, not economic mechanics.”

“Pretend to champion?” she questioned with widened eyes.

“Yes.” He said and crossed his arms. “I see a pattern here, Seraphina.”

“My argument was built on sound historical precedent!” Seraphina fired back, her frustration rising at his infuriatingly cool tone. “I can prove it to you.”

William raised an eyebrow. “Can you?”

“Yes, I can.” She spun around, her eyes sweeping the endless rows of books surrounding them. “Where is your history section? The foreign trade registries?”

William watched her, a ghost of a smirk touching his lips. He raised a hand and pointed toward the far corner of the room. “Upstairs. Second level, gallery to your right. Late eighteenth-century economic trade.”

Without another word, Seraphina gathered her skirts and marched toward the spiral staircase in the corner. Her feet tapped sharply against the metal steps as she climbed. Behind her, the rhythmic, heavier tread of William’s boots told her he was following. The knowledge that he was right behind her only fueled her determination.

Reaching the upper gallery, she paced along the narrow walkway, her fingers tracing the spines. “It should be here...” she muttered, her eyes scanning titles rapidly. Mercantilism, British Commerce, The Duties on Imports... “Aha!”

She pulled a volume bound in crimson leather from the shelf. “Right here,” she said triumphantly, turning to face him as he reached the top of the stairs. “The 1786 Eden Treaty records. It explicitly proves how reducing tariffs stabilized consumer prices and opened markets without bankrupting domestic sectors.”

She flipped the book open, the aged paper crackling softly under her fingers, and held it out toward him. “Look at the trade records right here. Read it yourself.”

William stepped closer, leaning down to glance at the page she was thrusting toward his chest. His eyes swept the text, and then he looked up at her, a slow, insufferable smile spreading across his face.

“Seraphina,” William said softly. “The 1786 treaty lowered duties on French wines, brandies, and manufactured textiles in exchange for British cottons and hardware. It was based on Adam Smith’s theories to reduce reliance on American trade.” He paused, leaning a fraction closer. “It did not cover grain. Not a single bushel.”

Seraphina blinked, her chest freezing mid-breath. She looked down at the page, her eyes wildly searching the text.

“You are using a commercial treaty on French wine to justify dismantling British grain protections,” William continued, his voice dripping with triumph. “I’m not saying your logic is unsound. Your precedent simply doesn’t exist.”

“It demonstrates the principle of free trade!” she insisted, her cheeks burning hot as she tried to salvage her ground, shifting her grip on the book. “If you look at the secondary provisions regarding raw materials —”

“It demonstrates that you reached for the nearest respectable treaty to support a conclusion you had already made,” William said, reaching out to grasp the edge of the cover to close the book. “Accept the flaw in your source, Seraphina.”

“I am not accepting anything when you are intentionally ignoring the broader economic framework!” she snapped, pulling the volume back toward herself to keep him from shutting it.

“Seraphina, let go of the cover —”

“You let go!”

She tugged. He held fast, intending only to stabilize the text, but neither yielded. They pulled in two different directions for a whole ten seconds, before a crack ripped through their squabbling.