Julian stared at the piece of paper fetched by John and a devouring wave of frustration encompassed him. If the inquiry was proven to be without fault, a conflict between two Duchies threatened to emerge.

They must have mixed up something. He hoped internally, for attacking the Duke of Westbroke – the one ruled by the man with a moustache – meant losing funds. Indispensable funds.

"Where is Freya?" He asked in a hectic tone, his hand movements betraying his state of spirit.

"Should I tell milady to come?" John uttered, joining his hands in a humble manner.

"Yes, thank you." Julian appreciated his butler's ability to anticipate his desires. Freya was beyond right, he should have been more permissive with him. Perhaps he should grant Sophia's wish to visit the Great Library.

Back to present, you tosser! He scolded himself, but somehow managed to smile brightly when his wife entered the room.

"Hi." She said meekly, placing a feathery kiss on his cheek.

"We need to discuss something of acute urgency." His tone was iron-like once again and Freya could not help but wonder why he felt the need to detach himself from emotions when speaking of important issues.

"Alright. Let's go to the garden."

When regular people referred to gardens, they all presumed a small patch of land covered with limited amount of plants. When Freya made such a reference, it was a completely opposite meaning. The garden of the Duchy was not solely impressive due to its immensity, but also for the harmonious assembly of plants.

Smooth-leaved elms and alders in the external layer of the garden, common junipers and Sessile oaks in the second one, and a few willows enclosing the center lake. An individual affected by colours would consider the land a tad too monotonous, or maybe even dreary, but for Freya – who has recently rediscovered the exquisite beauty of nature – it was more than fulfilling. It was life itself blooming between the evergreen borders of the garden.

There was, indeed, a small garden within the garden that roofed flowers. It was one of the Duchy's greatest prides to own four of the rarest wild species in the entire Great Britain: the spring gentian, the mountain avens, the grass-of-Parnassus and the green-winged orchid. Of course, the flowers of the lovers were present as well, but they were not a centerpiece, as some may suppose.

Sometimes multiple times a day – mostly when hosting ceremonies – but generally once, the gardeners would nurture all plants with the most rigorous care.

Substracting herself from her contemplation, Freya asked her husband what the issue was. He rubbed his eyes, heaving deeply.

"I had the abuser investigated and it turns out that he works as a stable man for the Duchy of Westbroke. You do remember the guest with a moustache, don't you?"

"Don't tell me he is the Duke."

"Yes, he is. And our most influental fund provider. He is a decent man, I have to admit, but he has a particular hatred towards accusations of any sort. Telling him of his employee's misdemeanour would undoubtedly cut us off his list of funded institutions."

Freya felt a stinging burn in her heart. Even though her duty yelled at her to acknowledge the need of financial support, her heart exclaimed otherwise. Of course people would need a stable Duchy, but what about her own torment? Was it so disposable that he would leave her abuser unpunished?

Julian has been able to detect his wife's mood swings ever since he married her, but his ability intensified with the passing of each day. He was more than certain of the impact his words may have upon her. She had to understand that he was in as much pain as she was – torn between sense and sensibility – but as Duke and Duchess, they had to put their instincts aside and follow people's best interest. That was their role and no personal desire was allowed to intervene.

"I know what you must be thinking. I am not abandoning you, my love. I am simply trying to figure out whether or not there is a more diplomatic way of persuading the Duke." He wanted to sweep his wife off her feet and kiss her senselessly only to shut her up, but he knew that a decent conversation valued much more for Freya.

"But you said it yourself. He is way too stern to be cooperated with." She intended to sound confident, a master of emotions, but her statement came more like a whine than a firm retort.

"That is because he has never spoken to you. You learned how to mould people simply by speaking to them, much better than I do. I am short-tempered, you see."

"And so am I!"

Julian chuckled, cupping both Freya's cheeks in his manly hands. "You are short-tempered only in my presence, darling. I frustrate you to no end, I know. But you can be affable and cordial when it comes to others. You can do it and I will be there to support your quest."

Freya kissed him shortly, lingering a tad too much for a brisk collision of lips. His heart twitched as violently as his member, but the moment was beyond inappropriate.

Get a grip on yourself, you git! He scolded himself one more time.

"Alright, let's do this. It will bring me a lot of flashbacks, but you will hold my hand at all costs, understood?" Her voice was slightly more confident, but she was certain of its future drowsiness.

An hour later, Julian was driving his personal car, Freya standing by his side. Not using the official car was a wise decision, for it would have appeared as an offence and they would have lost the Duke from the beginning.

Reaching the Duchy of Westbroke, Julian opened Freya's door and helped her out. She was quivering, but her husband united his hand with hers and she instantly relaxed. "I am right here." He whispered.

The truth was that he was more than able to converse with the Duke, but Freya needed to pursue the journey on her own. She was made of the finest gold, therefore she could master the conversation unquestionably.

They were welcomed by the Duke of Westbroke himself, who kindly invited them to share a cup of tea. Self-made tea, as Freya learned later.

"How may I assist you, my beautiful British fellows?" Paul, the Duke, inquired in a lively tone.

When being nervous, Freya usually observed decorative details that she would have ignored contrarily. It was then when she noticed that the sofa on which they sat had wooden-carved arms and platinum insertions.

Julian caughed a few times before catching his wife's attention.

"Pardon me, milord. What we had in mind was a discussion regarding abuse. You see, I believe our people should become more aware of the perils found on streets. It would be lovely to know your opinion on whether or not abusers should be punished. We could get inspiration from you so that we could promote self-defence more accurately."

A little honey-laced blarney was harmless, wasn't it?

Sir Paul shifted in his seat, adopting a more recently-flattered mien. "Of course, I would love to share my opinion. We do care for our people, don't we? I am in strong favour of punishment, of that I am above certain. If anyone is found guilty, he should receive what he deserves."

"Regardless of circumstances?" Freya inquired, squeezing Julian's hand.

Sir Paul stuttered. "W-w-what do you mean?"

Why did he stammer? Julian asked himself, pondering on the possibility of Sir Paul's involvement.

"Well, there were several cases of public figures' abuse all over the world. I mean, not specifically their implication, more like their employee's. Should we leave those abusers' unpunished for the sake of the employer's reputation?" Freya lost a bit of her honey voice and raised it with an octave.

Paul, the Duke of Westbroke, rose blatantly from his seat and pointed his finger at both Freya and Julian. "You are hiding something from me. What is it?!"

"You seem a bit too nervous, milord. I believe you are the one who's hiding something." Freya retorted, raising from her seat as well.

"Darling, you are over-stepping boundaries." Julian whispered. "Excuse my wife, she must be having late morning sickness." Julian flashed a thousand volts smile.

Freya froze.

"Oh, are you pregnant? That is lovely, congratulations!" Sir Paul's demeanour changed instantly, as if the past quarter of hour was nothing but a blur.

"I-I-I'm n..." She stuttered, but her husband gripped her arm. "I thought you could speak properly." He whispered in her ear, dangerously lowering his tone.

"Well, then, off you go! She must be resting, you know? Go, go, we shall speak later! Take care of you, sweetheart!" Sir Paul greeted.

Freya and Julian left in a hurry, a boiling storm menacing to emerge between them.

"You told him I was pregnant?! He is going to announce everyone, you bloody idiot!" The car was filled with both their rage, but more likely with hers.

"I had to, for you were ruining it!"

"Try to be fucked senselessly until your eyes bulge out from your sockets and then blame me for losing my self-control! He stuttered, therefore he knew something! I was so close!" She yelled, punching the window and cursing.

I have messed up again. I was putting her through more pressure than she could stand. You idiot! It was the third time scolding himself, and Julian admitted being a lousy husband. Only internally, of course.

"I am sorry, but even if he knew, he is under sovereign immunity. And so am I. He would never be prosecuted as an accomplice."

"And neither would you."

"Pardon my indecent question, but do you want me to take matter into my own hands? Should I have your abuser killed or what?" He snapped, squeezing the wheel tightly.

"No, of course not. I am too angry to speak coherently. Sorry." Freya apologized, leaning against the window. She was too fatigued to even cry, let alone bring another solution.

Julian started to massage her thigh in circular motions, and then rested his hand on the same spot while speaking:

"We will sort this out, alright? If he refuses to cooperate, or tips your abuser and he flees, we will follow him through hell and beyond. I will not let you suffer much longer. What we ought to do now is stop arguing so frequently with each other. We are raising our voices on a daily basis!"

"I know. But I think I can fathom why." Freya asked Julian to stop the car and face her. He complied, unsure of her next move, but extremely curious.

"We are in love with each other and neither of us wants to admit it." She uttered.

"Y-you must be joking. N-no, we are not."

"Well, I am. I love you, Julian."