“An accident,” she said. “Riding. He was thrown from his horse when it reared… spooked by something though no one has any notion what that was. He struck his head on one of the stone fences that litter the property. Afterward, he was unconscious for days. And when he did awaken he was…. Changed. Insensible. Much of the flaws you see in the house, broken bits of stone or poorly patched holes in the plaster—they are his doing. A product of his rages and temper.”
There was a deep and longstanding pain layered within her words and tone. She had loved him, he thought. She had loved him and watched him transform into someone she no longer recognized. “And his death?”
“Another accident… cleaning his pistols,” she replied softly.
Gabriel didn’t probe further. He didn’t need to. Both of them understood the truth of that. It had been no accident. That was simply a ruse to save face and to allow for a proper burial rather than some ignoble interment at a crossroads. Forgotten.
“The conservatory is the only portion of the house that my immediate predecessor improved upon. Everything else was left to moulder,” Gabriel said, offering the reprieve of a new and neutral topic. “With your love of plants and interest in herbs and remedies, it might be of interest to you.”
Helena, clearly grateful for the shift in conversation, sighed with relief. “I will look forward to exploring it with your permission.”
He waved his hand dismissively. “You do not need my permission. It’s a room that I have no notion what to do with. Explore at your whim, madame.”
Helena smiled warmly then. “No doubt my granddaughter will wish to see it as well… at some point.”
She glanced toward the doorway just as a shadow fell across it.
Eliza.
Helena’s expression softened, and she inclined her head toward Gabriel with the faint air of one who already knew more than she intended to say. “Then I shall leave you both to breakfast,” she murmured. “I find my curiosity about the conservatory is more voracious than my appetite for breakfast.”
Her departure was graceful, deliberate — and left a silence behind that seemed almost tangible.
Eliza lingered at the threshold for a moment, then stepped forward. She wore the pale blue gown this morning. The same one she’d worn on the first day they’d met. He’d glimpsed it beneath her cloak. It was simple but elegant, the color softening the fatigue etched beneath her eyes. She looked tired, yes — but beautiful in a way that unsettled him all over again.
“Good morning, Miss Ashcombe,” he said at last, rising slightly from his chair. His voice was steadier than he felt.
“Good morning to you, as well, my lord.” She inclined her head. Then she moved to the sideboard and served herself from the array of food prepared by the cook. When she turned to approach the table, she added, “I hope you are not finding our intrusion into your home to be an inconvenience.”
“Not at all.”
The footman moved forward to pull her chair out for her and she took her seat opposite him. The sound of poured tea, the faint clink of cutlery — all felt exaggerated in the stillness.
They began to eat, though neither seemed particularly inclined toward it. Every word exchanged was polite, measured, painfully ordinary.
“The weather appears to be turning,” she said at one point, her tone careful.
“So it does”
“I imagine it will make the roads quite treacherous.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Their conversation died as swiftly as it began.
He found himself watching her — the delicate movement of her hands as she lifted her cup, the faint tremor in the fingers that betrayed what her composed expression did not. Every detail of her face, of her presence, seemed burned into his mind from the night before.
He ought not to think of it. Ought not to remember the soft warmth of her mouth or the way she had leaned into him, however briefly. And yet he could think of nothing else.
When the footman stepped discreetly out to fetch more coffee from the adjoining pantry, Gabriel seized the chance that silence had denied him.
“Miss Ashcombe,” he began quietly.
She looked up, startled by the sudden change in his tone. “My lord?”
“I owe you an apology.”
Her brow furrowed, though she did not speak.
