“Of course, of course,” Dabney said hastily, color rising in his cheeks. “Merely an observation. No offense intended.”
“Offense can be taken whether intended or not, Mr. Dabney,” Gabriel lied, his voice like glass.
Dabney stammered an apology, taking his sweet time to do so. By the time the blowhard finally took his leave — after a rambling insistence that he would “call round in a day or two to discuss figures” — the church was nearly empty. Helena Ashcombe and Eliza were nowhere to be seen.
He stepped outside, scanning the lane where the carriages waited, but the small dogcart that had brought the Ashcombes was already gone, disappearing down the curve of the road beneath the bare elms.
Gabriel exhaled sharply, the cool air biting at his lungs. It was absurd — he told himself as much — to feel disappointment over something so trivial. Yet the sensation remained, sharp and inexplicable. He finally admitted to himself that his entire reason for attending the service was the hope of seeing her. And that was telling.
He should not care. There was nothing between them but circumstance and a handful of charged glances. And yet, even the thought of her absence left the morning strangely hollow.
He lingered there longer than he should have, his gloved hands clasped behind his back, watching the last traces of mistlift from the churchyard. The sound of the departing carriage faded into silence, leaving only the caw of crows overhead.
He had known desire before. He had known curiosity, admiration, even affection. But whatever this was — this restless, unreasoning pull — it was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. It disturbed him more deeply than he could say.
Finally, he turned toward his own waiting horse, his expression grim.
“Damnation,” he muttered under his breath. “What the devil is happening to me?”
And with that, he mounted and rode away, the church receding behind him, its spire stark against the pale winter sky — the faintest echo of Eliza’s presence still lingering like a whisper he could not quite forget.
The church was empty now,the morning sunlight filtering through the stained glass and casting shifting pools of color across the worn flagstones. The last of the congregation had gone, their footsteps fading down the path, but he remained in the shadows near the bell tower, watching. Always watching.
It was not difficult to see the direction things were beginning to take. Hawthorne’s gaze had wandered toward the back pew far too often during the service, drawn again and again to the girl seated there. And Eliza Ashcombe, usually so composed and indifferent, had faltered beneath that attention. The faint flush in her cheeks, the sudden downward cast of her eyes — small gestures, but telling ones.
It was enough to make his jaw tighten.
Hawthorne’s marriage — toanyone, but especially to her — was the one outcome he could not allow. The matter hadnothing to do with love or jealousy. It was far simpler and far more important than that. If Hawthorne remained unwed and childless, if his line ended with him, the title would fall dormant. The estate would pass into legal limbo, and in time, all of it — Ravenswood Hall, the surrounding lands, even the cursed little cottage the Ashcombe women clung to — could be bought.
Bought, claimed, controlled.
It was a slow plan, years in the making, but it depended upon one crucial factor: that Hawthorne never secured an heir. A wife would complicate everything, but a wife likehercould destroy it entirely. The villagers might call her a witch in whispered tones, but he knew the truth — that if she caught Hawthorne’s heart, there would be no turning him from her. And then all of his careful work, every step of the strategy he had crafted, would come to nothing.
That could not be allowed.
There was still time. The bond between them was no more than a flicker now, a spark that could be snuffed out before it ever became flame. There were ways to keep them apart — ways to make certain that Hawthorne’s future remained solitary and barren. And if those ways required subtlety at first, they could become far less subtle later.
For now, patience was the wisest course. He would watch. He would wait. And when the moment was right, he would act.
Because Hawthorne would not marry. He would not secure his line. And Ravenswood — every acre of it, every stone and blade of grass — would one day be his.
Chapter
Seven
The cottage was quiet save for the soft crackle of the fire and the rhythmic clatter of knife against board. Outside, the afternoon had already begun to fade, the pale light slanting low through the window, painting the walls in bands of gold and shadow.
Eliza stood at the small table, slicing herbs into tiny pieces. Across the room, Helena stirred a pot suspended above the hearth, the scent of herbs and broth filling the air. It should have been a companionable silence — one of those easy, familiar moments that marked their daily life together. But it was not.
There was a weight to it — a sense of waiting, as though something unspoken hovered just beyond the edge of sound. Eliza could feel her grandmother’s gaze even when her back was turned. She focused more intently on her task, willing herself not to invite comment. She knew that look too well — the one Helena wore when she was letting her thoughts steep like tea, growing stronger by the minute until she could not resist pouring them out.
With the task completed, she rose from her chair and handed them to her grandmother who then added them to the pot she stirred. Eliza turned her attention to the small bread oven builtinto the side of the hearth. Using a large wooden paddle, she retrieved the small round loaf from within just as Helena spoke.
“He is a very handsome man,” her grandmother said lightly, as though remarking upon the weather.
Eliza nearly dropped the bread. She recovered quickly, though not quickly enough to hide the flush that rose in her cheeks. “I beg your pardon?”
Helena did not look up from the pot. “I merely observed that he is handsome. Surely you cannot disagree.”
