“Your Grace,” she whispered, the corner of her mouth twitching.
Robert arched a brow. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
“I thought you liked that about me.”
He didn’t answer.. couldn’t. Becauseyeswas not a thing he was willing to say, not here, not now, not when the very air between them felt like the space before a storm, humming with something dangerous. Instead, he turned, and she followed, silent and swift as shadow.
The corridor stretched before them, long and dark and lined with the ghosts of Brimwood’s past. Moonlight filtered through tall windows, pooling on the marble floors like spilled silver.
When they reached the door to the study, he paused. He didn’t need to try the doorknob, but he did. Locked.
Of course, it was.
He glanced back at her.
Evelyn leaned against the wall, her arms folded beneath her breasts. “Now what?”
Robert stared at the lock again then stepped closer to her. She tilted her head, watching him like a cat might a very interesting mouse.
“You have something I need,” he murmured.
“I usually do,” she replied, but her breath hitched slightly when he reached up.
He didn’t ask. He simply slid a hand into her hair.
She stilled.
Gently, he found the simple pin tucked just behind her temple, hidden beneath a twist of hair. He tugged it free, slow and precise. A single strand slipped loose and curved across her cheek.
His fingers brushed her skin as he tucked it behind her ear. And there, just there… he felt it. That spark. That sharp awareness that flared to life only between them, igniting like flint and steel.
Her breath caught. His jaw tightened.
For one suspended second, he forgot about the lock. He forgot the room. The mission. The weight of his dead. He only sawher.
“I’ll return it,” he said quietly as his fingers lingered a fraction too long.
“You’d better,” she replied, but her voice was softer now. It almost sounded like a promise.
He stepped away, the pin still in hand and the air between them charged and fragile. Kneeling at the door, he studied the lock. It was a simple, older design. Brimwood had favored tradition over innovation.
Fool.
A few deft twists, a turn, the faintest click, and the tumblers yielded. The door creaked open. He stood and looked at her.
Evelyn’s eyes gleamed in the dark. “Show-off.”
Robert held the door for her, hiding his smirk. “Ladies first.”
She glided past him like moonlight incarnate, and he followed her into the lion’s den. The door shut behind them with a whisper of wood on wood, but even that soft sound seemed deafening in the stillness of the house.
Robert waited until the latch clicked into place before he turned. The air in the Viscount’s study was heavier than the corridor, dense with dust and the faint, cloying scent of ink and old tobacco. The room reeked of curated legacy: there were leather-bound books that had never been read, a globe no one had ever spun, and a great oak desk that seemed to guard its secrets with aristocratic disdain.
Evelyn stood in the middle of it, motionless now. Her eyes swept the space with the practiced efficiency of someone who had grown up here but had never truly belonged.
“Where would he hide anything important?” he asked in a low voice.
She pointed to the desk without hesitation. “He never let the staff clean inside it. Said they’d move things. Always locked the bottom drawer.”
