“Sorry, little rabbit.” He tilted his head to better see her face. “Was I talking in my sleep? Did I wake you?”
She shook her head.
Mild confusion crossed his face. “Then... Did you want something?”
Did she?
“I... just wanted to make sure you were all right.”
For a moment he said nothing. Then, “I am, thank you. Are you?”
“I... am sorry for our argument earlier.”
“Think nothing of it. I am sorry as well.”
She rose. “Well, good night, then, Captain.”
“Good night.”
Courage and flame sputtered and died, replaced by darkness and regret.
In the morning, Stephen sat on the edge of the sofa, hanging his head. What began as his usual morning prayers devolved into speculation and remorse. He’d been in a stupor last night. The vestiges of a dream—the French attacking, battle, charging—still very real in his mind, overpowering other thoughts until it was too late and he had frightened her away. Why had she come to him in the dressing room? He tried to recall their brief conversation. He’d asked her if he’d talked in his sleep and woken her, but she’d said no. But in the same breath she’d said she’d wanted to make sure he was all right. That didn’t make sense to him, though perhaps he was misremembering. She’d said something about their argument. Apologized. He should have made room for her on the sofa, and offered to talk with her about it. And relished her nearness in the bargain. He chastised himself for not thinking of it at the time. Surely she had not come for anything more... romantic... in nature? He was a fool to even think it.
Rising in frustration, Stephen washed in cold water, dressed, and went downstairs. He had several last-minute details to discuss with the estate manager before his departure in a few days. How quickly this fortnight was flying by. Too quickly.
Afterward, he donned his uniform and went upstairs to sit for Sophie again. He arrived before Kate, and instantly felt the tension in the air between them.
He said, “I’m sorry about last night. Grabbing your arm like that. I did not intend to scare you off. You are, uh,... more than welcome in my dressing room any time.” He pressed his eyes closed. He sounded like an idiot. A desperate idiot making a desperate offer.
She ducked her head, embarrassed. “That’s all right. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I didn’t do anything right either.”
“I should not have intruded.”
“You didn’t intrude. Sophie, you know I—”
Kate knocked and poked her head in with a mischievous look. “All clear?”
“Of course, come in,” Sophie said, clearly relieved to see her.
Inwardly he sighed, feeling as if he had made things worse.
He resumed his pose, and Sophie began painting. Kate looked on, peppering her with questions.
Finally, to stem the flow, Stephen posed a question of his own. “And where is Angela, your shadow? I saw her stalk by the house this morning on her way somewhere. Did she not stop in?”
“No. She is in a pique, apparently,” Kate said. “Wants to avoid us, or at least our houseguest.”
“Oh no. What has Keith done now?”
“Horace is home and invited Mr. Keith to dine with them at Windmere last night.”
“So I heard. Angela did not approve?”
“Actually she seemed pleased by the prospect. But apparently Mr. Keith and her brother did more drinking and gambling than dining. My maid said he arrived back here very late and very foxed. James and Edgar had to all but carry him up to his room. And now the laundry-maid has the unhappy task of scrubbing sick from his evening coat.”
“Thunder and turf...” Stephen breathed.
