On the eighth night of them not dining together, Gabriel had finally let go of his insistence on needing clarity and distance from his wife, who would not leave his thoughts. That evening, he returned to the manor on horseback, slightly bruised and sore, but mostly victorious.
He walked into the entrance hall and turned in the direction of the kitchen. With Sibyl not joining him for dinner, he had taken to either skipping meals himself or snacking in his study in a way that didn’t fill him up, especially now that he was boxing more often.
Yet, as soon as he set food in the kitchen, he froze.
Sibyl was at the stove, a copper kettle whistling as the water inside boiled. She turned at the scuff of footsteps on the stone floor.
He watched her as she dropped some tea leaves into a teacup that rested atop a saucer.
“What is the matter?” he asked, looking between her and the teacup.
“Nothing,” she answered, looking confused by his question.
Her eyebrows quirked as she regarded him, and he was reminded of how he had found the maids gossiping over the scandal sheet.
“I just did not want to disturb the servants at this hour. I can brew myself a cup of tea.” She let out a soft laugh, as if the notion of doing otherwise was foolish.
Gabriel fought the urge to say,I pay them to be disturbed.It was certainly what his father would have said.
But that was not who he was, and although he did pay his servants to be disturbed, he understood Sibyl’s reluctance.
“What tea are you making?” he asked, unsure why he wanted to know.
“Chamomile,” she answered, turning back to the kettle to pour the steaming water into the cup.
As she did, she went rigid, and her hand shot to her back as if supporting herself. Her fingers splayed over her spine, right above her tailbone.
Gabriel arched a curious eyebrow.
“Would you like some?” she offered.
“No, but I would like to know what is wrong,” he countered.
“Nothing is wrong. I am perfectly fine,” she said, far too quickly.
“Oh, if that is the case, then I would like to take you up on your offer. However, I am rather fond of the cup right above your head. Yes, the one right there.”
He leaned against the doorframe, holding back a smirk as she reached up, but she jolted as if more pain shot up her back.
She froze and looked at him.
“I thought so,” he drawled.
“You do not want the cup,” she guessed, her face twisting into a grimace.
“I do not want the cup,” he confirmed, letting his lips quirk up. He pushed off the doorframe, ambling towards her. “You are a very stubborn woman, but you know that already.”
“I am not,” she insisted, moving back towards the counter the closer he came.
Her eyes flickered over his face, so he held up his hands. “I only want to help,” he assured her.
Still, she didn’t move closer to him. If anything, she pulled her hands to her chest as if that would protect her.
When she didn’t say anything, he shrugged his shoulders. “Fine. Keep on suffering.”
Sibyl sighed, dropping her hands. “All right, perhaps my back has been aching a little. I do not know if it is from carrying Rosie so much around the manor or just feeling some tension, but there is a little pain.”
“See? That was not so hard now, was it?” He was so close to her now, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. “Turn around.”
