A click, the slow sweep of the portal, and then she was there on the threshold, unfairly gorgeous with her inky tresses pulled into a neat chignon, today’s dove-gray gown far too staid a color. She deserved to wear rich, bold silks instead of plain wool, jewel-toned hues like emerald to match her eyes and ruby and sapphire. What a travesty it was that she had never been given a Season or a chance to make a proper match, but had instead been sent to service, waiting upon the whims of others.
“Your Grace,” she said solemnly, dipping into a curtsy, her formality firmly in place.
Quite as if he had never asked her to sit with him in his study and partake in brandy—an act itself that was unconscionable for the master of the house. He could blame the rawness of his emotions and the effect of the spirits he so rarely imbibed, but the truth was, it was also her.
“Mrs. Yorke,” he greeted in turn. “Please, come in.”
“The door, Your Grace?” she asked, her eyes questioning.
Good God, he hoped she was not uncomfortable being alone with him after yesterday. “Close it, if you please.”
She did so, venturing into the room in an elegant glide but stopping at a safe distance. “What does Your Grace require this afternoon?”
“You have my assurance that nothing untoward will occur, Mrs. Yorke,” he told her. “Not this afternoon, nor ever again. Pray accept my most sincere apologies for what happened last night. I overstepped my bounds, and I must humbly ask for your forgiveness.”
An expression of surprise flitted over her countenance. “You need not apologize. You are lonely, and your grief and the brandy were clouding your judgment. I understand.”
“Iamlonely,” he agreed roughly, the confession torn from him. “But it wasn’t the grief and the brandy that moved me. It was you. However, regardless of what I feel, you have my promise that I’ll not make any further overtures. Your position is secure. I’ll not force myself upon you again.”
Something shifted in her expression. “Is that what you think, Your Grace? That you forced yourself upon me?”
Seething self-loathing rose like a tide. “Of course. I should never have asked you to join me for brandy. Nor should I have deigned to touch you. My actions were improper and inexcusable. I understand why you ran from my study. I vow it won’t happen again.”
She shook her head slowly, moving nearer to him, so that she was close enough to touch and her clean scent of floral soap tantalized him. “That isn’t why I fled your study last evening.”
A sharp pang of uncontrollable longing almost robbed him of breath.
“It isn’t?” he rasped.
“No.” Her green eyes sparkled in the late-day sunlight filtering through the windows, and he found himself mesmerized by the hints of copper and gold flecking her irises, by the shadowy sweep of her long lashes. “I left because you were in your cups, and I didn’t want to take advantage of your grief or your vulnerability.”
His vulnerability.
Not long ago, he would have laughed bitterly at such a notion. For he had believed himself hardened. Impervious. He had believed himself as wizened as one of the ancient oaks ringing the Blackwell Abbey park. But Joceline had changed that. She’d somehow dismantled all his walls, tearing them down until he realized he did still have a heart beating in his chest. That he hadn’t died that awful day two years ago.
And that perhaps there might be a chance he could feel again.
“I wasn’t so soused that I didn’t know what I was doing,” he confessed. “If anyone was taking advantage, it was me. You’re my housekeeper. I’m your employer. You’re young and innocent. I’m…neither of those things. It was unfair of me to press my suit.”
He felt every bit of his five-and-thirty years in this moment. More than that. He felt ancient compared to her. He was a decade her senior. Why hadn’t their age disparity occurred to him until now? Likely, he’d been too preoccupied with their social positions, with his own soul-shattering guilt and grief.
Selfish. That was what he was. He was still alive, when Amelia and their baby were forever lost to him. And here he stood, lusting after a young housekeeper.
He hated himself.
“What if I told you that your attention was welcome?” she asked softly.
A rush of yearning crashed into Quint, so fierce that his knees almost trembled from the force of it. “Mrs. Yorke. Joceline. What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I wanted what happened,” she said, laying a hand on his jaw, her touch warm and tender. “I wanted more than that to happen, Your Grace. I know it’s wrong of me. I have no right to feel the way I do for you, and yet I can’t seem to help it.”
“Quint,” he told her roughly. “Call me Quint.”
For somehow, it seemed wrong of her to continue with his title, to uphold the premise of civility, when they had both ventured well beyond the bounds of formality. Everything changed with these mutual confessions. They could never go back to who they had been before. They were Quint and Joceline now, here in this stolen moment, in the haven of his library, where it was no one but the two of them.
“Quint,” she repeated, and then she did something utterly astonishing.
She rose on her toes, sealing her mouth to his, her hand still on his jaw.
