The staff start seeking me out instead of avoiding me. Their shoulders relax when I enter a room. Their smiles come quicker,easier—the kind that crinkle at the corners and reach all the way up.
Mrs. Lyme brings me tea without being asked. Thomas waves when I walk past his roses. Arlene—formidable, terrifying Arlene who previously acknowledged my existence with nothing more than a curt nod—actually winks when she hands me my torte.
Winks. Arlene.
I spend a full thirty seconds convinced I hallucinated it.
“The staff are talking,” Mrs. Lyme tells me over breakfast on day three. Her voice is warm in a way I’ve never heard before. “About what you did at the party.”
“What I did?”
“Held your head high. Smiled through the wine incident. Laughed off the pronunciation mistake.” She pauses. “Made friends with Lady Celine, who has been singing your praises to anyone who will listen.”
I think of Celine—her bright eyes, her cheerful confidence, her utter lack of filter. Of course she’s been telling everyone. Celine probably has a newsletter by now. A podcast. Possibly a documentary in the works.
“She’s also been telling everyone about the three kings.” The corner of Mrs. Lyme’s mouth curves. “How they watched over you all night. How Devyn called them personally before he left.”
My cheeks flush. “She told people about that?”
“She told everyone about that. The maids have been swooning for days.” Mrs. Lyme’s almost-smile deepens. “Apparently, it’s ‘the most romantic thing they’ve ever heard.’”
I press my hands to my burning face. Great. Wonderful. The entire territory is swooning over my husband’s overprotective tendencies and I’m going to die of embarrassment before he even gets home.
But also...he’s going to be so proud.
Right?
I imagine telling him. Imagine his almost-smile. Imagine him pulling me close and murmuring something possessive and French against my hair while I pretend to be annoyed and secretly melt into a puddle of feelings.
I’ve been rehearsing what I’ll say when he walks through the door. Something casual. Breezy. “Oh, hello, I’ve just been running your household and winning hearts and being generally magnificent, no big deal.”
Okay, maybe not that. But something good. Something that makes him do the almost-smile.
Day four. I call him.
He answers on the third ring. His voice is clipped. Professional.
“How is everything?”
“Good.” I curl up on the window seat in our bedroom and tell him about the chocolate torte. About Arlene’s wink. About Celine’s apparent PR campaign.
Silence.
“You’re popular,” he says. His voice is strange. Flat.
“Apparently.” I laugh a little, waiting for the warmth. The almost-smile I can hear in his voice. “Mrs. Lyme says the territory is talking about—about what you did. With the kings.”
More silence.
“Devyn?”
“I have to go.” His voice is curt now. Closed. “I’ll be home soon.”
The line goes dead.
I stare at the phone.
Did I say something wrong?
