He moved to the window, staring out at the long gravel drive. The gardens were empty, the rosebushes heavy with June’s first bloom. He pressed his forehead to the cool pane, tried to breathe the longing out of his lungs.
It was only when he heard voices—female, high and quick—carrying across the lawn, that he realized he was not safe even in his self-imposed exile.
On the path, moving toward the house, was Eden, unmistakable even at this distance, and her two friends, Clara and the flame-haired Alice Pickford. Gabriel’s hand dropped from the curtain. His pulse stuttered, his heart thudding a violent, shameful tattoo in his chest.
He could not face her. Not now. The knowledge was immediate and overwhelming. If he looked into her eyes, he would betray himself entirely. Worse, he would betray Thomas, betray the man’s trust with nothing but a glance.
He turned from the window as if burned. His mind ran through every possible exit. The side corridor. The servant’s stairs. He could, he realized, be out the door and gone before the women even reached the house. It was cowardice, but what else could he do?
He found Thomas in the hall, coat in hand.
“I should leave you to your day,” Gabriel said, keeping his voice even. “Thank you, truly, for the brandy and the games. I…” He broke off, unable to finish the thought.
Thomas clapped his shoulder, hard, and grinned. “Do not be a stranger. There is no one else here worth talking to.” He placed his hand on Gabriel’s shoulder. “You are not alone, Gabriel. Remember that.”
Gabriel nodded, barely trusting himself to speak. “I will see you soon.”
He left through the parlor doors by way of the veranda, moving quickly, head down. The air outside was thick with birdsong, the sky an impossible, taunting blue. He found his horse waiting. As he mounted, he caught one last glimpse of Eden—her hair unbound in the sun, her laughter startlingly clear from across the green.
Gabriel’s throat tightened until it hurt, the ache echoing the first time he had watched her dance across the lawn as a girl—fearless, wild, and utterly out of reach. The memory clashed against the hollow weight in his chest now, a cruel contrast to the silence he had chosen.
He told himself it was for the best.
He would forget her.
He must.
And yet, as the estate slipped behind him and the familiar fields opened ahead, he knew with terrible clarity that he would never, in this life or any other, get her out of his system. Not if he lived a hundred years, not if he burned every bridge and blighted every vow. He had already failed, and the only mercy was that no one else knew it.
He rode hard, hoping the wind might scour her from his thoughts. It did not. He was ruined. Lost to her utterly.
* * *
The light on the gravel drive was sharp enough to set every pebble aglow, dazzling even through the haze of Eden’s thoughts. She was walking between Clara and Alice, telling herself this walk would clear her thoughts, would return her to the sensible, composed version of herself she was expected to be. What she truly wanted, though she dared not admit it, was reassurance. A reminder that her world extended beyond the heat of one stolen kiss. She had hoped that a morning with her dearest friends might distract her, that the world would right itself in the daylight. Instead, every step toward the house made her feel more exposed, more uncertain.
She was hardly aware of the distant clop of hooves and the dark form on horseback until Alice gave a little gasp and nudged her sharply.
“That was Lord Blackstone, was it not?” Alice’s eyes danced, always seeking mischief. “He must have left in rather a hurry.”
Eden had seen the familiar silhouette, the way Gabriel’s posture bent him half-double over the reins, as if the air itself were pursuit enough. He had not so much as looked at her as he passed. No pause. No sign of recognition. No trace of the man who had held her so fiercely mere hours ago.
The shock of it hurt in a way that felt childish, even as it scalded her with fresh humiliation. The reckless hope she had harbored all morning—that their moment in the maze had meant something—curdled instantly. Perhaps he regretted it. Perhaps it had been nothing but a lapse, an accident of impulse and moonlight, and in the sober morning, he wished it undone.
She said nothing as they reached the house, but the echo of Gabriel’s avoidance gnawed at her. It was a small comfort that neither Clara nor Alice pressed her with questions as they slipped inside, shaking off the sun. The house was pleasantly cool, the scent of beeswax and old books thick in the front hall. A maid offered to take their bonnets, and the three of them drifted into the parlor, where the windows had been thrown open to admit the scent of the roses.
Eden busied herself with the tea service, grateful for the small, precise movements required. She poured and sugared for her friends, then settled into the window seat, hands folded tightly in her lap.
Alice, never one for tact, watched her with an appraising look. “You seem quite altered, Eden. Has a ghost frightened you, or is it only the prospect of another dreadful tea with Mrs. Darrow?”
Clara shot Alice a reproachful glance, but Eden smiled weakly. “Neither. I think I did not sleep well.”
Clara’s voice was gentle, her eyes searching Eden’s face. “You look pale. Has something happened?”
Eden hesitated. She wanted to lie, to say it was only a headache or the heat, but the question was so full of kindness it undid her. The words spilled out before she could stop them.
“It is Gabriel,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
Alice nearly choked on her tea. “Lord Blackstone?”
