The movement felt foreign, a rare concession to agitation he usually contained through sheer will. His boots traced restless paths across the Persian carpet, back and forth before the cold fireplace. Hishands hung at his sides, then rose to rake through hair that had been meticulously arranged that morning.
I did not ask for your gallantry.
Her words circled his mind, refusing to settle. She was right, of course. She had not asked. He had acted without invitation, without calculation, without the careful deliberation that characterized every other decision he made. At that table, he had spoken—and the words had spilled out, passionate and dangerous, aligning him publicly with a woman whose reputation was already precarious.
What had possessed him?
He stopped before a tall window, pressed his palm to the cool glass, and watched his breath fog the surface in patterns that quickly dispersed.
The answer waited at the edge of his consciousness, a truth he had circled for weeks without confronting.
He cared.
The admission landed like a blow. He cared what they said about her. He cared that their cruelty had found its mark, that he had seen her flinch, almost imperceptibly, when the whisper struck. He cared with a depth that undermined every wall he had built.
His hand moved through his hair again,disordering it further, and he caught sight of his reflection in the darkened window. A man he barely recognized, his composure in ruins, his certainty scattered.
Truth, he had called it.
And truth, he was discovering, could be the most dangerous thing of all.
He exhaled slowly, tugged his waistcoat into order, and forced his hair back into something resembling propriety. If he remained alone with his thoughts much longer, he would do something unforgivably impulsive—like seek her out.
Instead, he left the library and went in search of air, light, and anything that might steady him.
The conservatory smelled of damp earth and growing things—distant tropics transported into Yorkshire through glass, money, and the stubbornness of botanical enthusiasts. Samuel stood among fronds and blooms with the grim hope that plants might be less complicated than people.
They were not proving less complicated. They were simply better at silence.
He positioned himself near a flowering vine that climbed the iron framework supporting the glassceiling, its petals the color of crushed violets and its fragrance almost overwhelming. Sunlight filtered through condensation-streaked panes, casting shifting patterns that moved with the passing clouds outside. The humid air wrapped around him, making his cravat feel tighter than it was.
He heard her before he saw her. The distinctive rustle of silk against stone, footsteps too light to belong to a servant, too deliberate to be accidental. Samuel did not turn. He knew who approached without looking.
“You have been avoiding her.”
Clara’s words landed cleanly in the humid air. Samuel kept his gaze fixed on the vine, examining its spiraling growth with feigned interest, as if its intricacies could shield him from the conversation he dreaded.
“I have been occupied with correspondence,” he replied, the lie thin on his tongue. “Estate matters require attention even during house parties.”
“Samuel.”
Just his name—spoken with the inflection of a woman who had known him since childhood and would not be swayed by obvious fabrications. He felt his shoulders draw tight, bracing.
“It’s for the best,” he said at last, dropping thepretense. “What happened last night.” The words caught. A confession on a hillside. A hand in his. A breach in his defenses that had widened into something perilous.
“Is it?” Clara stepped closer, her reflection materializing beside his in the glass. “Is it for the best, Samuel? Or is it merely safer?”
The distinction struck hard.
He turned to face her. Clara’s eyes held his with a steady calm that did not flinch from uncomfortable truths.
“She does not need…” He stopped, started again. “I am not…” Another false start. His hand rose to his hair, again, and he forced himself to still it. “Clara, you know what I am. You know what I failed to do.”
“I know a young man made a mistake,” Clara said, no judgment in her tone, only truth. “And I know that same young man has spent fifteen years building defenses against making such a mistake again.”
“Those defenses exist for a reason.”
“Do they protect others from you,” she asked quietly, “or do they protect you from the possibility of caring enough to be hurt?”
