Miss Watton stiffened instantly, and she straightened as his presence filled the space in front of her. Her eyes widened, startled by the sudden nearness, so close he could see the faint tremble at her throat, the rapid rise of her chest, the way her fingers tightened in her skirts as if steadying herself.
Henry’s brows shot upward in amused disbelief, while Tessa froze mid-step, her little mouth forming a small “o” of confusion.
Wilhelm, with his jaw locked and pulse racing far too fast, realized too late that he had moved out of instinct rather than reason, but he didn’t care.
“Miss Watton,” he said quietly, his voice low enough that only she and Henry heard, “I would like a word.”
She blinked. “Now?”
“Yes. If you please.”
Henry’s eyes gleamed with wicked delight. “Oh, this should be interesting.”
Wilhelm ignored him entirely.
Miss Watton swallowed, glancing at Tessa as if seeking rescue. Tessa only shrugged and whispered, “Papa is not scary today.”
Henry added, “He is always a little bit scary.”
Wilhelm shot him a look that would have silenced lesser men.
Miss Watton nodded at last, smoothing her hands down her gown, fingertips trembling slightly. “Of course, Your Grace.”
Wilhelm turned away quickly, afraid he might betray something in his expression if he looked at her a moment longer.
“Follow me,” he said, his voice tight.
He led her out of the music room, the muffled echo of Henry teasing Tessa fading behind them. Miss Watton walked a half-step behind him, her breaths quiet, controlled, though he could hear the faint, nervous hitch when the corridor narrowed and she was forced closer.
The air between them felt charged and aware.
Wilhelm stopped outside his study and opened the door. “After you.”
She hesitated, just a beat, long enough for him to see the rise and fall of her chest before stepping inside.
CHAPTER 8
“After you.” Wilhelm stepped aside just enough to allow her to pass, his voice low and steady in a way that brushed disturbingly close to her spine.
Madeline dipped her head in a small, automatic gesture of respect, though her pulse fluttered under her skin with far less composure. She moved forward, the soft sweep of her skirts whispering across the polished floor as she entered the study, every inch of her hyperaware of the man standing behind her.
She expected him to follow at a respectable distance, expected the air to remain cool and still but the moment she crossed fully inside, Wilhelm’s presence closed in behind her like a shift in the weather.
The door slammed shut, firmly enough that the sound reverberated through her bones, a deep, resonant thud that made her spine draw straight and her breath stall high in her chest. She went utterly still. The quiet that followed settledthickly around them, and she became painfully aware of how close he stood.
Her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. Heat pooled low in her stomach, shamefully warm and eager.
She turned slowly. Wilhelm had not taken even a single step farther into the room; he stood exactly where he had been, one broad hand resting on the doorframe as though bracing himself, the other hanging at his side in a tight, controlled fist. His chest rose and fell in a careful rhythm, but she could feel the strain beneath it, the effort he was exerting simply to stand still.
His eyes lifted to hers and the impact was immediate, sharp as a spark thrown onto dry tinder.
He wasn’t watching her in the polite, measured way of a man addressing his employee. No, his gaze dragged across her face and down her body with slow precision, as if wrestling with himself and losing, as if every inch of her unsettled something he had fought very hard to bury.
Madeline’s fingers curled into the fabric of her skirts, the cotton wrinkling beneath her grip. A tremor ran through her legs, subtle but undeniable. Her breath refused to even out completely. Her whole body felt painfully aware of his—aware of his nearness, his size, the faint scent of winter and leather and something darker clinging to him, something that made her thighs press together before she could stop them.
She swallowed, her voice a fragile thread when she finally found it. “You… wished to speak to me, Your Grace?”
Her tone was soft and she heard the slight tremor she hadn’t meant to reveal. Her cheeks warmed, and she forced herself to lift her head, to meet the intensity of his stare even as it made something inside her coil tight and hot.
