Wilhelm didn’t answer at first. He pushed away from the door and stepped further into the room. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that she felt the warmth radiating from him, the way her skin prickled in anticipation without understanding what exactly she was looking forward to experiencing.
His gaze drifted over her again, unhurried this time, as though he were cataloguing the shape of her, the rise and fall of her breath, the subtle tremor she could not quite hide. It lowered slowly, taking in the delicate line of her neck, the faint flush beginning at her collar, the way her fingers curled lightly at her skirts. And then it lingered, in a way that made her feel as though the very air between them thickened and pulled taut.
Madeline’s breath hitched before she could stop it.
He heard it. She saw the proof in the sharp flex of his jaw, in the sudden constriction of his throat as he swallowed something he clearly didn’t want her to see. His stance shifted by an inch, but it felt seismic, a gravitational tilt drawing him imperceptibly forward. For a brief, startling moment, she thought he might step closer, might close that charged sliver of space between them, might reach for her—her face, her waist, her mouth—andshatter every thin, trembling line of propriety still holding them apart.
Her stomach tightened, a molten ache sliding low, shamefully warm, painfully awakening. She tried to ground herself, tried to ignore the way her body seemed suddenly too aware of his—the breadth of his shoulders, the quiet strength in his hands, the heat she could feel even without touch. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, subtle but not subtle enough, her knees softening against her will, her breath unsteady in her chest. She tried to steady her voice.
“Your Grace…?” The words slipped out on a thinner breath than she intended, almost a whisper, almost a plea—though she could not decide for what.
At last, Wilhelm inhaled slowly, deeply, as though dragging breath into lungs that resisted every inch of it. His chest rose with the effort, the movement taut and deliberate, and for a moment Madeline had the absurd impression that he was not breathing to steady himself, but to stop himself.
“Yes,” he said finally, the word emerging low and rough, threaded with something he could no longer fully disguise. “There is something I need to discuss with you.”
The way he said it… the way that single syllable resonated too heavily, too intimately, in the charged quiet between them made her heart stumble. It made the inside of her mouth go dry, her tongue pressing helplessly against the roof of it as if she could swallow the reaction down.
It made her feel that whatever he needed from her had very little to do with words, and far too much to do with the crackling pull she felt everywhere in her body.
He inhaled again, sharper this time, as though forcing himself back into the shape of a man who held absolute control. “Yes.” His gaze flicked away for a heartbeat, before snapping back to her with a precision that felt like a touch. “It concerns Henry.”
Heat rushed into her cheeks before she could stop it from the sheer unexpectedness of the shift.
“Henry?” she repeated, her voice thinner than she wished, her brows drawing together in confusion.
Wilhelm’s jaw tightened, a small, violent clench that sent a chord of tension running down his neck. “Lord Heathston is… not a suitable man for you to encourage.”
The statement landed like a hand closing around her ribcage, sharp and unfair. Her breath caught, and indignation rose hot and curled low in her stomach beside the place her attraction lived.
Her lips parted. “I did not encourage him.”
His gaze hardened. “You smiled at him.”
She blinked. “I smile at many people. It’s considered polite.”
He stepped forward, the distance between them shrinking with each deliberate movement. “Not like that.”
Madeline’s breath stumbled. “Like what?”
Wilhelm’s nostrils flared as though he had cornered himself with the accusation but refused to retreat from it. “Heathston is a rake,” he said sternly. “A man with no discipline, no restraint. He flirts with anything that breathes and has no intention beyond?—”
He cut himself off, jaw flexing.
Madeline stared. “Beyond what?”
Wilhelm dragged a hand through his hair, pacing a tight line across the carpet. “Beyond that which would compromise your position here. I will not have him treat you as?—”
“As what?” she pressed, heat rising through her chest. “As a woman? Because I am one, Your Grace. You forget that, it seems.”
His head snapped toward her, eyes sharp, flaring.
She felt her pulse race, but she refused to retreat.
“You presume much,” he said quietly.
She met his gaze calmly, even as a thousand calculations raced through her mind: her position, the precariousness of it, the fact that Captain Hale was following her. She could not afford indulgence.
“Your Grace, you are mistaking my courtesy for recklessness,” she answered, her voice steady, though her pulse beat sharply beneath her skin . “Do you truly think I would entertain impropriety with Lord Heathston? That I would endanger my employment, my home, or my safety by behaving improperly with your friend?”
