Wilhelm straightened at once, heat creeping into his neck as the truth landed. He had allowed them to bake, and then forgotten them entirely.
Madeline moved quickly, pulling the tray free. The biscuits were darker than intended, their edges crisped well past golden. She surveyed them for a heartbeat, then smiled ruefully.
“Well,” she said lightly, “that was ambitious of us.”
Tessa peered up at her, then burst into laughter. “They’re very brown.”
“They are,” Madeline agreed. “Which means we shall have to try again.”
She reached for the remaining dough, turning back to Tessa without a trace of frustration. “And this time, we shall remember the oven.”
Tessa beamed, rolling the fresh dough with renewed seriousness. “Papa, did you hear? We get another chance.”
“I heard,” Wilhelm replied, his voice lower than he intended—and this time, his gaze did not leave Madeline as she bent slightly at the waist to guide his daughter, her hand hovering close without ever taking over. There was no condescension in her manner, no impatience. Only steady presence.
Madeline leaned in to inspect the dough, and as she did, the neckline of her gown shifted subtly, revealing the pale curve of her collarbone, the soft shadow where fabric dipped and gathered. The sight struck him like a blow to the chest.
Heat surged low and sudden.
Wilhelm turned his gaze sharply toward the window, jaw clenching as he fought the visceral reaction that threatened to undermine his composure. This was absurd. She was merely leaning forward. He had seen far more in ballrooms without losing control. And yet, standing here, in the intimacy of the kitchen, with flour on her skin and laughter softening her features, the awareness burned far more fiercely than it had any right to.
They worked on in this strange, domestic tableau, and despite his efforts to remain aloof, something softened in him as flour was spilled, laughter rang out, and Tessa’s pride grew with each small success. When she finished her tray of biscuits, Madeline praised her, resting a hand briefly on the child’s shoulder.
“You did wonderfully,” Madeline said, her voice warm with genuine approval as she leaned slightly toward Tessa, her hand hovering for a moment above the tray before settling lightly at the edge of the table. “You see? Learning practical skills matters, because they teach patience, care, and confidence, and you have shown all three today.”
Wilhelm watched as Tessa straightened under the praise. Pride bloomed across her face with such sudden, unguarded intensity that it caught him off balance, a feeling of comfort settling unexpectedly in his chest that had everything to do with the quiet, unsettling realization that his daughter looked happier in this moment than she had in weeks. He found himself holding that image longer than he intended. He delighted in seeing the way her eyes shone and how she glanced toward Madeline as though seeking confirmation, and then, only after that, toward him.
It was Madeline who turned next, lifting one of the biscuits from the tray and holding it out toward him. Her fingers were careful not to crumble the still-warm edge.
“Would you care to try one?” she asked, her tone light, almost teasing, as though she already knew the resistance she was about to meet.
Wilhelm hesitated. The pause stretched just long enough to be noticed. Meanwhile, his gaze flicked from the biscuit to her face and back again, irritation warring with something far more disconcerting as he weighed the absurdity of the situation against the expectant looks turned toward him.
He did not make a habit of indulging in such domestic trifles, least of all under the watchful eyes of servants and child alike. Wilhelm felt a reflexive urge to refuse on principle alone, to reclaim the authority he sensed slipping through his fingers.
“I hardly think—” he began, already shaping the refusal, already reaching for distance.
Tessa’s eyes widened. “Papa,” she said quickly, her voice bright with hope, “I made it.”
Wilhelm exhaled slowly through his nose, then took the biscuit at last, his fingers brushing Madeline’s again as she released it, the contact brief but charged enough to set his nerves alight all over again. He inspected the biscuit with exaggerated scrutiny, as though searching for fault, the faint curve of his mouth betraying his reluctance even as he raised it to his lips.
He took a bite.
The biscuit was hot, imperfect, slightly uneven in texture, and unexpectedly good, the simple richness of it catching him off guard. He chewed slowly, his expression carefully neutral, even as he registered the faint sweetness, the crisp edge givingway beneath his teeth, and the unmistakable satisfaction of something made with care rather than precision.
Tessa clapped her hands, delight spilling over. “He likes it!”
“It is… adequate,” Wilhelm said, though the word rang hollow even to his own ears.
Madeline’s lips curved, not into triumph, but into something softer, amused and pleased in equal measure, and the sight of it stirred something improper in him, the awareness of her intensifying in ways he could no longer ignore.
He should have left then.
The sensible choice would have been to excuse himself, to restore the distance he felt slipping away with every shared moment, but instead he lingered. His gaze betrayed him as it followed Madeline while she moved about the kitchen, tidying, speaking quietly to the cook, and offering Tessa another small task. There was an ease to her presence that unsettled him deeply. He was surprised by the way she belonged here as naturally as she did in the schoolroom. Her body moved with unselfconscious grace, bending slightly at the waist, reaching, turning, the fabric of her gown shifting subtly with each motion.
He felt it then, unmistakably, the pull low in his body, the awareness that had nothing to do with reason and everything to do with proximity, with scent, with the quiet intimacy of the space. His gaze caught again on the curve of her throat as she leaned forward, on the gentle rise and fall of her breath, on theway a loose strand of hair brushed her cheek before she tucked it back with flour-dusted fingers.
Desire surged, insistent, stripping him of the control he prized so highly, and he despised himself for the weakness of it, for the way his thoughts betrayed him even as his expression remained rigidly composed. He was not accustomed to wanting like this, to feeling undone by something so simple as a woman standing too close, smiling too easily, existing with a confidence that made him ache.
