He stood exactly where he had frozen when Madeline fled the room, the echo of her hurried steps still ringing faintly in his ears, the scent of her lingering in the air as though the house itself had refused to let her go. His hand remained half-raised, fingers flexed slightly, as though his body had not yet understood that the moment had passed.
He let his arm fall to his side and drew a slow breath, forcing air into lungs that felt too tight, too shallow. The room was unchanged. The lamplight still glowed warmly against the shelves. The fire crackled softly. And yet everything felt altered, as though something feral had been awakened and now refused to be put back to rest.
He had almost kissed her, again. The thought struck again with fresh force, and Wilhelm turned away abruptly, pacing the length of the carpet with measured steps that did nothingto calm the agitation coiled in his chest. He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers pressing briefly at his temple.
He had known better from the moment he stepped into the library and saw her there, curled into the armchair with a book in her lap, lamplight catching in her hair, her expression unguarded in a way it never was when she knew she was being observed. From the moment she looked up at him, startled but composed, something inside him had shifted and he had allowed it.
He stopped near the window, staring out at the darkened grounds without truly seeing them. The image of her rose unbidden again. The way her breath had stuttered when he leaned closer. The way her eyes had darkened with something that had tightened low in his own body in immediate, undeniable response.
He closed his eyes. He had stood too close. Spoken too freely. Forgotten, for the space of a heartbeat, that she was not a woman who could afford such moments.
She was his governess, dependent upon his good opinion, on his restraint, and he had nearly failed her.
Wilhelm’s jaw clenched. He exhaled sharply through his nose, anger flaring now, directed squarely at himself. He had sworn that he would not be a man who used his position to take what he wanted.
Madeline Watton deserved safety. Stability. Respect. Not a Duke who forgot himself because her mouth was too soft and her eyes too honest. He straightened slowly, forcing his shoulders back, drawing discipline around himself like armor. This could not happen again.
“You are scowling again, Wilhelm. If you continue, the ladies will begin to suspect you have swallowed a lemon, or worse, that you are sick.”
Wilhelm did not turn his head toward Henry. He kept his gaze fixed on the swirling kaleidoscope of silk and lace that occupied the center of the ballroom, though he saw none of it. All he could see, burned into the back of his eyelids like a brand, was the way the lamplight had caught the undertones in Madeline’s hair three nights ago. He could still feel the phantom weight of her waist beneath his hand, the way she had breathed—ragged and terrified and wanting—just inches from his lips.
“I am observing,” Wilhelm said, his voice a low, jagged rasp.
“You are terrifying the debutantes,” Henry countered, leaning casually against a marble pillar, a glass of champagne dangling from his fingers. “Look at Lady Beatrice. She’s been fluttering her fan at you for ten minutes. I believe she’s near to a fainting spell from the sheer effort of catching your eye.”
Wilhelm finally shifted his gaze. Lady Beatrice was a vision of perfection in pale blue silk. She was the daughter of an Earl,possessed a dowry that would make a banker weep, and was whispered to be the most accomplished pianist of the Season. She was exactly what the Duke of Kirkford should desire.
But as he watched her, Wilhelm felt a cold, hollow void in his chest. She was a statue. A beautiful, curated thing. She did not have Madeline’s fire. She did not have that sharp, intelligent wit that challenged him, nor did she have the gentle, instinctive kindness that had finally brought a smile to his daughter’s scarred face.
Madeline.Even her name in his mind felt like a betrayal of his rank.
He had avoided her for three days. Three days of agonizing silence, of listening for the sound of her footsteps in the hall and turning the other way. He had seen the confusion in her eyes when they passed briefly in the foyer, the hurt she tried to hide behind a mask of professional distance. It had gutted him, but he had to do it.
“Your Grace,” a voice chirped, breaking through his dark reverie.
He looked down to find the Countess of Morley and her daughter, Lady Elara, hovering before him. Wilhelm stiffened, his shoulders squaring instinctively. He adjusted his gloves, his movements precise and frigid.
“Countess. Lady Elara,” he said, bowing with a mechanical grace.
“We were just discussing the opera,” the Countess said, her eyes gleaming with the predatory light of a mother on the hunt. “Elara found the soprano’s performance quite moving, didn’t you, dear?”
“Indeed, Mama,” Elara said, dipping a perfectly timed curtsy. Her eyes were wide, clear, and utterly vacant of the depth Wilhelm found in the library at midnight. “Though I found the second act a bit… loud.”
“Loud?” Wilhelm asked, his voice flat.
“The passion of it,” Elara clarified, tapping her chin with her fan. “It felt a bit unseemly for a public stage, don’t you think, Your Grace? One should keep such emotions private.”
Wilhelm’s mind flashed to the kitchen and the flour on Madeline’s cheek, the heat of the stove, the way his blood had roared in his ears just watching her laugh with Tessa.
“Passion is rarely convenient, Lady Elara,” Wilhelm said, his tone clipped. “But it is often the only thing that makes the music worth hearing.”
The countess blinked, her smile faltering for a fraction of a second before it snapped back into place. “Quite. Tell me, Duke, how is your young daughter? We heard she has a new… governess.”
The mention of Madeline in this room, amidst these perfumed vultures, struck Wilhelm as being oddly out of place. Wilhelm’s jaw flexed until it ached. “Miss Watton is an exceptional educator. My daughter’s progress is a testament to her skill.”
“I’m sure,” the countess purred. “Though one does wonder about a woman who travels alone. And her name is unfamiliar in the higher circles. It is so hard to findgoodhelp these days that doesn’t carry… baggage.”
Wilhelm felt a surge of protective fury so violent he had to clench his fists behind his back to keep from snapping. Even though Madeline was not a member of the peerage, she was worth a hundred of these women.
