“Goodnight, Your Grace.”
“Goodnight,” he replied, and there was something altered in his voice, a profoundness that had not been there before.
She reached for the handle, but his hand closed over hers.
It felt unintentional, as though his body had moved before his mind could stop it. His fingers curved lightly around her gloved hand, warm through the thin leather, the contact brief enough to be deniable and devastating enough to undo her all the same.
Madeline went utterly still.
Behind her, Wilhelm drew in a deep breath, the sound cutting through the quiet with unmistakable clarity. She turned at once, too quickly, and found him closer than she had expected, close enough that the space between them felt charged and narrow, as though the room itself had contracted around them.
For one suspended heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Up close, there was nowhere for his control to hide. She saw it plainly in his eyes now: the hunger, dark and unguarded, but also the restraint wrapped tightly around it, the fierce discipline of holding himself still by sheer force of will. His jaw was set, his mouth parted just slightly, as though he had stopped himself mid-breath.
His thumb brushed over her knuckles, barely there, a thought rather than a touch, and the sensation rippled through her with humiliating speed, heat skittering up her arm and settling low and insistent in her belly.
She leaned toward him before she could stop herself.
It was instinct, pure and reckless. Her body remembered what her mind was trying so desperately to forget. Her breath caught, and her gaze dropped to his mouth, memory surging unbidden—the pressure, the heat, the way restraint had shattered in the garden beneath his hands.
Almost.The word seemed to hang between them, heavy with everything they were refusing to say.
Madeline stepped back. The movement was sudden enough to break the moment cleanly. The fragile tension snapped like a thread pulled too far. His hand fell away at once, fingers curling back toward his palm as though he had been burned.
“Goodnight, Your Grace,” she said again, her voice calmer now, edged with resolve she did not entirely feel.
This time, when she left, she did not hesitate. She did not look back. And she did not allow herself to wonder how close she had come to losing everything she was trying so desperately to protect.
The days that followed unfolded with a deceptive gentleness.
Henry visited one afternoon, bringing with him his usual easy charm and a basket of sugared almonds for Tessa, which she accepted with unguarded delight. They sat together in the solar, the three of them, sunlight pooling warmly across the rugs as Tessa spread her books out and demanded Henry’s opinion on her drawings.
“These are excellent,” Henry declared solemnly, peering down at a lopsided horse. “I see great promise here.”
“That’s not a horse,” Tessa corrected him. “It’s Papa.”
Henry laughed, throwing a look toward Wilhelm that was teasing and fond in equal measure. “Ah. Yes. I see the resemblance.”
Wilhelm snorted despite himself, the sound rare and unguarded, and Madeline felt the familiar flutter in her stomach at the sight, the pleasure of witnessing something private.
For a time, it felt almost easy. They took tea together in the afternoons, the rhythm of it settling into something comfortable and domestic. Madeline found herself laughing despite her resolve, responding to Henry’s observations with wit she had notmeant to deploy, watching Wilhelm soften in the presence of his daughter in ways that made her chest ache with longing.
At night, she lay awake, staring at the ceiling of her small room, replaying the almost-kiss in his study until the memory burned itself into her bones.
She told herself it would pass. It did not.
When Wilhelm announced that the Duke of Alderbourne would be visiting with his family, Madeline greeted the news with careful neutrality.
Laurence arrived two days later with his wife Edith and their children, the house filling at once with the particular chaos of young voices and shared history. Tessa was beside herself with excitement, and Madeline watched with a complicated mix of relief and envy as Edith swept the girl into an affectionate embrace without hesitation, her warmth unforced and easy.
“You must be Tessa,” Edith said brightly. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Tessa beamed.
The children disappeared into the garden within minutes, their laughter echoing faintly through the open windows as they played. Madeline found herself seated beside Edith in the drawing room, cups of tea cooling forgotten between them.
“You have a gift with her,” Edith said after a while, nodding toward the garden. “It’s obvious.”
