A Duke does not pursue a governess. Not if he has a shred of decency.
“Forget it,” she whispered fiercely to the silent room. “Forget him.”
But her body refused to believe the words.
Needing movement, she rose and dressed in her robe, seeking solace in the quiet halls of Greystone. Her bare feet carried her to the library, where books stood in solemn rows, their spines like sentries in the moonlight. If sleep was lost, then a book might stand watch with her.
She was reaching for a volume when she saw him. Winston. He stood near the far shelves, his posture unsteady, his movements slowed by drink. A glass dangled from one hand, a bottle on the table beside him. He had selected a thick volume from a shelf, then opened it to reveal a wooden cavity within. It was not a real book but a box cleverly disguised. He reached in and withdrew a necklace on the end of which was a cameo framed in gold. He held it as though it were fragile as glass, his thumb brushing its surface.
Adeline shrank back into the shadows and her breath caught. His face was unguarded, stripped of its usual control. Pain carved deep lines across it, remorse hollowing his eyes. He whispered something she could not hear, but she could discern how his voice was thick with grief. Then he drank again, gaze fixed on the image within the cameo as if the world beyond it did not exist. Adeline felt her heart twist.
What is pictured in the cameo? Who? It must be a woman to elicit such a response?
He seemed so lost, so tormented, it drew her nearer without her willing it. She felt the awful stirrings of jealousy. She had no right to it, she knew that. She saw Winston as an opponent. As a disagreeable man with whom she could never contemplate anykind of relationship. But the notion of him heartsick for another woman wrenched at Adeline’s tender feelings.
She moved closer still, fascinated by the transformation in his face. The hardness was gone. The barbarian chieftain was gone. Pain marked him, painted him. It softened his features, made him attractive in an entirely different way.
He needs me.
The thought shocked her. It appeared in her mind, and she half reached towards him from her hiding place. It shocked her and made her clumsy. As she shifted her weight, a book tumbled from the shelf with a dull thud. Winston’s head snapped up. His eyes found her instantly.
“Spying, are you?” His voice was sharp, defensive, his sorrow buried beneath anger in a heartbeat.
Adeline straightened her spine. “I was looking for a book,” she replied coolly, “not for you.”
“Then take one,” he said, gesturing broadly at the shelves. His mouth curved into something that was almost a sneer. “Go on. Choose. Enlighten me with your taste.”
He levered himself up against the shelf, which rocked alarmingly. Then he stood, swaying for a moment. He stared at her, and she stared back. This was a challenge; she felt it askeenly as if he had struck her with a glove. He expected her to falter, to be found wanting.
Then he will claim I am not qualified to be governess to Louisa. What does it matter to me if he thinks that? I will still be Cordelia’s Lady-In-Waiting.
There was an answer that she did not want to admit. It was that as governess she would be able to remain at Greystone even after Briarwood’s restoration.
That is certainly not what I want!
She colored at the thought of wanting to be close to Winston. At the notion of sleeping perhaps next to his rooms. Perhaps just one floor above or below. Almost close enough to touch…
Stop it. Focus.
She walked along in front of the shelf, letting her fingers brush the spines, reading the titles and the names of the authors. Winston followed, sloshing wine from the bottle and occasionally bumping against either the shelf or the wall. Adeline thought she was in a section relating to theology. Turning a corner, it became history. Another shelf held poetry, and she suppressed a smile. It did not take long to find a familiar friend. A slender book of verse that she had not expected to find in any other library. The title was spelled in silver letters:Endymion.
She lifted it, turned, and opened to a page she knew by heart. Then, meeting his gaze, she began to read aloud. Her voice wove through the silence, shaping words she had read in secret many times before. Words of longing, of grief, of beauty stitched with pain. Winston’s expression shifted as she spoke, mockery draining from his eyes. By the time she finished, he was utterly still, his glass forgotten in his hand.
He sat heavily in the nearest chair, as though the weight of the poem had pressed him down.
“Read more,” he ordered in a quiet but unyielding tone.
So, she did. Her voice carried poem after poem, the verses filling the vast room with music gentler than any pianoforte. Winston listened, silent, drinking not from his glass now but from her words. At last, his eyes closed, his breathing deepened, and the glass slipped from his loose grip. He had passed into sleep with the cameo resting against his chest, the shadow of anguish softening at last.
Adeline rose quietly, setting aside the book. She fetched a blanket from the settle and laid it over him with careful hands. The fire in the grate had burned low; she tended it, coaxing a little more warmth into the room. Then she placed the book in his slackened hand. For a long moment, she stood over him, studying his face.
In repose, his beauty was extraordinary. She revised her opinion. He was not some eastern warrior prince but a living sculpture of Renaissance genius. David come to life. As he slept,she saw an honesty in his face that was usually hidden. The mask of the angry, anti-social Duke dissolved. A man was revealed, complex and with a bright scar of trauma in his past. Barely healed. Or not at all.
Intoxicated by his beauty she drew closer. Slowly, she lowered her head to his and kissed him. Once. Tenderly and on the lips. His eyes opened.
“You will not remember this anyway,” Adeline said softly.
“You will not remember,” she reiterated in a breathy, papery thin voice. “And that is for the best.”
