As Lady Amelia seated herself, Cordelia took Louisa by the hand and departed, promising iced cakes. Winston gave half an ear to Lady Amelia’s chatter, but his gaze strayed repeatedly to the dance floor, where Adeline now accepted yet another offer. A third.
This is a farce. I waste my time in conversation with a woman I feel nothing for, while Adeline dances with men she cares nothing for.
He told himself that she did not. Her straying eyes told him that she did not. He leaned closer to Lady Amelia, letting his smile linger a little too warmly, speaking more smoothly than he felt, all the while aware of Adeline’s flushed cheeks as she turned gracefully in her partners’ arms. It was a comedy of pride.
I am merely doing my duty. This is no game, merely an unmarried Duke taking seriously the continuation of his name.
The lie was paper-thin, transparent even to himself. His thoughts were not with Lady Amelia. They were with Adeline. He saw only the curve of her neck, heard only the sound of her laughter, and dwelt on the fire in her eyes when she defied him.
Greystone had never felt so suffocating. Adeline could not banish the image of Winston seated with that young woman, her dark curls tumbling as she leaned toward him. The sight had unsettled her far more than she wished to admit. She had accepted offers to dance out of spite, she knew it. All because she had wanted Winston to ask her, and when she realized how badly she wanted it, she had sought to drown the ache in motion and laughter.
But the ache remained. Winston had barely acknowledged her once the dancing began, save for those moments when his gaze seared across the space, hot enough that she could feel it. He gave her no words, only that charged look, the same look he had worn in the maze before their lips met.
It is sheer nonsense. My heart beats faster when he is near. It is nothing but a troubling medical complaint. I should seek the services of a doctor.
When they returned to Greystone, Winston did not accompany them. Cordelia retired early, as did Louisa, overstimulated by the day and asleep on her feet. But Adeline lay restlessly in her bed. To her, sleep was a stranger. At last, she rose, wrapped herself in her shawl, and slipped quietly to the kitchens.
A warm milk will be just the thing. Just like Mother used to make for me when I woke from a bad dream.
The recollection brought a stab of pain. A door in her mind began to open on a scene that she had sworn to keep locked away. She closed her eyes fighting to keep it at bay, not wanting to see that awful vista again. When she could, she walked on. The house was silent except for its own language of stretching timber and cracking stone. No human besides Adeline walked the corridors.
The great kitchen was dim, fire banked low, shadows pooling in the corners. When she entered, she stopped short. Winston was already there. He stood by the hearth, his broad frame lit by the faint glow of embers, a steel milk container in one hand. He looked up as she entered, and for a long moment neither spoke.
Finally, he said quietly, “Sleep feels far away. This was my mother’s remedy.”
He indicated the milk which he had poured into a pot, to be hung over the fire to warm.
Adeline clutched her shawl tighter. “It was my mother’s as well.”
The heavy kitchen table stretched between them, a shield neither seemed willing to lower. The silence grew taut, humming with unspoken things. Winston broke it with a question that cut sharp. “Tell me about your mother. Lady Clifford-Edge?”
Adeline was taken aback by the question. Winston wore a long dressing robe, thick over bare feet and a furred, broad chest. Adeline felt faint at the thought that he might be naked underneath.
“Yes. She was…noble and…kind,” Adeline said, falteringly.
It was difficult to speak words relating to her mother. The trauma was too raw still. Her voice shook and she fought to keep tears from her eyes.
“And how did you come to be in my mother’s employ?” he asked.
“This is an odd time for an interview,” Adeline said, trying to recover her equilibrium.
“Talk of your mother seemed to distress you,” Winston said, “so I sought to change the subject.”
His astuteness touched her. There was simple honesty in his voice. He was trying to protect her feelings. She drew a steadying breath, delivering the story she had prepared.
“I lost my parents. Then…I was jilted at the altar. Lady Greystone was kind enough to take me into her household.”
Winston’s eyes darkened. “Jilted? I can scarce believe any man would behave so toward you.”
Heat flooded her cheeks at the words, her heart stumbling. To cover her fluster, she said quickly, “Shall I make you a cup as well?”
Without waiting for permission, she busied herself at the fire, pouring milk into a pot, grateful for the excuse to turn her back. It seemed to take forever to heat. Adeline stood awkwardly by the table, Winston closer now but still separated from her by the ancient, well-polished wood. Her breath came in quick gasps, and her cheeks were hot.
When the milk began to bubble, she hastened to remove it from the fire and pour the liquid into mugs. Too much haste was applied, and the hot milk splashed across her wrist. She cried out in pain. Winston was at her side instantly, seizing her hand, his touch firm but careful. He lifted the pot from her grasp, dispensing with the linen she used and showing no sign on his face of pain from the heated metal as he placed it on the table.
“Cold water,” he said, his voice rough, and guided her swiftly to the pump outside the back door. He worked the handle himself, directing the stream over her reddened skin. The cold water stung, but his nearness burned hotter. She could feel the strength in his grip, the heat of his body standing so close. When he looked up, their faces were inches apart. The air thickened, charged, the night silent save for the rush of water and the thunder of her heart.
“Adeline,” he breathed, her name a groan of surrender.
