“You’ll think me foolish,” she said, “but I used to wish I could wash the past away like that.”
“Then let’s call this a beginning,” he said quietly. “For both of us.”
He straightened, the wind catching his hair, his gaze steady on her. She had the sudden dizzy sense that the world had gone still. No birds, no stream, only the thudding of her own pulse.
He took a step closer. “Adeline…”
Her name in his voice undid her. She didn’t know who moved first, only that they were suddenly together, his hands at her waist, hers at his shoulders, the scent of rain still clinging to his coat. His mouth found hers slow, questioning, then sure.
The kiss deepened, the sun warm on their faces, the grass cool beneath their knees. The world seemed to tilt, and for once, she didn’t fight the fall.
“Winston,” she whispered, breaking the kiss but not the closeness. “If I could live this moment forever…”
He touched her cheek. “Then let’s not talk about forever. Let’s talk about now.”
She smiled against his lips. “Now, then.”
He drew her down to the grass. The blanket from the basket became their only witness. The earth smelled of crushed thyme, the air thick with the hum of bees. His hands trembled when he touched her, not from uncertainty but from reverence. She felt her heart open with every breath, every sigh that was half laughter, half disbelief.
Afterwards, they lay still, the world narrowing again to the sound of the spring. She rested her head on his shoulder, tracing idle patterns over his sleeve.
“Do you regret it?” he asked, his voice roughened.
She lifted her head, surprised. “No. You?”
“Never.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Then it’s settled.”
“For what it’s worth,” she said softly, “when I spoke to you last night after you’d fallen asleep, I told you I loved you.”
He smiled faintly. “I heard something. I thought it was a dream.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Good,” he said. “Because I think I was dreaming the same thing.”
They lay until the sun dipped westward, the light taking on a golden edge. Below, the driver called that the horses were ready. Adeline gathered the basket and brushed grass from her skirts. Winston caught her hand before she turned.
“When we reach Greystone,” he said, “everything changes. Your father, the accusations, the world outside this hill-it will all come knocking. But whatever comes of it, I’ll not lose what we’ve found here.”
She squeezed his fingers. “Then neither will I.”
They walked back to the road hand in hand. The spring murmured behind them, and the sky opened wide above, a promise that for one day, at least, the storm had truly passed.
Chapter Thirty-One
The lamps in Greystone’s forecourt were already lit when their carriage rolled in, throwing steady circles on wet stone. Louisa’s shout reached them before the footman opened the door. Cordelia must have allowed her out despite the hour. Then the hall filled with the familiar stamp of boots and the warm smell of coal and beeswax. Adeline stepped down first, and Louisa flew into her skirts. Cordelia stood behind them, thinner for the last week but straight-backed, eyes shrewd and relieved.
Winston followed, slower for the stiffness in his knee. He took in the hall as a man checks a sentry line. The banisters were polished, boots aligned, the air of a household that has held firm in a storm, and only then noticed the figure by the hearth. Oswald stood there with mud to his knees, hat in his fist, and his face drawn with fatigue and the satisfaction of a man who has finished a list.
“I beat you to it, then,” Oswald said, voice rough with riding and smoke. He bowed to Cordelia, tipped his head to Adeline, and looked squarely at Winston. “I’ve brought what you asked for.”
Winston’s answer was half welcome, half warning. “And what I didn’t ask for?”
“That too.”
Cordelia’s glance moved between them. “You’ll both want food first. No good man talks on an empty stomach, not even a Duke. Louisa, the kitchen. Tell Mrs. Hardcastle two more places and a plate for Lord Duskwood, then straight back and no running.”
