I grip the arms of my chair to steady myself, but already my breaths are growing ragged, the room beginning to tilt.This is here. This is now,I try to remind myself, but the here and now is far too unpleasant to provide much comfort.
Elliot’s low rumbling voice is all that anchors me and clears a portion of the chaos from my head. “Miss Coleman.”
I slowly turn to find him slouched to the side, leaning away from Imogen, his eyes as sharp as daggers. She meets his gaze, and her grin melts from her lips.
His next words come out slow, cold. “Am I to understand your comment was made at my steward’s expense?”
She blinks a few times, her cheeks flushing pink. Then her gaze turns to scorn, her lips pressed into a tight line as she stabs her fork at her plate.
Silence falls over the table like a shroud, the tension more chilling than ice.
Oh no. This isn’t good. But as much as I want to remedy it, I can’t fully shake what Imogen has conjured within me. The eyes from my past continue to glare at me from inside my head, lips hurling insults as sharp as broken glass.
Rising from my seat with all the grace I can manage, I address the table with a weak smile. “I apologize, but I must take my leave of you early. I am not feeling well.”
Gavin rises from his seat. “May I—”
“No,” I bark, then soften my tone. “I will disrupt this dinner no more. Please proceed without me.”
As I rush to the other side of the room, Elliot’s eyes follow me, brow furrowed. “Gem—Miss Bellefleur,” he whispers, then shifts in his chair as if he’s about to stand.
I pause in time to catch Imogen shooting her mother a knowing look.
“Mr. Rochester,” I whisper back. “I’m fine.”
He opens his mouth, but I give him a subtle shake of my head.
“Don’t. Please.” With that, I flee, feeling a thousand eyes burning into my back long after I close my bedroom door.
23
Ilay in bed readingThe Governess and the Earl, but despite having done so for at least an hour, I don’t think I’ve made it past a single chapter. Every paragraph or so, my mind returns to the dining hall, to Imogen’s cruel smile and Elliot’s cold response to her teasing. And every time I read about the brooding earl in my book, I can’t help replacing his imagined description with the countenance of a certain fae king.
It’s been two hours since I fled the dining room. Now that I’ve regained my composure, all I can think about is whether I’ve doomed Elliot’s dinner by leaving him alone with his guests like that. Then again, I think it took such a poor turn because of me. Or Elliot’s defense of me. While I appreciate the king standing up for me, he shouldn’t have. He should have done everything in his power to please Imogen. Now I can only hope he managed the rest of the meal without getting trapped in any uncomfortable truths.
I try reading for another hour with very little progress and then push back my blankets with a groan. Rubbing my hands up and down my chilly arms, I go to my window and lean my shoulder into the frame. Below, the gardens are quiet with no movement but the swirl of falling snow, the dainty snowflakes blanketing the night in silence. All at once, my mind goes still and my pulse evens out. The peace of the mountains traps me in its spell. Yearning creeps into my soul, a desire to breathe that forest air.
I glance at the clock on my dressing table, its hands telling me it’s almost midnight. Surely, our guests have departed by now. I return my attention to the window and that yearning returns, calling to me.
Without a second thought, I pull on my hose and boots, then drape my warm cloak over my nightgown. A hat comes last, then I rush out the door before I can stop myself.
The halls of the manor are quiet, empty, as I creep across the floors. Downstairs, there’s no sign of guests, none of our hired servants, no residents. I release a sigh of relief and continue toward the back of the manor to the doors that lead out to the gardens. Once outside, the cool night air greets me. Never before has this sensation felt so welcome. It was always warmth and sunshine I’ve craved before, but the peace of a snowy night brings such a similar feeling that for once, I don’t mind the cold.
I walk down the garden path, emptying my mind as I focus on nothing but the pitter patter of falling flakes, the crunch of my boots in the snow. After a time, a new sound falls upon my ears, footsteps that are not my own.
I whirl around, finding Elliot on the path behind me. His breath comes out in puffs of white while snow falls over his hair. No longer combed and styled like it was at dinner, it falls around his face in disarray—yet, somehow, still makes him look somewhat handsome in a rugged, roguish way. His hands are tucked into the pockets of a long wool overcoat in a deep green. Beneath it, I see the hint of trousers and an untucked linen shirt but no waistcoat, no cravat. I wonder if he too got out of bed to come here.
Without a word, he slowly crosses the distance between us, and I realize he’s still wearing his prosthetic. Stopping a few paces away, he offers me a tight-lipped smile. His expression flickers with something I can’t quite place. Is it worry? Fatigue?
Finally, he speaks. “I’m sorry.”
His words shatter my peace, reminding me of that awful dinner. I release a sigh. “It wasn’t your fault. It…it’s just how Imogen is.”
“Not about that,” he says, his voice a low rumble. He shifts his stance as trepidation clouds his face. “About…before. About the money and my vault.”
Guilt sinks my stomach, making it churn. My words come out with a tremor. “Please don’t apologize for that.”
He averts his gaze from me, opening and closing his mouth a few times before he speaks again. “I shouldn’t have been hurtful about it. I meant what I said, that I must protect myself in case—”
