He made a mental note to ask her what she’d put in it, the very next time he saw her.
Which he hoped would be soon. Imminent. Preferably now.
Sebastian didn’t have a hat fitfor the snow, but Thomas’s staff had seen to his boots and coat. The beeswax on the leather gave off a faint scent of honey. He didn’t feel good, but at least he’d smell good. Small mercies.
He stepped into the foyer and pulled on his gloves—then stopped short.
A delicate hand, gloved in dove gray, reached for the brass door handle. Soft, slender fingers curled with quiet purpose, so at odds with the sturdy metal.
Then she turned.
Miss Madeleine.
“What a lovely day,” she said brightly, as if snowflakes weren’t actively trying to murder his lungs. “Perfect for gathering pine tips. Honeyed tea is best when brewed fresh.”
He stared. Was she truly venturing out into the ice for tea? For him?
She stepped into the snow, her boots leaving neat little impressions behind. Her hunter green pelisse swayed with each step, trimmed with rabbit fur at the collar. Wind tugged a curl loose from her bonnet, and she didn’t fix it. That wild, unbothered curl undid him completely.
“Come on, Lord Cambridge,” she called back, glancing over her shoulder with a smile that didn’t just warm him. It dared him to follow. “Isn’t the fresh snow wonderful?”
Sebastian exhaled. His breath steamed in the air like a dragon’s sigh.
Wonderful? No. Misery, yes. But then again, if she was the reward…
He tightened his scarf and followed.
Never too sick to follow such a pretty lady.
She blinked into the sunlight like a girl from a painting—half innocence, half temptation—and he wanted, quite suddenly, to be the man who made her smile that way every morning.
She held a silver traveling flask cupped between her palms, thekind hunters used to carry hot cider. Steam trailed from the spout. The scent of cloves and cinnamon curled through the air like an invitation.
“I didn’t bring any for you,” she said, clearly unrepentant.
“Cruel,” he murmured. “But fair.” He stepped beside her and leaned down slightly. “Will you share this one?”
She looked down at the flask, her cheeks turning pinker than the sunrise. Then—still watching him—she unscrewed the cap and held it out, the steam rising like a secret between them.
Interesting.
“The cold doesn’t bother you, Miss Madeleine?”
She inhaled deeply and his eyes fell to the buttons of her pelisse, stretching the delicate but lush bosom he now knew was tucked away in there. He’d fallen asleep to the memory of her cleavage in her dress at dinner last night and the things he’d like… where was his handkerchief?
Sebastian blew his nose and pulled the door shut behind them with one hand.
“You like the cold, don’t you? Well, I didn’t expect Tom to pair us up at dinner, I thought it was a fortuitous arrangement only.” Fortunate actually, but he didn’t dare voice his hope.
“Thomas—Tom? You mean, the Earl of Linsey?”
“Yes, Tom and I have known each other for a long time.”
She crinkled her nose adorably, seemingly considering her response. “Well, I do prefer winter over summer.”
“I daresay you’re the only one.”
“Nonsense,” she murmured, then paused. “Do you know much about the Duke of Paisley?”
