“Brook! This is not a game!” she called, rounding another corner, her chest rising with exertion and indignation. The boy’s laughter seemed to echo from every doorway, every hallway, as if the house itself had joined in the prank, mocking her.
She twisted sharply, expecting to intercept him at the servant’s corridor near the back stairs, when her momentum betrayed her, and she tripped. She let out a startled gasp, stumbling forward, but just when she braced for impact on the hard marble floors, something caught her—or someone, as she felt strong hands close around her tightly—and she felt like she hit her body against a wall with arms.
Rowan pressed her gently but firmly against him, the heat of his body radiating through the fabric of his coat, his heartbeat thudding faintly against her chest. Lucy froze, taking in the press of his torso, the grounding grip of his arms, and the scent of him in the close air. Her hair brushed across his jaw as she attempted to tilt her head, trying to meet his gaze to steady herself in a storm of surprise.
For a heartbeat, he simply held her, as though the world had contracted to just this single, impossible moment. Then, in a low, careful whisper, he asked. “Are you steady enough to stand on your own?”
Lucy blinked rapidly, swallowing the heat rising in her chest. She nodded, faintly, and he loosened his grip just enough, still guiding her upright. Slowly, he let her go, the moment lingering between them like a held breath, the chase forgotten, replaced by something fragile, intimate.
He stepped back just enough to give her space, and Lucy’s gaze involuntarily dropped. His dark waistcoat, usually immaculate, bore a faint smear of deep red, an almost comical testament to the chaos she had left in her wake. The crisp white of his shirt peeking from beneath the coat was stained too, causing her to feel a pang of guilt for ruining his clothes.
He looked down at himself for a moment, then lifted his gaze to hers with a wry lift of one brow. “Lucy...” he said quietly. “... would you care to explain why you are sprinting about the halls in such frantic disarray?”
Lucy swallowed, cheeks flushing. “I did not mean to cause such a disturbance, Your Grace,” she stammered. “It was Brook and his penchant for pranks. He did this to me.”
Rowan’s eyes flicked toward the corridor behind her, then back to her face. “I see,” he murmured. “I should have warned you about his pranks.”
“Yes,” she said, exasperated, “you probably should have. But I do apologize for running in the halls. I may have gotten a little… involved in retrieving him. I had no idea he would be so nimble nor that the complicated halls would become such an obstacle course.”
He let out a soft laugh, one that caught in his throat as he tried to maintain composure, and Lucy felt an odd warmth at the sound.
“I apologize for my son’s actions. It seems I have underestimated his creativity.”
“I would admit this must have taken some effort to pull off,” Lucy answered and sighed.
“Yet,” he continued, stepping closer. “I find you still standing here, soaked, sticky, and utterly exposed to the elements when you should have gone straight to your rooms to change, Lucy. You’re drenched.” His glance flicked down at the fabric clinging to her skirts.
Lucy squared her shoulders. “And miss the chance to repay the culprit?” she shot back. “My priority was catching Brook before he escaped.”
He raised a brow and scoffed. “Brook isn’t going anywhere, Lucy. He’d still be here when you clean yourself off. But I will ensure that Brook is punished for this prank that he pulled on you. I will remind him to act proper in the future and not upset our guest.”
“I see no need for that, Your Grace. That was not the reason I was chasing him in the first place,” Lucy said firmly, brushing the damp strands of hair from her forehead and giving a sharp glance at him. “If Brook must be taught a lesson, I can repay him myself quite adequately with my own beet juice. I just have to be much more clever about it than he was.”
Rowan’s eyebrows furrowed. “You’re going to... prank him?”
“Indeed,” she confirmed.
Rowan’s dark eyes widened, a flicker of incredulity crossing his face. “Lucy, you are a lady. Surely you do not intend to douse a child in juice!”
Lucy straightened, meeting his gaze. “He is not merely a child to punish, Your Grace. He is a boy with a mischievous mind, and children’s minds are far simpler than one assumes. Brook wants only to play, and he will be sorely disappointed if I do not meet him on equal footing.”
Rowan blinked, lips twitching. “Did you say equal footing? You would contend with my son in beet juice warfare?”
“I would,” she replied, trying to peek past Rowan to see if she could catch a glimpse of Brook, but he seemed to be long gone. “I am certain it is what he expects. If I refuse, he will remember nothing but triumph, and the lesson of consequence will be lost. I must retaliate.”
He shook his head slowly, incredulous. “Don’t do that. It would be ridiculous to stoop to his level. I will talk to him. You can be rest assured he won’t do it again.”
“Do you not already see that I am currently at his level, Your Grace?” she shot back, flicking at the sticky residue on her sleeves. “I am covered in juice! You will do no such thing. As I have said, I will handle it, and I assure you, Brook will remember it long after he has forgotten the many other ways he has annoyed me.”
Rowan shook his head calmly and scoffed as he took a step forward. “Lucy, I reckon you have far more pressing matters on your plate than playing with a little boy.”
“The boy wishes to play. Shall we deny him that? No. We cannot. This matter is between Brook and I, Your Grace. I would appreciate it if you stayed out of it...” she paused, noting how overly eager she sounded at the idea of playing with a ten-year-old boy. “Thank you kindly,” she added.
Lucy was about to excuse herself and continue her search for Brook when she noticed his gaze falter. It caused her to pause and meet his eyes, but his eyes had travelled far lower. Usually, Rowan had made a habit of staring at her lips whenever she spoke to him but this time, his gaze had not fallen there. It was even lower....
It was then that she became aware of herself in an entirely new and mortifying way. The dampness of her gown had rendered it far too revealing, the fabric darkened and drawn close by the remnants of beet juice and the lingering chill in the air. What should have fallen loosely now clung, molding itself where it should not. The silk adhered too closely at her waist, and worse still, lay unguarded across her bodice, outlining curves that had never before been so plainly declared.
Her breath caught. Heat rushed to her cheeks as she realized how exposed she was in that moment.
