Her gaze flickered toward him, cautious now. “What do you mean, Your Grace?”
“What I hear...” he continued gently. “...is not merely resolve, but penance. You speak as though a single choice, one moment of defiance, has sentenced you to a life apart. As though you must atone for refusing a marriage you did not want, or for fearing that you once threatened your cousin’s happiness.” His brow knit, concern softening his expression. “Is this your way of punishing yourself for a mistake long past?”
She inhaled sharply, lips parting, clearly prepared to answer him, perhaps even to argue. The faintest tremor passed through her composure, and for the first time that evening, she looked uncertain.
But before a single word could reach him, the music came to an abrupt close.
The final note lingered in the air, and with it, the spell between them broke. Around them, couples shifted, hands released, polite applause rippling through the room. Lucy stepped back at once, her gloved fingers slipping from his grasp.
“Please excuse me, Your Grace,” she said quickly. “I require something to drink.” She inclined her head, offering him a courteous smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
Rowan opened his mouth, intent on calling her back, on finishing the question he had only just dared to ask. But she had already turned away. He watched her go, a hollow ache settling in his chest.
For the first time, Rowan wondered who this woman was exactly. What her motivations were, and why the idea of her troubled him so much these days.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
Thunder split the sky with a violence that tore Lucy from sleep.
She jolted upright, breath sharp in her chest, heart racing as rain lashed against the windows with unrelenting force. Another crack followed, closer this time, rattling the panes and sending a shiver down her spine. She pressed a hand to her sternum, willing her pulse to slow, though her body refused obedience.
Sleep, it seemed, had abandoned her long before the storm arrived.
Lucy swung her legs over the side of the bed and rose, pacing the chamber as lightning flared, briefly illuminating the familiar shapes of furniture now cast in restless shadow. Her bare feet met the cool floor, grounding her no better than reason had done all night.
“This is absurd,” she muttered, dragging a hand through her hair. “Utterly absurd.” She stopped short, turning sharply to the mirror near the window as if her own reflection had offended her. “Lucy, you must stop thinking about this. You must stop thinking about this.”
The words sounded firm. Sensible. But entirely unconvincing.
She resumed her pacing, agitation tightening her movements. Of all things to plague her thoughts, it had to be that moment, that look, that question asked in a voice far too perceptive for comfort. Rowan’s words had lodged themselves in her mind with infuriating precision, returning again and again, no matter how often she dismissed them.
It was punishment.
The very notion was laughable. She had not asked for absolution, nor did she require it. She had chosen her path with clear eyes and resolve. Matchmaking was not penance, it was purpose. It was control. It was order, carefully restored where chaos once reigned.
Yet her thoughts betrayed her.
She found herself recalling how he stood with Judith, how easily his attention had settled upon another woman, how naturally the world seemed to arrange itself around him. The observation irritated her beyond measure. She was not that sort of woman, not prone to sleepless nights over glances and conversations thatmeant nothing. She had long ago learned to master her feelings, to direct them elsewhere, to better, safer pursuits.
Then why, she wondered bitterly, did this keep her awake?
Lucy stepped forward, closer to the mirror, and sighed. “How can you possibly do this job well if you are this attached to your client?”
Lucy turned to the window, rain streaking down the glass. Some people might have accused her of seeking redemption, of constructing good deeds to mask old guilt. She had dismissed such thinking all her life. Even now, she told herself Rowan was wrong. Entirely wrong.
The trouble lay in the fact that he had been the one to say it.
She crossed her arms tightly, frustration mounting as thunder rolled again overhead. The question he had asked lingered, unfinished, heavy with implication. It gnawed at her composure, demanding consideration she had no intention of granting.
Still, the night stretched on, relentless as the storm outside.
Lucy sighed sharply, pressing her forehead to the cool glass. Sleep would not come—not while his voice echoed in her mind and not while a single, infuriating doubt refused to be silenced.
Lucy was still standing by the window when she heard a dull sound echoed faintly through the storm, something heavier thanrain, followed by a small, unmistakable scrape. She stiffened at once, turning from the glass, her pulse quickening. The corridor beyond her door lay dark and quiet, the sort of quiet that invited unease rather than rest.
Another sound followed, softer this time, and she reached for the robe she had left draped over the chair. It slipped easily over the simple nightgown of soft white linen she wore, loose and unadorned, its sleeves falling just past her wrists and the hem brushing her ankles. She tied the robe at her waist without care; the fabric creased from restless movement rather than sleep. Her hair hung unbound down her back, dark and slightly tousled, as though she had abandoned all concern for propriety in favor of comfort and rest.
