Tristan reached the carriage just as Cassian climbed inside. “Why are you running off and abandoning women?” He placed a hand on the carriage door, stopping Cassian from slamming it shut.
“I am suddenly not in the mood. That is all.” Cassian’s expression was carved from stone
Tristan folded his arms, eyes narrowing.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it is a certain lady you cannot escape in your mind.”
Cassian stilled but said nothing.
Instead, he yanked the door from his friend’s grip and tapped the carriage wall sharply. “Home.”
The horses lurched forward, leaving Tristan behind in the cold, arms raised in exasperation.
And Cassian leaned back, jaw clenched, refusing to admit, even to himself, how right Tristan was.
The following morning, Cassian sat in his study, the remnants of restless sleep still clinging to him though he hid it well beneath the crisp press of his attire.
Papers lay spread across his desk—financial ledgers, correspondence requiring his signature, household reports—but he found himself unable to focus on any of them for long.
It was then that his butler stepped in with a small, neatly wrapped parcel resting in his gloved hands.
“This was delivered for you, Your Grace,” Michael announced.
Cassian glanced up, expecting some unnecessary request from a member of the ton. But the parcel was modest, plainly wrapped, tied with a thin ribbon, not at all the sort of thing one of his peers would send.
He frowned and accepted it.
“From whom?” He kept his eyes on the neatly tied string.
“There is a note inside, Your Grace. I slipped it between the folds of paper just in case it slipped away and got lost.”
Cassian’s brows drew together. He pulled the twine loose and unwrapped the paper. Inside lay a velvet-lined case holding a unique set of wood-carving chisels. His breath caught, surprise flaring through him, then he reached for the folded note that had fallen to the side.
Your Grace,
Thank you again for your kindness toward my sister. She insists I include her thanks as well, and she begs me to tell you she is sorry for troubling your greenhouse. You were very gentle with her, and this is a small token of my gratitude.
Thank you once more.
Lady Isabella Hunton
Cassian froze. The handwriting was neat and elegantly slanted, exactly as he would have imagined her writing. It was just as graceful as she was.
For a long moment, he simply stared at the slanted, feminine curling of the letters, his chest tightening with a warmth he refused to acknowledge. It felt dangerously close to something he had no right feeling.
Something he had every intention of avoiding.
He snapped the velvet case shut.
“Shall I bring writing materials so that you may respond to the sender?” the butler asked politely.
“There is no need,” Cassian stiffened.
“Your Grace?” Michael lifted a brow in question.
“I said there is no need,” he repeated, harder this time.
Michael bowed and stepped back into silence as Cassian shoved the chisels into his desk drawer as though they had burned him. He closed the drawer sharply and placed the note atop another stack of papers where he would not have to look at it.
