He shrugged. “I’d ask you to bring me ice, but I sense I’d get a brick instead.”
A reluctant smile crossed her face. “You know me too well.”
He sobered. “No. I don’t. But I’d like to.”
The words hung between them, as heavy as the scent of smoke and the silence that followed. Louisa suddenly felt exposed, as if all her defenses had been stripped away by the mere act of proximity.
She busied herself with the tea, stirring twice though the sugar had long dissolved. “You should apologize to Lucas,” she said, not quite looking at him. “He’s not as thick-skinned as you.”
He nodded, small and serious. “I will. I don’t suppose he’d believe it, but I will.”
A beat. “And to me?” she ventured, only half in jest.
Niall looked at her, really looked, and she saw the faintest flicker of something like shame. “I am sorry, Louisa. For the trouble, for the drama, for everything.”
The sincerity vibrated through the room, raw and unpolished, so unlike the Foxmere she had known. She stared into her cup, the surface trembling.
He rose from the chair slowly, carefully, then crossed the few steps to where she stood by the table. He did not touch her. He simply stood close enough that she could feel the warmth of his presence and the weight of everything unsaid.
After a long moment, he said, “It wasn’t a jest, you know.”
She met his eyes, defiant. “What wasn’t?”
“The proposal.” He smiled, the old mischief returning in a half-measure. “Well. Maybe half jest. But not the part where I said you are the first person in years to treat me as if I were not a lost cause.”
Louisa opened her mouth to reply, but the words had abandoned her. All that remained was the ache in her chest, the awareness of his nearness, and the sudden thought that she did not want to leave this room.
“You’re an idiot,” she whispered, her voice almost lost in the crackle of the coals.
He inclined his head. “On that, at least, we agree.”
She looked down, noticing that her hands had stopped trembling. She pressed the cup to her lips and sipped, grateful for the illusion of control.
In the hush, she could almost believe that the world outside this room—the gossip, the scandal, the expectations—did not exist.
For a moment, she allowed herself to enjoy the illusion.
The only sounds were the slow tick of the mantel clock and the pop of a dying ember in the hearth. Louisa sipped her tea, her eyes tracing the swirling cloud where the milk met the dark liquid. Niall’s gaze pressed against her like a physical force, a current that threatened to pull her from her good sense.
“Did you hear what I said to your brother?” he asked, breaking the silence.
She lifted her chin. “That you take full responsibility for the engagement farce? Yes. Though I imagine Lucas wouldn’t have been satisfied unless you’d thrown yourself off the roof in penance.”
Niall half-smiled, a slow, rueful expression that seemed to deepen the bruise on his jaw. “I considered it, but then I remembered I have a poor head for heights.”
Louisa remained silent, unsure of what answer he sought or if she even wanted to provide one.
“I meant it, Louisa,” he said softly. “About taking the blame. About wanting to protect you.”
She set her cup down, the china clicking against the saucer. “You’re not the sort of man who worries about reputations. Not even your own.”
His eyes met hers, blue nearly black in the low light. “I never cared for my reputation. But I care about yours.”
The words lodged in her chest. “You are a menace, Foxmere. You’ve always been a menace.”
He inclined his head, as if accepting a compliment. “But not to you, Primrose. Never to you.”
The intimacy of his words unsettled her, contradicting every story she’d ever heard about him. Louisa began to pace, her steps consuming the length of the rug, her skirts rustling against the pounding in her veins. Each circuit brought her closer to him, then further away, as if she orbited a fire she dared not touch.
