Louisa felt her skin tighten. “And did you confess to being a prowler and a nuisance?”
“I told her,” he said, stepping closer until they were almost toe-to-toe in the narrow corridor, “that I was simply enchanted by the beauty of the moonlight. It seemed kinder than the truth.”
She wanted to slap him. She wanted to laugh. Instead, she settled for a glare.
“Is there a point to this?” she demanded. “Or do you enjoy wasting my time?”
His eyes glinted with mischief. “A proposal, actually.”
She recoiled. “You cannot be serious.”
“Not that kind of proposal.” He leaned against the wainscoting, arms folded, looking relaxed. “A truce, of sorts. We court each other—publicly, of course. In the eyes of the world, we are besotted. Meanwhile, in private, we despise each other as usual. Think of it. All your midnight wanderings become romantic trysts, not social suicide.”
She blinked, incredulous. “You want to fake a courtship?”
He shrugged, as if this were a reasonable suggestion. “It would amuse me. And it would protect your reputation.”
She processed this and then did something she hadn’t done in months. She laughed. Not the polite titter expected of ladies, but a loud, genuine laugh that startled even her.
“You are mad,” she gasped, still laughing. “Utterly mad. I would sooner court a hedgehog.”
He inclined his head in mock defeat. “Then I hope the hedgehog is free for the next assembly.”
Still smiling, she swept past him. “You’ll have to book him early. Hedgehogs are in high demand.”
He caught her hand—not tightly, not possessively, but just enough to stop her for a heartbeat. “Think about it, Primrose. There are worse things than being seen with me.”
She looked at their hands. Hers narrow and pale, his tanned and broad. For a moment, she almost believed the logic. Almost.
She extracted her hand. “I’ll take my chances,” she said, and fled down the corridor before he could see the smile she couldn’t quite suppress.
Foxmere watched her go, the corridor echoing with her laughter. For the first time since he had known her, his smile was not triumphant but thoughtful—almost uncertain.
Louisa evaded Foxmere for the rest of the day, when night descended she found herself once more unable to sleep. Not from panic, but from a curiosity she refused name. Foxmere’s truce, offered with that infuriating blend of logic and mischief, replayed in her mind until it felt less like a jest and more like a dare. At two, she surrendered, slipped a shawl over hernightdress, and padded barefoot down the stairs, determined to outwalk her thoughts.
The Pembroke gardens transformed at night, tranquil yet alive with secrets. Bats flitted overhead. Something small rustled in the knot garden. Dew beaded the flagstones and dampened her soles, but she welcomed the sensation. It grounded her, a reminder of her existence.
She wandered between the herbaceous borders and moonlit rose beds. The house was quieter than she’d expected, asleep except for the occasional creak or distant snore. Louisa almost convinced herself she was alone when a pair of voices rose from the direction of the arched arbor—low but urgent enough to fracture the night’s stillness.
She paused, pressed against a tangle of clematis, and listened. The first voice was unmistakably Foxmere: smooth yet tinged with a weariness she had not heard before.
“I am not a disappointment, if that’s your aim,” he said. “I have no use for the trappings of responsibility. Not when they come tailored to choke.”
The reply was older, rougher, carrying the authority of a man long past caring for social niceties. “You’re the only one left, Niall. You can’t just drift forever. Your father?—”
“My father,” Foxmere, Niall, she realized, “had the luxury of believing in duty. I learned early it was a pretty word for a gilded cage.”
A silence hummed between them.
“He’d be disappointed to see you still running from it,” the older man said, his voice gentle now. “Always the jester, never the king.”
A laugh escaped Foxmere, but it was ragged, pulled from deep inside. “Perhaps I prefer a different sort of kingdom.”
Louisa’s breath caught. She found herself rooted, hand over her mouth, heart racing. She had never considered Foxmere’srebellion to be anything but sport. She had not realized there might be history, pain, and loss behind his relentless pursuit of chaos.
The men shifted. Louisa ducked further into the clematis, holding still as Foxmere emerged from the arbor, head bowed. His companion laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezed once, then disappeared down the gravel path toward the mews.
For a moment, Foxmere lingered alone under the arbor. In the moonlight, his face looked not devilish but terribly young—eyes rimmed with exhaustion, mouth set in a line of hopeless resignation. He kicked at a stone, muttered something Louisa could not hear, then turned toward the house, his stride slow and careful.
