“No.” Her voice sounded unlike her own—quieter, unsteady at the edges. “You have spoken very well indeed. I am simply… unaccustomed to hearing such things.”
He frowned faintly. “Then you have been surrounded by fools.”
“Perhaps I have.” The admission escaped her with an unexpected lightness. She found herself smiling despite the rainat the windows, despite the persistent ache in her ankle, despite the singular strangeness of her circumstances. “Perhaps I have been in the company of fools for a great many years—and it required a storm and a broken carriage to make the discovery.”
He did not answer. Yet he did not withdraw, either. He did not retreat behind hauteur or silence. He remained where he was, meeting her gaze without flinching, without apology.
Time slipped by almost unnoticed. The tea cooled; the fire settled into a gentler glow. And still they sat opposite one another—the formidable Duke of Thornwick and his unexpected guest—speaking quietly of small things and serious ones alike.
Beyond the windows, the storm continued its assault.
Within the small buttercup-hued room, something altogether gentler had begun to gather strength.
Chapter Four
“They say he bathes in the river at midnight, stark naked beneath the moon.”
Fiona choked on her morning chocolate.
Molly, who had delivered this intelligence with the solemnity of a magistrate pronouncing sentence, thumped her briskly between the shoulders. “Are you quite well, miss?”
“Perfectly,” Fiona managed, dabbing at her chin with her napkin. “I was merely unprepared for my breakfast to include commentary upon His Grace’s bathing habits.”
“It is what the kitchen maids insist. They have seen him, apparently. Walking down toward the river in nothing but a dressing gown, and then—” Molly made a vague but expressive gesture. “Well. You may imagine the rest.”
Fiona could. That was precisely the difficulty.
Three days had passed since her arrival at Thornwick Castle, and in that time she had acquired a formidable body of knowledge regarding the Duke of Thornwick. She knew he took his tea without sugar and his brandy without dilution. She knew he read philosophy in the original Greek and agricultural treatises for diversion. She knew he spoke of poetry with unexpected sensitivity and of politics with unnerving exactitude.
She had also learned—thanks to the castle’s efficient network of servants—that the birthmark extended from his throat across his chest like “spilt wine upon marble,” that he had once reduced a visiting bishop to a faint, and that no lady had ever seen him unclothed and remained wholly unaffected thereafter.
The latter claim, Fiona suspected, bore the marks of enthusiastic embroidery. Nevertheless, it had lodged itself firmly within her imagination, and it surfaced at the most inconvenient moments.
For instance: now.
She was meant to be consuming breakfast and arranging her day, not contemplating what the Duke of Thornwick might look like emerging from a river at midnight, water gliding over the breadth of his shoulders while moonlight traced every uncompromising line of him.
“The roads remain impassable,” Molly continued, blithely unaware of her mistress’s internal disarray. “Thomas—the footman—says it may be another week before the bridge is repaired. Perhaps longer.”
Another week.
Another week of afternoon tea with Christian—she had begun to think of him thus in private, though she would never dare risk the familiarity aloud. Another week of observing the movement of his hands as he spoke, of treasuring the rare near-smiles that flickered across his face, of lying wakeful at night and wondering about birthmarks and midnight rivers and exactlyhow much of him remained hidden beneath those impeccably buttoned coats.
“Miss?” Molly peered at her. “You are flushed. Do you feel unwell?”
“Quite well.” Fiona set down her cup with decision. “I believe I shall take a turn about the castle today. My ankle is much improved. A cane suffices.”
“Mr Marsh advised continued rest—”
“Mr Marsh does not lie awake counting ceiling stains.” Fiona swung her legs over the side of the bed and tested her weight. The ankle protested but did not betray her. “I require movement, Molly. And novelty.”
Molly sighed in the manner of one who recognises a foregone conclusion. “At least allow me to accompany you.”
“As far as the gallery. After that, I would prefer to explore alone.” At Molly’s expression, she added dryly, “I give you my word I shall not menace anyone with fire irons. I merely require air. And thought.”
What she required—though she did not voice it—was distance.
Distance from the Duke. From the warmth that spread through her when he looked at her as though she were worth seeing. From the disconcerting flutter when their hands accidentally brushed. From the sharper ache when he retreated into formality and she glimpsed the solitude beneath.
