“We are not alone in this house,” he said quietly, the words rough with effort.
“No,” she agreed, though she made no move to release him.
Another distant sound—footsteps perhaps—grounded the moment further.
Slowly, reluctantly, he eased his hands from her face, though one lingered at her waist as if unwilling to concede the loss entirely. He rested his forehead briefly against hers.
“This…” He exhaled, searching for steadier ground. “This changes nothing. You are my guest. And when the roads clear, you will leave. You will return to your world. And I will remain here—as I have always remained.”
“Perhaps.” Her fingers traced the strong line of his jaw, the shadow of stubble there. “Or perhaps everything has already changed, and we are simply too afraid to admit it.”
He closed his eyes. She felt him shudder against her—with desire, with longing, with the effort of holding himself in check.
“You are a dangerous woman, Fiona Hart.”
“Only to very rigid arrangements,” she replied.
A corner of his mouth curved—brief, unwilling, real.
This time, when she stepped back, it was deliberate. She smoothed her skirts with fingers that were not entirely steady and bent to retrieve her fallen cane.
He did not move to stop her.
He stood where she had left him—shirt open, mark uncovered, breathing still uneven—watching her as though committing the sight to memory.
Something in his gaze had altered.
Not transformation. Not certainty.
Hope.
Fragile as spun glass, barely there at all.
But present, nonetheless.
She paused at the doorway, pulse still racing, lips tingling.
Whatever this was, it had unsettled them both. And as she made her slow way down the corridor, she understood one thing clearly:
The woman who had arrived at Thornwick had been cautious. The woman who now left the training hall was not.
Chapter Five
“His Grace is not receiving visitors today, miss.”
Fiona regarded the footman—Thomas, she had learned, a young man with a perpetually anxious expression and ears that protruded in a manner almost endearing—and felt her jaw set.
“I am not a visitor. I am a houseguest.”
“Yes, miss. His Grace is not receiving houseguests either.”
“Then he is receiving no one at all?”
Thomas hesitated, plainly uncomfortable. “I only know he has given orders not to be disturbed.”
Three days. Three days since the training hall—since that devastating kiss, since Christian had looked at her as though hope itself had flickered to life in his dark eyes. Three days of closed doors and deserted parlours and solitary meals sent to her chamber because His Grace was “otherwise engaged.”
He is avoiding me. The coward.
