“Very well.” Fiona offered Thomas a composed smile, the sort ladies were taught to wear when they meant the opposite of what they appeared. “Be so good as to inform His Grace that I shall take tea in the yellow parlour at four o’clock. If he does not attend, I shall conclude he intends to remain secluded indefinitely—and I shall act accordingly.”
Thomas blinked. “Act, miss?”
“Do not look so alarmed. I mean only that I shall cease waiting politely in corridors like an importunate petitioner.” She turned on her heel—her ankle now nearly mended, though a slight limp persisted—and moved down the passage with as much dignity as indignation would allow.
She was furious. She was hurt. And, most mortifying of all, she was ashamed—because she had kissed him back with everything in her, had called his mark beautiful, had offered something tender and perilously unguarded. In return, he had vanished behind oak and authority, as though she were an inconvenience he could lock away.
This changes nothing,he had said.When the roads clear, you will leave.
Perhaps he had meant it. Perhaps, for him, the kiss had been nothing more than a lapse—a momentary crack in his restraint that he was now desperate to seal. Perhaps she had read promises into those burning eyes and unsteady hands that had never been intended.
Or perhaps he was simply afraid.
Fiona paused at a window overlooking the rain-soaked grounds. The worst of the storm had passed, leaving grey skies and sodden earth, but the roads remained impassable. She was trapped here for at least another week.
Another week of pretending she did not remember the taste of him. The heat of him. The way her name had sounded on histongue—low and intent, as though it mattered more than it had any right to.
She pressed her forehead to the cold glass and allowed herself one small, quiet moment of despair.
Then she straightened, lifted her chin, and went to prepare for battle.
***
At four o’clock, Fiona sat in the yellow parlour in one of the gowns salvaged from the carriage wreck—her finest among them—a deep green muslin recovered, somewhat miraculously, from her scattered belongings and restored to order by the industrious maids of Thornwick. Molly had declared the colour most becoming, insisting it lent uncommon brilliance to her eyes. Fiona could not disagree.
Her hair had been arranged in deliberate curls, her posture held to impeccable standards, her expression composed to the point of danger.
The tea service was set. The fire burned steadily. Everything spoke of civilised routine and proper companionship.
The clock struck the quarter hour. The half. The three-quarters.
He did not come.
Fiona set her cup down with a controlled click. Very well. If Christian Hale wished to retreat behind his title and his doors, she would simply have to flush him from his den.
She found him in the library.
It was a room she had not yet truly seen—vast and dim, lined with shelves that rose to the ceiling, their volumes bound in leather and time. Brass-railed ladders waited along the walls, and deep armchairs gathered near a fireplace large enough to swallow a man’s secrets whole.
Christian stood at one of the tall windows with his back to the room. Whether he had not heard her or had chosen not to acknowledge her, she could not tell. His hands were clasped behind him, shoulders rigid beneath his dark coat, his head bowed as though he were wrestling with something that gave no quarter.
“You did not come to tea.”
He turned quickly.
For an instant, she saw it—something unguarded in his face, hot and startling, gone as swiftly as it appeared. The familiar composure returned, like a door shut on a draft.
“Miss Hart. I was not aware we had an appointment.”
“I understand you were told I have taken tea in the yellow parlour these past three days, as you were accustomed to doing before then. I did not think a formal invitation was necessary.”
“I was occupied.”
“You were avoiding me.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “I do not avoid anything.”
“No?” Fiona stepped further into the room, and the door fell softly closed behind her. “Then what do you call three days of refusals? Courtesy?”
