His return had been something she had missed.
“I have got you,” he said quietly. “I am here, and you are not alone. Think of the sun, desperately reaching for its moon.”
Elinor let out a shaky laugh. “That is a story for scared children.”
“And it cannot be one for scared adults, too?”
For a moment, she swore she felt his hands on her back, a brief, grounding touch, before it was gone. “Then, think of your father comforting you through your fear, if you wish. Meanwhile, how about we go to the main office? It will have thicker walls than this room and no windows. It will feel more protected, I imagine.”
“All right,” Elinor agreed gently, finally turning away from the window, and then she followed him down to the main office.
Chapter Twelve
“Two servings of soup, Your Grace.”
Elinor startled, looking behind at her as Mrs. Neal entered the office, bearing two steaming bowls of soup on a tray. Several pieces of bread were plated alongside a butter dish, and Elinor took a quick moment to marvel at the difference in the catering.
Once, butter had been a luxury for Fielding House, and now it was being served in a generous slab on a proper dish.
Mrs. Neal glanced at her, giving a concerned lift of her brows. Elinor smiled at her, hoping she was more convincing than she felt. Upon her smile, the older woman made her exit, leaving Elinor and Lucien alone in the office.
“White soup,” Lucien noted, sniffing one of the bowls. He placed the other on one side of the desk, taking his own, along with two slices of bread. As he began to butter them, Elinor tentativelysat down. “Creamy and warm, just what we need on a night like this.”
When Elinor didn’t reach for her spoon to eat alongside him, Lucien paused.
“Are you not eating?” he asked.
“I am too nervous.” Even though her stomach made a noise of protest, it was also knotted with panic. “I do not think I can eat, so if you wish to have my serving?—”
Lucien shook his head, and she fell silent. “It is yours. But here, let me do this.”
Placing his spoon down, he walked over to the decrepit fireplace in the office and crouched before it. A small box of matches lay next to the logs within, and he struck one. Elinor watched as the small flame lit up part of his face, casting dramatic shadows over the contours of his jawline. His neat beard seemed to almost glow in the firelight.
He dropped the match into the stack of logs, and immediately, the room warmed up. Elinor was entranced by the flames for a minute before she turned back to the hearty-smelling soup.
“Better?” he asked her.
“I suppose,” she answered, her mind too distracted to be more polite. Then, she composed herself, and added, “thank you.”
“You do not have to thank me for anything.”
You have shown me kindness and generosity when few others ever have,she thought, but didn’t say.
Her thoughts kept straying back to being caught. Her stepmother rarely did checks of the chambers at night, too focused on her own retirement to sleep, but what if tonight was a night she decided to?
“Please,” Lucien murmured, “eat something. The soup is delicious.”
Elinor mustered a weak smile, but her annoyance was growing even as she tried to keep it at bay.
“The storm will pass,” he assured her, “and I will see you home, if you like.”
“No,” she replied hastily. “No, that will only rouse more questions.”
“Only if we are noticed.”
“And you think we will not be? Carriages are loud enough on their own. If you are there …” She shook her head. “No, I cannot risk it.”
“Elinor, what is the worst that can happen? Like I said, we can think of a story to tell.”
