They were everywhere. Pale and silver in some places, still faintly pink in others – scattered across his ribs, his shoulder, curving around the side of his torso in a pattern that could only have been made by something desperate and violent.
The cost of surviving battle, she realized quietly. This was what war looked like when it was over. When the fighting had stopped and the man remained, carrying every moment of it in his skin like a map of everywhere he had almost not survived.
Something moved through her chest, thick and disconcerting. It was not pity, not exactly. Pity felt too thin for it. It was heavier than that. Sadder.
He had endured all of that.He had come home from it, inherited a title he had never wanted, buried a wife and watched his small dear son go silent, and he had done all of it alone, with scars that nobody had apparently thought to ask him about.
“Duchess.”
She jumped, startled by the sharpness of his tone. His expression as he watched her was somewhat undiscernible, the rest of it guarded carefully as she tried to compose herself.
“I –” Jane straightened and cleared her throat, lifting her chin on pure instinct. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I did not expect you to be here. I came to inspect the room.”
“To inspect it,” he echoed, his tone a tad amused but otherwise dull at the edges.
“The redecoration,” she said, with considerably more confidence than she felt. “I did not wish to neglect your personal quarters. Mrs Greene mentioned that the furniture in here has not been replaced in some time, and I only wanted to assess what might be needed.”
“And you thought to do this,” he said slowly, “While you believed I was away from the estate.”
It was not precisely a question. Jane felt the tips of her ears burn beneath the weight of his stare.
“I thought – that is, I had assumed you would not –” She stopped, and pressed her lips together for a few seconds before trying again. “I may have assumed you would not be in.”
“You entered my room,” Thomas said, “Because you assumed I would not be here to know about it.”
“I entered your room,” Jane corrected firmly, “Because I wished to ensure that your chambers were not excluded from the work being done throughout the rest of the house. Every other room has received attention. It seemed unfair to leave yours as it was simply because –”
“Because I did not invite the intrusion?”
She wanted to stamp her foot petulantly in frustration. She did not, because that would be a ridiculous overreaction when it was apparent that he was gaining some satisfaction from their interaction. The glint in his eyes told her as much and she silently mourned the loss of her inner peace from a mere conversation with her husband.
“I apologize,” she stated instead, each word clipped and sharp. “It was not my intention to overstep. I shall take my leave now.”
She moved to do exactly that – to slip past him with her chin up and her notebook clutched to her chest and whatever remained of her composure intact – when she noticed the direction of his gaze had changed in the last few seconds.
He was not looking at her.
He was looking at his nightstand. Rather, at the paper on top of it.
Jane's feet stopped moving of their own accord.
She watched his expression shift, something passing quickly across his face, too fast to name. And then he looked at her again, there was a change the air she felt deep within.
He casually moved towards her, his steps making up for what they lacked in urgency with deliberation, as though he had made a decision and was focused on simply carrying it out. Although she was quite uncertain and perhaps as tad frightened, Janeheld her ground because retreating felt worse than staying. And possibly because her legs had apparently forgotten their primary function.
He came to a stop beside her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his bare skin. When she inhaled shakily, she caught faint traces of the scent of soap and something darker beneath it.
Cedar, she thought in fascination,or perhaps sandalwood, utterly entranced by the realization that it suited him far too much, to the extent that she did nearly missed the slight downward tilt of his head as he focused his gaze on the paper on the nightstand.
Silence stretched between them for what felt like ages. Jane could scarcely breathe, even though she wished to smell more of that wonderful scent coming from his body, even though she knew that she had technically done nothing wrong. After all, he was the one who –
“Are you bothered by it?” he asked suddenly, raising his eyes to look at her.
She should have said yes. Yes would have been the sensible answer – the answer that preserved whatever careful, cordial distance they had been maintaining for the past several days. Yes would have sent her from the room with her dignity restored and her heart rate finally settling into aa normal pace.
“No,” she heard herself say quietly.
It was not entirely a lie.Botheredwas not the right word for what she was.Botheredimplied something simple and manageable – like offense or repulsion, and what Jane was currently experiencing was neither.
