“Thank you,” Mary whispered. “For taking care of him.”
She was inches away. If he leaned forward, if he let himself close the distance, he would be kissing her again, and this time there was no kettle to intervene and no excuse large enough to cover what it would mean.
Evander stepped back.
The corridor expanded. The electricity dimmed. Mary’s eyes flickered, something passing through them, disappointment or understanding or both, but she held her ground.
“You’re welcome,” he said. His voice came out rougher than he intended. “Though my plan was to move him without waking anyone, I would not call it a success.”
He opened the study door, stepped inside, and closed it behind him before she could respond. He stood in the dark with his back against the door and his heart beating in his throat and the ghost of lavender in his nose.
On the other side of the door, Mary’s footsteps paused. One breath. Two. Then they retreated down the corridor, up the stairs, and away.
Evander pressed his palms against the door and let out a breath he did not realize he had been holding. The study was dark and quiet, and his pulse was too fast, and the smile, the real one, the one he had worn in the nursery while Tommy slept beneath his hand, was trying to come back.
He let it.
Just for a moment. Just in the dark, where no one could see. And then he straightened, crossed to his desk, and lit the lamp, and the smile retreated, and the Duke of Blackholm sat down to work.
But the fox story lingered. And the weight of Tommy in his arms. And the way Mary had whisperedthank youfrom inches away with her pulse jumping in her throat.
All of it lingered, long after the lamp burned low.
CHAPTER 16
“You are staring at the toast as though it has offended you.”
Mary set down her knife. She had been spreading butter on the same piece of bread for the better part of a minute, and the result was less breakfast and more construction project.
Across the table, Evander sat with a cup of coffee and the morning paper, and the fact that he appeared entirely composed made the flutter in Mary’s stomach worse.
She had not seen him since the night she caught him telling Tommy a fairytale.
“I was thinking,” she said.
“About toast?”
“About the household accounts.”
Evander folded the paper and set it beside his plate. His sleeves were rolled to the forearms, the bandage on his left arm visible beneath the cuff, and Mary forced her gaze to stay on his face rather than trace the lines of muscle she had memorized in the kitchen ten nights ago.
“We will be attending the Atherton ball next week,” he said.
Mary blinked. “A ball.”
“Yes. Lord and Lady Atherton hold one every summer. It will be our first public appearance as a married couple, and the ton will be watching.” He took a measured sip of coffee. “I have been absent from society since the wedding. It is time to show London that the Duke and Duchess of Blackholm are not hiding from the scandal.”
“I was not aware we were hiding.”
“We are not. Which is precisely the impression I intend to reinforce.” He studied her across the table. “I will send for Madame Laurent this afternoon. She is the best modiste in London and can produce a gown on short notice.”
“I have dresses, Evander. Trunks of them. My father sent them from Langham House last week.”
“You will have a new one.” His tone left no room for negotiation. “You will be the Duchess of Blackholm at a public event for the first time. Every woman in that ballroom will be measuring you against the scandal, and I intend for you to give them nothing to find fault with.”
Mary set the butter knife down and met his eyes. “Is this about appearances, or about me?”
Something crossed his face, quick and unguarded. “It is about both. You deserve a gown that was chosen for you, not repurposed from a season before our marriage began.”
