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He wanted to take her right now, and yet…

He straightened up, stepping back to put some distance between them. He had not intended for it to go this far, truly. Her face in the lamplight was flushed and open, her eyes on his. She had him twisted around her little finger already, his body a brand that burned only for her.

And yet…

“Go up,” he said, very quietly. “It’s late.”

She looked at him for a long count. Then she stood, and she pressed her hand briefly to his chest and went upstairs.

Juliet was at the stables before anyone else was properly awake. She’d simply been unable to sleep restfully.

Even after sending her away last night, she’d heard his footsteps cross to the window after she’d come upstairs. Now, in the dim morning, she could admit she’d been hoping he would come into her room, but last night at least, she’d done everything she could to restrain herself from seeking him out again by herself.

Now, she put a hand up to her lips, recalling the way he’d kissed her. For some reason, it was even more delightful than when he’d put his mouth to her core…or when he’d made her spend with his fingers inside her. Last night had been different in a way she could not quite pinpoint…only feel.

And she could feel him beginning to pull back…but she didn’t know why. She didn’t know if he was seeking to protect something. Himself? Her? Or if it was just reluctance disguised as consideration. Was he tiring of her without having even consummated their marriage? Did he no longer find her attractive?

“What are you even thinking now?” she murmured to herself, shaking her head as if the gesture would rid her of the thoughts.

The Hampshire morning had come in cool and clear, the oaks at the water’s edge still dark against a pale sky, and she had dressed without her maid and found the stables by memory of the afternoon before. A boy of perhaps sixteen was already at work in the first stall, pitchfork in hand, and his eyebrows went up when she appeared. He set the fork against the wall and straightened. His hair was flat on one side from sleep.

“Your Grace.” His eyes went past her once, searching for a maid or a groom, and found neither. “I didn’t—beg pardon, shall I fetch…?” He started to turn around.

“No, no,” Juliet said. “Just the mare. I won’t need anyone to come with me.”

He froze, eyes darting toward the empty doorway behind her once more, then obediently went for the mare.

She was halfway down the south field, with the mare moving under her, when she heard hoofbeats behind her—small, uneven, and entirely determined.

Eloise had acquired a fat, gray pony of uncertain temperament and was managing it with the focused authority of a child who has decided the pony’s opinions are beside the point. Her governess was visible at the stable yard gate, having evidently concluded that pursuit was impractical.

“You went without me,” Eloise said, pulling alongside.

“You were asleep.”

“I am always asleep. You should have woken me.” She settled the pony, which had a view about the mare. “Papa says I sleep like a stone. He says it as though it is not a compliment, but I think it is.”

“Did you ask Mrs. Priscilla before taking that pony?”

“I informed her,” Eloise said. “She informed Miss Green. Miss Green made a face.” She looked at the field ahead. “Can we go faster?”

They went faster. Eloise rode with more conviction than technique and the absolute certainty of a child who has not yet fallen badly and therefore does not believe falling is a serious risk. The pony had the broad back and immovable disposition of an animal that had carried generations of confident children and knew its duty.

Juliet let the mare open up. The cold came at her face, the field went under her, and she stopped thinking about him telling her to go up because it was late for about thirty seconds, which was the most relief she had managed since midnight.

They slowed at the far fence. From here, the water was visible through the oaks, silver in the early light.

“Juliet,” Eloise called.

“Mm.”

The girl was looking toward the trees, her hands loose on the reins. “Last night Papa came and looked in my room. He thought I was asleep, but I wasn’t. He stood in the doorway.” She said it the way she said most things: directly, with no particular frame around it. “He just stood there.” She squinted at the oaks. “He had a different face.”

Juliet kept her eyes on the tree line. “Different, how?” she said.

Eloise thought about it, her small face scrunched up with the effort. “Like he forgot to look like Papa,” she said. She picked at her reins. “He gets that face sometimes. When he’s watching you.”

The morning moved through the oaks. The pony shifted under Eloise and settled. Juliet pressed her lips together and said nothing at all.