They worked in silence for a time. Catherine sat on the opposite side of the desk, head bent, pen scratching steadily as she reviewed the column of Roman catalogue numbers she had compiled the day before.
Her posture was perfect. Her focus appeared absolute. But every so often, Marcus caught her glancing up from beneath her lashes, only to quickly look down again. It was not the ordinary quiet of two people working in tandem. This silence held something strained beneath it, like a wire drawn too tight. He could feel her thoughts pressing against it, just as his own refused to settle.
The space between them, once companionable, now felt heavy and strained.
She had been distant all morning, polite yet careful. Each word she offered had been selected with precision, and none had ventured beyond the realm of scholarly necessity.
Even as she feigned concentration, the pen quivered faintly in her hand. Her shoulders were set too stiffly, her gaze seldom rose to his, and in her countenance, he read a struggle—hesitation, the wish to speak, and the fear that kept her silent.
Marcus could no longer bear the uncertainty.
“About last night,” he said quietly.
She froze. Her pen stopped mid-word. Slowly, she set it down.
“I hope that I did not overstep,” he said, continuing.
Still, she said nothing. Her hands remained perfectly still on the table.
“If you regret what happened, Catherine, I will understand,” he said.
He waited, heart thudding a little too quickly, and wished that she would lift her eyes and deny it.
When she did not, the certainty struck hard. It was not, by any measure, their gravest trouble—but it was the only one that mattered. What if he had driven her so far from him that they might never recover the ease, the companionship, the quiet contentment they had known before that kiss?
Chapter Twenty-one
The change was subtle but unmistakable. Rosalind noticed it first in the breakfast room. Catherine stood beside the sideboard, arranging dishes with practised ease, her expression composed, her gestures efficient. Yet beneath that composure was something tight and uncertain. Her shoulders stiffened each time Marcus entered the room. Her voice softened when she spoke to him, but she rarely looked him directly in the eye.
And Marcus now seemed acutely aware of Catherine’s every movement. He watched her more than he spoke. Not the way he used to, with professional attentiveness or quiet admiration, but with something deeper, more unsettled. He fumbled twice with his fork. Missed half of what James said about comparative pottery styles. And when Catherine reached past him to collect a teacup, Marcus held his breath as though the simple proximity had become almost unbearable.
They had crossed a threshold. That much was obvious. But now they did not seem to know how to move forward.
Rosalind waited until the morning preparations had drawn the other guests into the library. Catherine lingered behind in the breakfast room, checking lists and issuing a few final instructions to a footman. When he departed, Rosalind quietly approached.
“Catherine,” she said gently. “You have scarcely spoken a dozen words to Marcus all morning.”
Catherine did not look up.
“We have both been busy,” she replied.
Rosalind tilted her head in that knowing way which told Catherine she was not so easily deceived.
“Perhaps. But busyness does not explain the silence. Nor the stillness in your eyes.”
Catherine’s hands stilled on the linen she was folding.
“I do not know what to say to him,” she admitted.
Rosalind stepped closer, lowering her voice.
“What happened between you?” she asked.
Catherine let out a breath—small, controlled, but tremulous.
“We kissed,” she said.
Rosalind did not answer at once. She waited, sensing that Catherine needed space to confess the rest without prompting.
