“I cannot stay long,” he whispered. He pressed a kiss to her temple. “When you awake, I will be gone.”
“I understand,” she said, but secretly, she was imagining what it might be like to wake up with him at her side. How she would crawl onto his chest and twirl his glorious hair between her fingers until his eyes fluttered open.
That can never happen.
The realization that they might never sleep in the same bed again settled over her and made her shiver.
“Cold?” Leo whispered.
She nodded, unable to trust that her words would be free of tears. She didn’t want him to know what she was thinking, as it would ruin the moment. Their last moment.
Leo splayed an arm over her and gently rubbed her hip until she drifted into a restless slumber.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Saffron stood outsidethe small, two-roomed cottage at the edge of the forest, at the far edge of the Briarwood lands, preparing herself for what would be an unpleasant conversation. She looked down at the sheet of thick vellum in her hands, the words “Come at your earliest convenience” written on it in large, dark ink. A footman had delivered it to her shortly after she’d snuck out of Leo’s bedroom. She’d been tempted to tell him, but her heart was too conflicted where he was concerned.
She shifted. The woman she was about to meet had once been a paragon of society, unmatched in influence, but she hadn’t been seen in years. Saffron knew what it was like to grieve, had done so for her parents and brother.
She pushed open the door and stepped into a relic of a lost time. A table was set with cutlery and small cakes. She took a cautious sniff, but there was no rot in the air, only a stale smell, like laundry left out in a wet pile to dry instead of being hung up.
A shuffling noise had her turning her gaze to the chair near the fireplace. The small woman sitting there was dressed in a black gown with long sleeves, black shoes, and a black veil over her face.
“You’ve come,” a thin voice said. “I was not sure you would.”
The woman pulled the veil from over her face, and Saffron curtseyed. “It is my honor, Lady Briarwood.”
The Dowager Viscountess Briarwood waved her hand. “Please, sit, and call me ‘Clara.’”
Saffron sat in a matching chair in front of the fireplace and waited as the dowager summoned a maid and ordered tea. They sat in awkward silence as the maid left and then returned and served them.
Finally, the dowager broke the silence by leaning forward, making her chair creak. “So, you are the woman who has ensnared my son. Mrs. Banting has told me much about you.”
Saffron paused in the action of reaching for a cup, torn between feeling insulted by the bold claim and pleased by the dowager’s approving tone.
“You do not deny it, then,” the dowager said, with a smile. “Well done, girl.” She shuffled in her seat. “Has he asked for your hand yet?”
Saffron gaped. How had she so completely lost hold of the conversation? The dowager truly was a formidable woman.
“Answer the question, girl, and close your mouth.”
“N-No. Lady Briarwood, I—”
“A summer wedding is out of the question, but we might consider next spring. Assuming you are not already with child.”
“He will not marry me!” Saffron shouted. Then she winced, expecting the dowager to reprimand her impoliteness. “And I would not bully him into it against his wishes.”
Instead, Clara burst into wheezing laughter. After several long moments, during which Saffron was too puzzled to speak, the dowager slapped her thigh with her palm. “Excellent. You have spirit. Please excuse my teasing. I had to see for myself.”
Saffron squared her shoulders. “It was a test. Lady Br—Clara. That is why you asked to see me.”
The dowager sipped her own tea, then set the cup down. When the porcelain bottom of the cup hit the saucer, it made several clinking sounds, as if the hand holding it were unsteady.
“There are rumors about you, my dear. I am glad to see they are incorrect.”
Saffron almost laughed. “The rumors are true. I cannot abide many things. A crowded room. Disruptions to my carefully laid plans. Many in society call me odd.”
Clara raised one thin eyebrow. “What does that matter?”
