Before she could stop herself, her hand lifted and brushed against his sleeve, sliding up as if to test his forehead for heat. “Are you quite well, Your Grace? You look?—”
But before she could finish, he caught her hand in his. Not roughly, not to wound, but with such deliberate certainty that the breath caught in her chest. His palm was warm, his grip strong, too strong, and yet she swore she felt a tremor in his fingers, a faint betraying shake that did not belong to the Duke of Walford.
“Do not stray from the point, Dorothy,” he said, his voice taut, measured. “You are responsible for Eugenia’s safety now. You are her guardian. Recklessness is no longer a luxury you may afford.”
His words were meant to chastise, but she scarcely heard them. All she could register was the heat of his hand enclosing hers, the steady thrum low in her belly, and the way her pulse quickened with every second he refused to let go. It was maddening, intimate... dangerously so. She had the absurd urge to turn her hand and lace her fingers with his, to soothe that subtletrembling she felt against her skin, to offer him comfort he would never ask for.
Almost without thought, she stepped closer, her skirts brushing the edge of his boots, her hand still caught in his. Her lips parted before she could stop them, and for the first time, softly, like a secret she was not meant to utter, she whispered, “Magnus… calm down.”
The moment hung between them, fragile, daring. He had been looking at her all along, but now, he truly looked; every ounce of his focus narrowed upon her, as though the rest of the world had dissolved. His voice faltered mid-rebuke, the words dying unfinished on his tongue. For a heartbeat, two, he simply stared at her, searching her eyes for something.
His chest rose sharply then steadied, as though her whisper had reached some corner of him she did not know she could touch.
But before any notion could take form, he released her abruptly, as though the touch itself had burned him. The air between them seemed emptier for it, and she folded her hands tightly in her lap, praying he had not noticed the flush that had spread across her cheeks.
“See that it does not happen again,” he said in a lower baritone. “I do not want to find Eugenia in this room or any room upon this floor of the manor. You are too high above the ground. From this day, you are to keep her to the lower floors. Do you understand me?”
Her hands tightened at her sides, but she kept her composure. “Yes, Your Grace,” she whispered, biting down on her lower lip as though the pressure might smother the dangerous thoughts still burning in her mind. It was foolish, yet she tried to quickly bury the memory of his hand holding hers and the sound of her own daring whisper of his name.
She lowered her gaze, hoping the ground would swallow her whole, when suddenly his hand was there again, fingers firm, tilting her chin upward, tugging gently at her jaw until she was forced to look at him.
“Why do you keep biting your lip?” he rasped. “Are you trying to draw blood?”
Her breath caught, her heart beating wildly against the trap of his touch. His eyes searched hers with unsettling intensity before he muttered, almost to himself, “Why do you upset me so?”
Frustration flared through her at last, sharp and unguarded. “I cannot even bite my own lip?” she whispered, her voice trembling with defiance and bewilderment alike.
His expression darkened. He released her at once, flexing his fingers as though burned. A sound escaped him, a low grunt, half anger, half restraint, before he turned abruptly and strode from the room.
The door closed with a decisive thud, leaving Dorothy rooted to the spot, her chin still tingling where his hand had been.She stared after him, lips parted, utterly puzzled by the storm that had just swept through and vanished, leaving her standing alone, bewildered and breathless.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Magnus, how was she to know?”
“It is not for her to know,” Magnus returned sharply. “It is for her to have the sense not to sit on a window ledge that high, as though it were a blasted garden bench.”
Rowan leaned back, studying his friend with the kind of patience that came from years of watching him unravel. “You speak as if she committed a crime rather than… what was it? Breathing the evening air?”
Magnus’s jaw tightened. He did not answer at once. The image was still too raw in his mind. He drew a breath, but it did little to steady him. “She does not understand what danger means,” he muttered at last. “She wants to run around in the garden; she wants to swim in the lake... goodness gracious.”
Rowan gave a low whistle. “Or perhaps she understands too well, only she will not bow to it as you wish her to.”
Magnus’s head snapped around. “Bow? No. But at the very least, she ought to yield to reason. Instead, she—” He broke off, shaking his head, and the next words came tumbling out in a rush. “Since the day she set foot in my house, she has upended everything. She will not conform, Rowan. Not to order, not to the rhythm of this house, not even to me. I thought I had measured her well when I agreed to this marriage. I thought I had accounted for the boldness of the girl who dared to stir a scandal with my name. But this...” His voice deepened, harsh with the frustration he could no longer swallow. “This is not the boldness I calculated.”
Rowan chuckled under his breath. “That is precisely your trouble, old friend. You calculate everything—what you eat, when you rise, when you work—every moment weighed and charted. Now, you are astounded that a wife is not a sum on your slate, neatly carried over from one line to the next.”
Magnus’s mouth twisted. He wanted to argue, to deny the charge, but the words caught in his throat.
Rowan leaned forward. “If we are honest, Magnus, the only reason Her Grace is here at all is because your endless strategy failed. Eugenia remained afraid of you. For all your precision, she never warmed, never trusted.” He spread his hands. “So perhaps the problem is not her boldness or her defiance. Perhaps the problem is you.”
Magnus’s gaze darkened. “You suppose I should simply abandon caution? Toss Eugenia into the care of a woman who makes scandal her trade?”
Rowan shrugged lightly, though his eyes held steady. “I am saying only that it may be time to stop strangling every outcome before it has air. Let it breathe. Let her breathe. It is too early to claim Dorothy’s ways will not work, and Magnus—” Rowan’s voice lowered. “—you are too protective of Eugenia. You know why, and I know why, but perhaps it is time to let another hand try.”
The words dug deep. Magnus looked away, jaw clenched. Rowan knew. He had been there when everything had shattered, when the circumstances that had thrust Eugenia into his care were written in blood and whispers. The memory of it still stung him as sharply as broken glass. No, he had every reason to guard her, to hold her life within his two hands as though the world meant to snatch her away again.
“Dorothy is not some savior,” he muttered.
