Heat, cold, light—all blurred together. He drifted between lucidity and memory, but always, always came back to her.
The kiss.
Her hand at his cheek, her body pressed against his chest, the taste of breath and tears and something wild. Her lips. The impossible softness. The way she had said his name like it mattered.
Fitzwilliam.
He clung to it, even as darkness pulled him under.
AshercarriageapproachedAshwick House, Elizabeth’s gaze lifted to the familiar façade. The stately townhouse stood in its customary grandeur, but her eyes were drawn upward—to the charred remains of her bedchamber’s windows. The blackened edges stood in stark contrast to the pristine stonework, a silent testament to the recent fire. A lump formed in her throat as memories threatened to surface, but she swallowed them down, straightened her shoulders, and descended from the carriage.
Inside, the air hung thick with the rich scent of roasted duck and saffron rice, underscored by the faintest trace of clove-studded wine. Elizabeth paused just inside the threshold, her gloves still on her hands, bonnet slightly askew from setting down out of the carriage. A footman appeared instantly, offering to take them, but her gaze remained fixed ahead.
The dining room had changed not at all since her childhood: deepest mahogany gleaming under the gas sconces, a single taper lit at the center of the table. Her father dined alone at the head, shoulders faintly hunched, a glass of something dark and potent resting near his left hand.
Elizabeth mustered all her fortitude and stepped forward without much of a limp, forcing her shoulders to square, her lips curving into what she hoped passed for a pleasant smile.
Her father glanced up from his plate, brows lifting in surprise that seemed—momentarily—genuine. “Well! If it is not my wandering Petal returned to the fold. Come back so soon, eh?”
She flinched. Just a flicker, barely more than the tightening of her mouth, but it lanced through her all the same. Still, she crossed to the table and made herself answer lightly, “I thought you might have grown used to the peace.”
He chuckled, gesturing toward the empty seat across from him. “Peace is a dull business. Sit, sit. You must tell me everything. I had understood the Queen would keep you tucked away at Frogmore for at least a month. What happened? Did she tire of you already?”
Elizabeth eased into the chair, smoothing her skirts as she gathered her composure. “She had… other matters to attend.”
“Mm. And yet she sent you home without a proper escort or fanfare. Not quite the dazzling exit I might have expected.”
She tried for another smile. “I had a royal carriage, Father. Guards and coachmen, all of it.”
“Of course you did,” he said airily, returning to his wine. “But surely your time was not wasted. You must have drawn attention—your mother would be apoplectic with envy. Was Lord Pembroke there? I hear he is back in circulation. Or that dashing young Viscount Stanhope—clever fellow, though rather too fond of racing debts. And what of the Marquis of Belgrave? He was positively sniffing after you last season.”
Elizabeth’s stomach twisted. She reached for her napkin and folded it with great care. “I saw none of them.”
Across the table, her father smiled shrewdly. “Ah, then it was Prince Nikolaos. I have been hearing rumors about him. Come now, Petal, I—”
She swallowed, and the napkin fell to the table.
Her father’s smile faltered. “What?”
“Please,” she said quietly. “Do not call me that.”
He blinked, caught off guard. “I beg your pardon?”
She lifted her gaze, and this time it did not waver. “That… name you always use. I am no longer a child to be petted.”
For a beat, he said nothing. Then, with a mild shrug and a crooked smile, “Very well, my pet—ah—my dear.”
The Marquess of Ashwick picked up his fork again, slicing into a cutlet with surgical precision. “Well, what of Her Majesty?” he asked between bites. “Did you make yourself agreeable?”
Elizabeth folded her napkin again, refolding it once more before answering. “As much as could be expected.”
He snorted. “Which means you said something saucy and offended someone in lace.” He waved his knife vaguely. “Really, Petal—my dear—you must learn to temper your wit in royal company.”
She looked down at the tablecloth. “There was no incident. Her Majesty was perfectly satisfied.”
“I daresay she was,” he mused. “Though you being sent home so quickly... one does wonder.”
Elizabeth lifted her gaze again, steady this time. “It was not a punishment. Merely a change in schedule.”
