Her breath faltered. It was not that he appeared improperly dressed because nothing about him suggested carelessness, but rather the moment itself. The familiarity of it, the absence of formality. His collar lay open, revealing the solid line of his throat. She forced her gaze away before her thoughts betrayed her composure. The quiet between them was heavy.
“I trust your rooms are satisfactory,” he said, giving her a small smile.
She nodded, returning the expression, suddenly feeling bashful.
“Yes,” she said, her attention moving toward the writing desk. “They are well arranged. I had not expected such consideration.”
Gabriel raised his eyebrows, but his smile widened ever so slightly.
“The books were my sister’s suggestion,” he said. “The rest was my decision.”
She hesitated, uncertain what to say. Gabriel stepped into the room, though he did not come far. He stood with the stance of a commander issuing orders he did not wish to give, his hands clasped behind his back, his feet squarely planted.
“I wish to speak plainly,” he said, his expression becoming unreadable. “What I said in London remains true. This arrangement, our matrimony, requires nothing beyond courtesy and cooperation. I expect no obligations from you. Not now. Not ever, if you prefer it that way. I just wanted to be sure that you were aware of that.”
His voice held its usual steadiness, though something beneath it was less assured. Her eyes caught briefly on the open collar of his shirt, and warmth flared beneath her skin. She pulled her dressing gown closer, though it revealed nothing improper.
Gabriel’s eyes flicked toward the motion, then away. A silence stretched. Genevieve knew she should say something, yet she found herself hopelessly distracted by the dim lighting, his sandalwood scent, and the strong line of his jaw. He did not give her the chance to answer, however.
“Goodnight, Genevieve,” he said softly.
Without another word, he turned and stepped back through the doorway, closing the connecting door behind him with quiet precision.
Genevieve remained in place, surrounded by the stillness of night. Though nothing had passed between them beyond words and glances, something remained unsettled in the air, lingering beneath the surface.
Chapter Seven
Sleep eluded him. Gabriel lay motionless beneath the linen coverlet, his eyes fixed on the ceiling where moonlight filtered faintly through the drawn draperies. Though his body ached from the long journey, rest would not come. Each breath felt too shallow. The knowledge that she lay only a few paces away, separated by a discreet connecting door, rendered the distance meaningless.
Genevieve stirred something tight and restless in his chest. She was his wife, yet nothing between them resembled true union. A practical arrangement, he had said, and he had meant it. Still, the cold assertion rang hollow now, surrounded as he was by her scent lingering in the hall’s air, by the image of her soft features just before she had retired, the quiet grace in the way she had thanked him for the room.
With a muffled exhalation, he threw back the coverlet and rose in silence. He donned a shirt but left his coat and cravat untouched. The night was cool but not cold. Barefoot on the worn floorboards, he made his way down the dim corridor and into the study.
The small lamp offered little light but enough to reveal the estate ledgers and correspondence waiting in neat stacks where he had left them before supper. He lit the wick with practiced ease, its flickering glow casting long shadows across the desk.
He had hoped that drowning himself in figures, grain yields, livestock tallies, tenant rents in arrears, might dull the edges of what he refused to name. Discipline, he reminded himself. He had mastered his body under far harsher conditions. He would do so now.
The accounts did little to ease his mind. The columns blurred, but not from fatigue. He marked a sum that did not reconcile, circled it, and then let the quill rest.
The quiet of Mountwood at night had once brought comfort. Now, in this stillness, his senses strained toward the adjoining door. He could picture her, perhaps curled into the corner of the great bed, her hair unbound, her lashes brushing her cheeks. The image was too vivid.
A sound interrupted his imagination. It took him a moment to realize it was footsteps. He straightened at once. There was a soft rustle outside the door, then the faintest knock. He rose and crossed the room in two strides.
Genevieve stood at the threshold. She wore a modest dressing gown, cinched at the waist, her nightdress visible at the collar. Her hair, no longer tamed into daytime restraint, spilled down her back and across one shoulder in loose waves. No powder or pins, and nothing between her and the night but linen and breath. She looked vulnerable and uncommonly lovely.
“I am sorry to disturb you,” she said softly. “I had hoped to find the library. I cannot sleep.”
He stepped aside, allowing her to enter. The room suddenly felt smaller.
“Of course,” he said, trying to keep his voice flat. “Please, come in.”
Genevieve looked nervous, even as she gave him a polite smile.
“I saw the light beneath your door and thought you might know where I could find a book,” she said. “Something botanical, if possible.”
Gabriel nodded. He could understand her confusion.
“There is a library,” he said. “It is likely that you saw it briefly. But it is poorly stocked. I keep my own collection here. You are welcome to any of them.”
