Her eyes never wavered. She did not murmur platitudes. She did not recoil. She is still not judging me, he realized, wondering if his wife would surprise him straight into a grave at that pace. She is patiently waiting for me to continue.
Stunned, he did.
“I still see them sometimes,” he said. “When I close my eyes, or when I am dreaming in a deep sleep.”
Again, Genevieve merely nodded, her eyes filled with warmth and sympathy he had never experienced.
“I imagine you always will,” she said softly.
That quiet acknowledgment moved him more than comfort might have. He had not known how desperately he needed someone to understand the burden without trying to carry it for him. But that was precisely what his wife was doing right then.
He lowered his gaze and noticed her hand resting lightly on the desk. Without thought, his own moved to cover it. Heat sparked at the contact. Notmerely warmth, but something deeper, steady, and rooted. He held it for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he withdrew, but with great care. He had not meant to trust his new bride so much so quickly. Now that he had, however, he did not wish to be any reason for her to lose sleep.
“You should rest,” he said.
She nodded, lifting a different book from the shelf, his mother’s copy of The Compleat Florist.
“May I borrow this?” she asked.
Gabriel gave her a conceding bow.
“Yes, of course,” he said. “This is your home now, too. I wish for you to feel as comfortable here as I do.”
She smiled faintly, then moved toward the door.
“Goodnight, Gabriel,” she said. “And thank you for trusting me.”
Her use of his name made something turn in his chest. His stomach felt tingly, and he could not help smiling back at her.
“Goodnight, Genevieve,” he said.
She disappeared into the corridor, leaving behind the scent of lavender and the unsettling trace of something unspoken. He remained standing long after the door had closed.
***
The morning passed in solitary exploration. Genevieve had risen early, slipping from her chamber while the household remained quiet in sleep. A faint mist hovered above the ground, softening the stone angles of the conservatories that stretched in a graceful arc behind the eastern wing. She had intended only a brief inspection, yet curiosity lengthened her stride.
The glasshouses were old but well-constructed. Iron ribbing framed the panes with remarkable precision, and within, rows of carefully tended plants thrived under the filtered light. The air inside was dense with the scent of loam and green growth. She passed benches of rosemary and lavender, then a quadrant of tender lettuces and alpine strawberries growing low to the ground.
It was not beauty that struck her most, but purpose. There were no ornamental gardens arranged for admiration alone. The décor served the kitchens and stillrooms, and their beds were placed for yield and access rather than idle display. Someone had seen to the upkeep with diligence. She found herself wondering whether Gabriel had a hand in it.
Her steps paused beside a broad-leafed fig whose branches brushed the glass in quiet insistence. Then, without warning, came a sharp cry from the direction of the stable yard. It was not the usual stir of morning activity. A louder shout followed, then a metallic crash that sent a jolt through her.
She turned at once, skirts catching moisture as she crossed the lawn, driven more by instinct than thought. As she rounded the side of the house and reached the yard, the full scene unfolded with jarring clarity. A massive black stallion reared high, hooves striking at the air. Grooms darted back, some shouting, others frozen in place. The beast thrashed wildly, its eyes wide, its chest slick with sweat. One man attempted to seize the lead, only to stumble and fall backward, barely avoiding a crushing blow. At the center of the chaos stood Gabriel.
She stopped short. He was calm. Steady. He approached the stallion with measured steps, his hand outstretched, his voice low and composed, though she could not hear the words. The stallion wheeled, its breath rasping, but did not bolt. Gabriel waited, then stepped in again, speaking as though to a frightened child. The animal stilled for a breath, then surged forward. Gabriel held firm.
Genevieve caught her breath. A misstep could shatter bone. A single mistake, and he would be trampled. Yet he did not flinch. His palm met the stallion’s damp neck, firm but unthreatening. Again, he spoke. This time, the stallion lowered its head.
The change was gradual but evident. The trembling eased. The whites of its eyes no longer showed. Another moment passed, and the horse stood panting, its sides heaving, yet no longer wild. Gabriel stroked the thick neck once more, then took the reins from a trembling stable boy and handed them to the head groom. Only then did he release a long breath, as though permitting himself relief now that the danger had passed.
She had not realized her hands had clenched until she felt her nails pressing into her palms. His shirt clung to his back, soaked through, each line of muscle visible beneath the linen. These were not the contours born of idle recreation, but the strength earned through honest labor. No polished gentleman of London, no matter his attire, could match the quiet command Gabriel had displayed. Just then, he turned and saw her. The moment their eyes met; the openness vanished. His mouth firmed. His shoulders straightened. The mask returned.
She stepped forward, only to halt as the head groom approached, his face drawn with unease.
“Milord, it was the strap,” he said. “The girth strap. Snapped clean through during exercise. He nearly threw you. If you had been mounted…“
