A muscle worked at the base of his throat. “I intend to see to that.”
A breath caught in her throat—soft, nearly hidden.
“Lord Wolfton,” she said quietly, “you cannot place yourself between me and every unkind man in London.”
“No,” he said. “But I can place myself between you and one of them.”
Lila said nothing for a moment, her gaze fixed on the street, her steps measured as she gathered herself.
The silence between them deepened—not awkward, not unwelcome. Simply full, as though something unnamed waited there.
“Henry is improving,” she said at last.
“He is,” Marcus agreed. “Because of you.”
Her breath hitched for a heartbeat. “I am only giving him what he already holds.”
“You do more than that. You make him believe he can keep it.”
Her steps faltered.
Then Henry turned, waving. “Papa! Miss Edgewood! Hurry!”
They caught up to him at the corner where traffic thickened; carriages, horses, and pedestrians weaving in practiced chaos.
Marcus placed a hand on Henry’s shoulder, steadying him.
Lila’s breath eased when she saw the boy safe.
She cared. More quickly than she intended.
They reached the quieter streets leading toward Dover Street. Lila slowed.
“You may leave me here,” she said softly.
“No,” Marcus said.
She swallowed. “My lord—”
“It is daylight,” he said. “And the street is quiet. Even so, I will walk you to the door.”
She hesitated, torn between caution and gratitude. Finally, she nodded.
Henry quietly took her hand again for the last dozen steps.
Lila’s lips curved—warm, surprised, fragile.
Rosehaven House stood calm and innocuous, lace curtains fluttering in an upstairs window. A muted domestic scene. A reminder of how precariously Lila balanced her life there.
At the bottom of the steps, she released Henry’s hand and looked at Marcus.
“You should not have to escort me every day,” she said. “It invites observation.”
“Let them observe,” Marcus said softly.
Her eyes widened not in scandal, but in something far more fragile.
Hope.
