Cressida stared out the window at the passing countryside and wondered if she’d ever be allowed to discover that goodness for herself, or if Theodore would continue his campaign of avoidance until they’d wasted decades in separate wings of the same castle.
Chapter Fourteen
Theodore returned to Ashmere well past midnight, his muscles protesting the punishing pace he’d maintained from London. He’d pushed himself harder than necessary, driven by something he refused to examine too closely, because it felt dangerously like need.
The castle was dark and silent. He made his way to his chambers without summoning servants, wanting only to collapse into bed and pretend John’s words hadn’t burrowed beneath his skin like splinters.
But as he passed Cressida’s door, he noticed light beneath it.
He stopped. Every instinct screamed at him to continue walking, to maintain the careful distance that had become his armor. Yet he found himself standing there, one hand raised as though to knock, imagining what he might say.
That he was sorry for avoiding her? That proximity terrified him more than any battlefield ever had? That the sound of her laugh yesterday in the library had made him forget how to breathe?
He lowered his hand.
This was madness. He’d just spent hours riding through the darkness to escape her pull, and here he stood, drawn to her door like a fool.
He forced himself onward, into his own chambers, where he stripped out of his riding clothes and stood before the connecting door that led to her rooms.
Locked. From both sides. As he’d instructed Mrs. Agnes.
He pressed his palm against the wood, imagining he could feel her presence beyond it. Imagining she might be doing the same on the other side, separated by mere inches and an ocean of fear.
Then he turned away and called for cold water, determined that physical exhaustion would drive out the want that had taken root beneath his ribs.
Cressida woke before dawn, restless energy driving her from her bed. She’d spent hours the previous night staring at the connecting door, wondering if Theodore had returned, if he stood on the other side thinking of her as she thought of him.
Now, dressed in a simple morning gown, she found herself wandering the castle’s corridors in the pre-dawn darkness. Her feet carried her toward the conservatory, the glass-walled room where Mrs. Agnes had mentioned Theodore did his morning exercise.
She told herself she was simply exploring. That she had every right to walk her own home at whatever hour she chose.
She told herself she wasn’t hoping to encounter him.
The conservatory doors stood open, candlelight spilling into the corridor. Cressida approached quietly, some instinct making her pause at the threshold rather than announce herself immediately.
She froze.
Theodore stood in the center of the conservatory, stripped down to the waist, a sword balanced in his hand as he moved through what appeared to be practice forms. Candlelight gleamed off sweat-slicked skin, illuminating the play of muscle across his shoulders and back as he executed each movement with lethal grace.
Cressida’s breath caught. She’d known that her husband was well-built—his coats fit too perfectly for any other possibility—but knowing and seeing were entirely different matters.
Theodore was magnificent. Scars marred his torso—thin white lines that spoke of violence survived, battles fought. His movements were fluid despite their precision, each shift of weight revealing the controlled power that probably made him formidable in combat.
She should leave before he noticed her presence, before she was caught staring like a love-struck girl at a man who’d made his disinterest abundantly clear.
But Cressida found herself rooted to the spot, unable to look away from the mesmerizing dance of blade and body, candlelight and shadow.
Theodore completed his form and lowered the sword, his chest heaving with exertion. Then he turned toward the windows to set the blade aside… and saw her.
They stared at each other across the conservatory. Cressida watched his pupils dilate, saw the way his hands clenched at his sides, the rapid rise and fall of his chest that had nothing to do with exercise and everything to do with the charged air between them.
“Duchess.” His voice was rough. “I didn’t expect—you shouldn’t be?—”
“I couldn’t sleep,” Cressida said, surprised her voice emerged steady when her heart was hammering so loudly she could hear it in her ears. “I was exploring. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding. This is your home.” Theodore reached for the shirt he’d discarded earlier, and Cressida felt absurd disappointment as he pulled it on, hiding all that skin from view. “I fence most mornings. To clear my mind.”
“Does it work?”
