“Not lately.”
Cressida saw him regret the brief lowering of his guard that revealed too much.
The silence that followed felt weighted with all the things neither of them was saying.
Cressida’s gaze traveled over him, cataloguing details she hadn’t been close enough to notice before. The way his hair curled slightly at his temples, the hollow at the base of his throat where his pulse beat visibly, the way his hands flexed and clenched as though fighting the urge to reach for her.
“You’re staring,” he said, his voice low and dangerous.
“You’re half-dressed in the middle of the conservatory,” Cressida countered, lifting her chin. “Where else should I look?”
His jaw clenched. “Anywhere that doesn’t make me forget why I’ve been avoiding you.”
“And why is that, precisely?” She stepped into the conservatory properly, closing some of the distance between them. “Why have you spent two weeks fleeing to London and hiding in your study rather than simply speaking to me?”
“Because speaking to you is dangerous.”
“How terrifying I must be. A woman who wants nothing more than civil conversation with her husband.”
“You want more than conversation.” Theodore’s gaze raked over her, leaving heat in its wake. “Don’t pretend otherwise.”
Cressida’s breath hitched at the raw honesty. “And if I do? We’re married, Theodore. Society expects?—”
“Society expects an heir and the appearance of marital civility. Nothing more.” But his voice lacked conviction, and his eyes betrayed him, dark with want he couldn’t quite hide.
“Is that truly all you want?” Cressida took another step closer, emboldened by the hunger she saw in his expression. “A cold arrangement where we produce children and live separate lives?”
“It’s all I can afford to want.” His hands clenched again, that telltale sign of restraint fracturing. “Anything else leads to disaster.”
“Why?” The question emerged softer than she had intended. “What makes you so certain that caring for each other would be catastrophic?”
Theodore was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Because I’ve seen what happens when passion overrules reason. When people allow desire to cloud their judgment.” His voice was hollow. “I won’t repeat those mistakes.”
“Whose mistakes?” Cressida pressed. “Tell me, Theodore. I want to hear it from you.”
His walls slammed back into place. She watched it happen—the shuttering of his expression, the straightening of his spine, the careful distance reasserting itself like armor donned for battle.
“That’s not your concern.”
“It is if it’s the reason my husband treats me like a contagion.” Frustration bled into her voice. “I’m not asking for grand declarations of love. I’m simply asking for honesty. For an explanation of why you’re so determined we remain strangers.”
“Because strangers are safe.” Theodore moved past her toward the door, creating physical distance to match the emotional chasm. “I’m going to bathe and dress. You should return to your chambers before the servants wake.”
“Theodore—”
“Cressida.” The single word stopped her. “Don’t push this today.”
The defeat in his voice fractured something in her chest.
She watched him leave, watched his shoulders hunch as though carrying a heavy weight, and felt the familiar ache of being so close to understanding while remaining fundamentally shut out.
The breakfast table had been set for two when Cressida descended several hours later. Mrs. Agnes’s doing, no doubt. Another attempt by the conspiring staff to force proximity where Theodore himself wouldn’t choose it.
But when she entered the breakfast room, she found it empty save for covered dishes and a folded note propped against her plate.
Duchess,
Urgent estate business requires my immediate attention in the east fields. I will likely take luncheon with the tenants there. Please don’t wait for me for dinner this evening.
