They walked together toward the sound of Cassie’s voice, side by side, their sleeves brushing with every other step.
Chapter Fifteen
The corridor leading to Cassie’s bedroom seemed unnaturally long, the walls pressing in on either side as Hudson allowed himself to be towed forward by his sister’s insistent hand.
His sleeve had already suffered at least one permanent crease from her enthusiastic grip, but he made no effort to free himself.
There was something in her expression tonight—a brightness that had been absent for weeks—that made even the most frivolous indulgence seem necessary.
“You promised,” Cassie reminded him for the third time since they’d left the dinner table. “And a duke never breaks his word.”
“A duke,” Hudson replied, “reserves the right to change his mind when his sister attempts to drag him bodily through the house.”
“Too late now,” Cassie announced, flinging open the door to her bedroom with enough force to make the hinges groan.
Warmth enveloped him as he stepped across the threshold.
Augusta was already there. She sat on the low footstool by the hearth, one of the illustrated volumes from the nursery shelves open across her knees, its pages gilded along the edges, its spine cracked from generations of small, careful hands. She looked up as they entered.
“I told you he’d come,” Cassie said triumphantly. “He pretends he doesn’t like stories, but he used to read to me every night when I was little.”
“I was summoned,” Hudson said, meeting Augusta’s eyes. “Apparently, my attendance is not optional.”
He settled into the armchair nearest the fire, his back straight, his shoulders rigid beneath his day coat. He’d had every intention of retreating to his study after dinner, of putting the proper distance between himself and Augusta, of restoring the order that had been disrupted by the afternoon’s unscripted intimacy.
Cassie, meanwhile, had flung herself onto the bed with the abandon of the very young. Pippin, who had been snoring on the hearth rug, heaved himself upright with a groan and ambled to the bedside, where he placed one enormous paw on the coverlet and cocked his head hopefully.
“You may come up,” Cassie told him, patting the space beside her. “But if you snore, you’ll have to go back to the rug.”
Pippin, understanding the warning, launched himself onto the bed with a force that made the frame creak. He turned three times, pawed experimentally at a pillow, and collapsed with his head in Cassie’s lap, one ear flopped forward, the other angled toward Augusta as if to ensure he wouldn’t miss a word.
“Miss Norton?” Cassie prompted, her eyes fixed on the volume. “You can start now.”
Augusta looked at the volume flicking to a page marked with a silk ribbon. “Chapter seven,” she read. “The Princess and the Glass Hill.”
Her voice changed as she read. The narrative voice remained her own, clear and measured, but when the princess spoke, her register lifted, softened, and acquired a lilt that made the character immediately distinct. The villain, a magician with a voice like broken glass, emerged gruff and comic, delivered with a growl that made Cassie giggle.
Hudson found himself watching Augusta’s face rather than the book. The way her lips shaped each word, the small furrow that appeared between her eyebrows at moments of tension, the flash of her smile when a line pleased her.
The firelight caught the line of her jaw, the curve of her throat above her collar, the sweep of her lashes as she glanced down at the page. Her free hand moved as she read, tracing shapes in theair, bringing the story to life with gestures so natural she seemed unaware of them.
Hudson shifted in his seat, tugged at his collar, then fixed his gaze on the ceiling for a count of five. His coat felt suddenly too warm, the room too close.
He should stand, should excuse himself, should find some reason to be anywhere but here, watching the firelight play across a woman’s face.
But Cassie’s eyes were wide and fixed on Augusta, her hand stilling on Pippin’s fur as the story reached its climax. And Hudson could no more leave than he could stop the beating of his own heart.
“But why didn’t she just run?” Cassie interrupted, sitting forward. “If the magician was so horrible, why did she stay in his tower?”
Augusta paused, one finger marking her place. “She was frightened,” she said. “And sometimes when we’re frightened, we can’t see the way out, even when it’s right in front of us.”
“But—”
“The princess didn’t know she was brave yet,” Augusta continued before Cassie could protest. “It took finding the sword to show her what she was capable of. Shall I read the next part?”
Cassie nodded, settling back against the pillows. “But promise she escapes in the end.”
“I promise,” Augusta said, and returned to the story. “The princess thought long and hard?—”
