“Trust me,” he murmured. “Watch the window.”
Before she could answer, a door struck open at the side of the house.
Dominic crossed the lawn with long, purposeful strides, his coat unfastened, his cravat imperfectly set—like a man who had come out in haste and had not troubled to conceal it. His face was set, his expression carved hard; his eyes, when they reached them, were the colour of a winter storm.
“Lord Julian.” His voice was cold. “I was not aware you intended an excursion.”
Julian withdrew his hand from Lorraine’s arm with deliberate ease. “An impulse only. The weather allowed for it, and Thomas wished to see the foxes. Miss Weston was good enough to accompany us.”
Dominic’s gaze moved—from Julian, to Lorraine, to the space between them—measuring, noting, concluding. When his eyes fell upon the place Julian’s hand had rested, something dark flashed there, quick as lightning.
“Miss Weston.” His voice had dropped, lower now, rough-edged. “I should like a word with you regarding Thomas’s lessons. At your convenience.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” Her tone remained steady, though her heart beat fast. “I may attend you directly, if—”
“After your walk.” Each word was precise. “There is no urgency.”
He held her gaze a moment too long. Then turned and strode back toward the house, rigid with restraint.
Lorraine watched him go, breath caught somewhere beneath her ribs.
Julian came to stand beside her, his tone low, faintly amused. “There, Miss Weston—that is jealousy, in its natural habitat.”
“That was unkind,” she said under her breath, though she was not certain whether she addressed him or herself.
“Unkind would be leaving him to freeze where he stands.” Julian’s voice softened. “I have merely reminded him he is capable of feeling. What he does with it is his affair.”
He gave her shoulder a brief, companionable pressure before turning back to Thomas. “Now then—let us see whether we may indeed discover our fox.”
Lorraine lingered a moment longer, her gaze drawn back toward the house.
Her skin still tingled where Julian’s hand had rested—not from the touch itself, but from what it had stirred. The flash in Dominic’s eyes. The tension in his voice. The effort—visible, palpable—with which he had contained himself.
His jealousy shouldn’t thrill me, she thought.It shouldn’t make my pulse race and my skin flush and my entire body feel as though it’s been set alight.
It did.
Because it meant he felt something—something strong enough to draw him from the house, across the lawn, into the open air without care for propriety or composure.
I want him to want me, she realised, with a clarity that was almost painful.I’ve wanted it for weeks. I’ve wanted him to look at me the way he looked at me just now—like I’m something precious, something worth fighting for. Like I belong to him.
The thought should have unsettled her. She was a governess, with little to recommend her but competence and necessity. She had no business wanting a duke’s regard—still less his desire.
And yet.
The wanting had taken root long since—on a storm-lit night in the library, in the quiet warmth of a hand against hers, in the brief, reverent touch of his forehead beneath her lips.
I want him, she thought.All of him. The ice and the fire beneath it. The broken parts and the parts that are healing. The man who holds crying children and watches kestrels and names dragons after terrifying aunts.
I want him. And he wants me.
She drew a breath against the cold air.
I do not know what is to come. Only that I cannot pretend otherwise.
***
She waited until evening before going to his study.
