***
Afterwards, they lay tangled together in the ruins of his bed, breathing.
Dominic’s head rested upon her chest, his ear pressed to her heart, his arm heavy across her waist. She threaded her fingers through his hair—dark, damp with sweat, curling faintly at the temples—and felt his body slowly relax against hers, muscle by muscle, as though something long held rigid was, at last, being released.
“Are you—”
“Spectacularly, embarrassingly, transcendently,” she murmured, and felt the soft huff of his laughter against her skin.
Silence settled between them. The fire crackled low. The wind whispered against the windows.
“I have not slept beside anyone since William died,” he said quietly. “He was wounded once before—not badly, a graze—and I sat with him through the night because the surgeon was drunk and I did not trust him. William complained that I snored.”
“Do you?”
“I have no notion. There has been no one to tell me.”
She pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “I shall inform you in the morning.”
He lifted his head and looked at her. In the fading firelight, his face was softer than she had ever seen it—the hard lines gentled, the tension eased, the shadows retreating where they belonged.
He fell asleep with his head upon her chest, his hand curled at her hip, and Lorraine lay wakeful in the Duke of Ravenswood’s bed, listening as his breathing deepened and slowed, and thought:This is the most dangerous thing I have ever done. This is the bravest thing I have ever done. This is the best thing I have ever done.
And then, more softly:He does not snore.
She smiled into the darkness, pressed her lips to his hair, and let the warmth of him carry her into the deepest, most untroubled sleep she had known in years.
Chapter Seventeen
“Good morning, miss. You look well rested.”
Mrs Potter’s voice carried the faintest note of curiosity—the tone of a woman who had survived thirty years in service by knowing precisely when to observe and when to look away. Lorraine accepted the cup of tea the housekeeper offered and smiled with what she hoped was convincing composure.
“Thank you, Mrs Potter. I slept well.”
This was, technically, true. She had slept deeply and without dreams, cocooned in warmth, her head upon a pillow that smelled faintly of sandalwood, with the steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath her ear. She had slept as she imagined the fortunate slept—completely, peacefully, with no room for fear.
She had also slept in the wrong bed, in the wrong wing, under entirely improper circumstances.
And she had woken at dawn to birdsong beyond the window and the sensation of Dominic’s arm tightening about her waist in his sleep, drawing her closer with the unconscious possessiveness of a man long unaccustomed to holding anything at all.
Returning to her own room had required a careful, breathless sort of daring. She had slipped from his bed while he still slept—pausing, helplessly, to look at him in the pale grey light: the softened lines of his face, the absence of strain about his mouth, the dark sweep of his lashes against his cheek—and then made her way, barefoot, through the corridors of Rovewood Hall in her nightgown with his dressing gown pulled over it, her heart beating too loudly, her ears straining for any sign of movement.
She had met no one. Had reached her room with mere minutes to spare before Jenny knocked, and dressed with trembling hands before descending to breakfast looking, apparently,‘well rested.’
I have lost my mind, she thought, accepting a piece of toast.I have completely, irrevocably lost my mind, and I am not even sorry.
“Thomas is already in the nursery,” Mrs Potter continued, pouring her own tea and settling opposite Lorraine with the ease of long familiarity. “He was up at first light, drawing birds. I believe he means to catalogue every species on the estate.”
“He has been drawing them for a week now. I begin to think he may have exhausted the subject.”
“Children are persistent creatures. Much like their elders.” Mrs Potter’s gaze lingered—taking in the brightness in Lorraine’s eyes, the colour in her cheeks, whatever else might be read there by one accustomed to reading between silences. “You are happy here, Miss Weston.”
It was not a question.
Lorraine met her gaze and saw not suspicion, but understanding—a quiet recognition from a woman who had watched this house for decades and knew its undercurrents better than anyone.
“I am,” Lorraine said simply. “Very happy.”
