Page 32 of A Legacy of Lies

She slipped inside and closed the door with care. For a long moment, she stood there, her back to the wood, her breath uneven.

She touched her lips. They still tingled. Not from surprise. Not even from pleasure, but from wanting more.

Her knees gave, and she sank to the edge of the bed. The fire had nearly gone out. The coals were a soft red whisper in the hearth.

She stared into them. “If Nathaniel learns the truth, I lose everything.”

But even as she said it, she knew what terrified her more. She had already given something away. And she had done it willingly.

Nathaniel did not move. Behind him, the house exhaled, glass trembling faintly in its frame. He listened for her retreating steps and heard only the echo of her breath.

He lowered the candle and stared at his hand. She had gripped him there. Clung to him. Not to the wall. To him. The air still held her. Her heat, her nearness, the moment she had let him in.

He had meant only to confront her. Instead, he had kissed her. And she had let him. He closed his eyes. The echo of her voice haunted his ribs more than any footfall in the night.

And now she was gone.

Nathaniel walked the hall twice more, each turn slower than the last. His candle sputtered. The fire in him did not.

At the end of the passage, he paused. The flame guttered, and the draft that touched it came from nowhere he could name. Somewhere within the walls, the house shifted, a sigh, a settling, or perhaps the faintest murmur of approval. Hartleigh, watchful as ever, had taken note.

Sleep would not come. Not tonight.

Chapter Thirteen

The front drawing room carried the importance of ceremony. A low fire burned steadily in the grate, its light fighting the gray that pressed against the windows. Candle sconces threw narrow bands of gold and shadow across the plaster walls, turning every carved flourish into something watchful.

Clara set a tray upon the low table, porcelain trembling faintly against porcelain. She steadied the cups, her shawl sliding from one shoulder as she bent to arrange the spoons. Eleanor sat straight-backed in her chair, silver-topped cane at her side, her gaze sharp enough to slice through the fog beyond the glass.

Nathaniel stood near the mantel, hands clasped behind him, every inch the duke. The precision of his stance did not hide the strain beneath it.

From the hall came the muffled thud of the knocker and Percival’s composed voice announcing the caller who had braved storm and mud to “pay respects” to Hartleigh’s new master.

The door opened, and with it came a gust of wet air and arrogance.

A man stepped inside with a bow too deep to be humble. His coat gleamed with London tailoring, his waistcoat too bright for country restraint. A fob chain swung like a promise made to be broken.

“Your Grace,” he said smoothly. “Permit me to offer my respects on your elevation. Hartleigh must be a burden as well as an honor.”

Nathaniel inclined his head. “You are kind, sir. You have the advantage of me.”

“Herbert Davenport, of London,” he replied, brushing a fleck of invisible dust from his sleeve. “I weary of the city’s damp and thought it my duty to ride out.”

He bowed to Eleanor with polished ease. “Lady Eleanor, time has not dimmed your grace. Hartleigh shines brighter for your presence.”

Eleanor’s mouth curved the smallest degree. “You ride far for compliments, Mr. Davenport.”

His smile thinned but held. Then his gaze found Clara. “And this young lady—Miss…?”

“Whitmore,” she said evenly. “I assist Lady Eleanor.”

Her calm drew a spark behind Davenport’s eyes. “Then Hartleigh is doubly blessed.”

Nathaniel’s jaw flexed once. Clara’s composure steadied him in ways he could not admit.

Davenport turned back toward Eleanor. “I cannot tell you, Lady Eleanor, how London still speaks of you, your discernment, your taste. I heard your name linked to one of the Morton auctions. A Vienna piece, was it not?”

Clara stilled by the tray. Eleanor’s fingers tightened on the cane. “Some treasures, Mr. Davenport, are wiser left to memory.”