Page 94

Adelaide's bed. Adelaide's room. The previous night returned in fragments: the fire, her stories, her hand in his, the absence of darkness and the presence of something he could not name.

He rolled onto his side. The other half of the bed was empty, the sheet still faintly creased where she had slept. He reached out and touched the indentation, half expecting it to vanish like a trick of the mind.

He closed his eyes, listening for the echo of the nightmare, the panic, the relentless pressure in his chest that had greeted him every morning since his brother's death. He waited for the storm. None came.

He lay back, stunned.

Is this what peace feels like?

He let the feeling linger—unhurried, unguarded—before swinging his legs over the edge of the mattress. He found his boots and pulled them on, tucking his shirt into his trousers with hands that, for the first time in years, did not shake.

A valet would have been scandalized by the state of his hair, but he did not care. He splashed cold water on his face, shrugged into a fresh shirt and waistcoat, and went down the stairs two at a time.

The breakfast room was already alive with light. Adelaide sat at the table in her morning dress, reading a letter while sunlight poured over her shoulders.

He stopped in the doorway and watched her for a moment, feeling the same rush of adrenaline he remembered from his first ascents—danger, anticipation, joy.

She looked up and caught him staring. "You are late, Ravensmere," she said, but her smile was so bright it could have outshone the sun.

"I overslept," he replied, a miracle of an admission.

"Shocking. Shall I ring for the surgeon?"

He crossed to her, not bothering to conceal his haste, and took her hand in his. She had removed her gloves for breakfast, and her palm was warm and alive against his. He bent and pressed his lips to her knuckles, letting the touch linger.

She went still. Her hazel eyes met his, unblinking.

"Thank you, Adelaide," he said.

The smile she offered was smaller, softer, but infinitely more real. "You are most welcome."

He did not let go of her hand as he took the chair beside her.

She poured him coffee, watching the dark liquid swirl in the cup. "I am told by the household that you have never come to breakfast in your shirtsleeves before noon."

"That is an exaggeration," he said. "Sometimes I appear at ten."

"Never with this much cheer."

He sipped the coffee and, to his further astonishment, found he could taste it. The bitterness was sharp, pleasant, alive. "I feel unrecognizable to myself."

"Perhaps you are a changeling," she said. "Or perhaps you are simply human, after all."

He touched her wrist, tracing a small circle with his thumb. "I would prefer to remain unrecognizable, if it means feeling like this."

Her cheeks colored, but she did not look away.

A footman entered, bearing the post on a silver tray. He placed it in front of Adelaide, bowed, and left. The topmost letter had been opened, its seal a familiar navy blue.

"More invitations," Adelaide said. "Lady Ashby's dinner, Lord Pembroke's hunt, and two requests from the Royal Society to attend lectures. They all wish to see if you have grown horns in your absence from the world."

"Have I?"

She ran her gaze up and down his profile, then shook her head, teasing. "Not horns, but something has certainly shifted. You have appeared in public with your wife, for one."

He reached for a slice of toast, but instead caught her hand again, as if afraid she might vanish. "You saved me last night," he said.

She met his gaze. "Did I?"