Lady Rose Adam made it all the way back to her chambers without a single flicker of emotion breaking through her carefully maintained mask.
Her spine was straight, her steps measured, her chin high. Not a single servant dared to meet her eyes, let alone question the way her hand was clenched white around her skirts.
But the moment she pushed the door shut behind her and the latch clicked, all that composure shattered like glass.
Her breathing quickened, shoulders trembling as the memory replayed in her mind—Kyle Armstrong, standing there so casually, as if he hadn't been the reason she had been ridiculed in every drawing room in the capital.
His tone, his manner, the faint glimmer of knowing amusement in his eyes—it made her blood boil. With a strangled noise, she swept an ornate vase from her desk, sending it shattering against the wall.
Books, cushions, a silver trinket box—all went flying in a fit of rage.
