BY THE TIME THE LIGHT had waned from the room, Clara's tears had long dried upon her cheeks, though their trace yet lingered in the soreness of her eyes and the ache in her chest. The chamber, once dimly warm, had grown chill with the absence of the fire; only the pale light of the moon slipped through the heavy curtains, laying its ghostly hue upon the coverlet.
She lay curled on the bed, her back turned to the door, clutching the embroidered quilt close as though it might shield her from all the world. Her breath came unevenly, betraying the remains of her grief, and every now and then, a faint sniffle escaped her despite her best effort to still it.
She missed home. Oh, how bitterly she missed it. For a fleeting moment, she had considered abandoning all pretense, confessing herself unfit for this life of politeness and duty, and begging to be sent home.
Her hand tightened on the handkerchief, now damp from tears. She had tried—Heaven knows she had tried—to regain composure, to convince herself that such weakness did not become a lady of her standing. But the heart, she thought bitterly, was a far more rebellious creature than the mind.
A sound at the door—soft, but distinct—made her heart leap painfully.
"Lady Evelina."
The voice was low, unmistakably masculine, and so suddenly close that she froze. Adrian.
Her heart faltered, and in the next instant, dread swept over her. Had he heard her weeping? She dared not move. Instead, she buried her face deeper into the handkerchief, willing herself into stillness, feigning the quiet breathing of sleep.
The door closed softly. Footsteps—measured, unhurried—crossed the floorboards.
"Are you asleep, Lady Evelina?"
Clara hesitated. To remain silent would be to risk suspicion. To speak might reveal what she wished to conceal. After a moment, she whispered, scarcely audible even to herself, "No."
Her voice trembled despite her effort, and she cursed it silently.
He said nothing for a moment. Then, she heard the faint scrape of the poker and the gentle crackle of rekindled flames. The room stirred to life with a warm, flickering glow. She curled more tightly beneath the coverlet, her face turned away.
"You did not come down for dinner," he said at last, his tone quiet, almost hesitant.
"I had no appetite," she murmured.
There was a pause, and then—"Are you unwell?" His voice was nearer now.
Her pulse quickened. "I am quite well," she said, perhaps too quickly.
"I could have the servants bring something for you to eat."
"That will not be necessary." She shifted, turning slightly away, as if the movement itself could conceal her.
But then came his next question—soft, uncertain, and impossibly perceptive.
"Have you been crying?"
The words struck her like a chord of shame. She stiffened, willing herself to stillness. "No."
"You have," he said, almost to himself, and she felt rather than saw him sit beside her. The mattress dipped gently under his weight, and before she could resist, his hand was upon her shoulder.
"Please, don't—" she began, but the plea died on her lips as he turned her toward him.
The sight of his face—his earnest brown eyes wide with quiet alarm—unraveled the fragile composure she had so carefully built.
"What's wrong? Did something happen?"
She looked away, blinking furiously, but the tears came all the same, welling hot and helpless. One slipped down her cheek, then another, and soon she was trembling once more, unable to hold them back.
"Evelina," he said softly, the first time he had ever spoken her name without formality. "What has happened?"
His voice—low, filled with genuine concern—only deepened her undoing. With a small, broken sound, she reached for him, her arms slipping around his neck before she could think better of it. She hated herself for it, hated how weak she must seem, yet she could not stop.
To her surprise, he did not pull away. His arms came around her with quiet strength, one hand resting gently against her back, the other smoothing her hair as though she were some fragile thing in need of comfort.
"Hush," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "It's all right. You're safe. Hush now."
His voice was steady, tender in a way she had never heard before. And in that warmth—his scent of pine and smoke, the solid beat of his heart beneath her cheek—she felt something within her ease.
Time slipped by unnoticed. When at last her sobs subsided and her breath steadied, she drew back slightly, her fingers trembling as they slipped from his coat.
He looked down at her, eyes still searching her face, his expression softened with a mixture of worry and curiosity. For a moment, she could not look away.
The silence stretched between them, delicate as spun glass.
Then, catching herself, she turned aside, wiping at her face in quiet mortification. "Forgive me," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I… I should not have—"
He only shook his head gently. "You need not apologize."
But Clara could not bear his gaze any longer. Her heart still beat too wildly, and the air between them felt heavy.
She drew the coverlet up once more, her hands shaking slightly. "Thank you," she said softly, her eyes fixed on the fire.