The carriage ride home from Farrington House was quiet. It was not the comfortable silence of the library, where the only sound was the scratching of quills and the turning of pages. It was not the companionable silence of a shared breakfast, where the lack of words felt like a mutual understanding.
This silence was heavy. It was suffocating. It pressed against the windows like the dark, damp London fog, isolating them from the rest of the world.
The interior of the Hamilton carriage was upholstered in plush, dark velvet, designed for comfort and luxury. But tonight, to Delaney, it felt like a cage. The air was thick with tension, smelling of old leather, the fading scent of her own jasmine perfume, and the sharp, cold anger radiating from the man sitting across from her.
