Chapter 15: The Unexpected Guest
The dining hall had been transformed into a stage.
Jennie stood at the threshold, her hand resting lightly on Kai's arm, and watched the servants make their final adjustments. The chandelier blazed with a hundred candles, their flames reflected in the polished surface of the mahogany table until it seemed to glow from within. Fresh peonies spilled from silver vases—white and pink and deepest crimson—their perfume so thick it clung to the back of her throat like honey. The table had been laid for twelve, though only eight would sit down to dine; Lady Manoban believed in the appearance of abundance, even when the guests were few.
"Mother has outdone herself," Kai murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. "She wishes to impress Lady Ashworth."
"So I gathered." Jennie's voice was steady, though her stomach churned. "She has spoken of little else for three days. I fear I know more about Isabella Ashworth's accomplishments than I do about my own husband's childhood."
Kai laughed, the sound warm and unbothered. "You shall like her, I think. Isabella is... spirited. She and Leonid will make an engaging pair."
Engaging, Jennie thought. What a lovely word. What a perfectly neutral, perfectly horrible word.
She let Kai lead her into the room, her lavender silk gown whispering against the floor, her smile fixed in place like a portrait painted for public consumption. She had become very good at smiling. She had been practicing for weeks now, ever since the morning she had found the gallery of portraits, ever since Leonid had looked at her with those dark, burning eyes and said they are not you.
He had not spoken to her since. Not properly. They had passed in corridors, exchanged pleasantries at meals, performed all the rituals of family life with the precision of trained actors. But the blue ribbon lay hidden beneath her pillow, and she had taken to touching it at night, tracing the embroidered word with her fingertips, wondering if she had dreamed the look in his eyes.
She had not dreamed it. She was certain of that.
The other guests arrived in a flutter of silk and perfume—Lady Manoban sweeping in first, resplendent in emerald velvet, followed by Lord Manoban with his silver hair and his air of benevolent authority. Then came the Ashworth party: Sir Reginald, bluff and red-faced, his waistcoat straining across his belly; his wife, Lady Ashworth, thin as a blade and twice as sharp; and their daughter.
Isabella Ashworth was beautiful.
Jennie had known she would be, from the portrait, but the living woman exceeded the painting. Her hair was the color of spun gold, arranged in elaborate curls that caught the candlelight like a halo. Her eyes were the pale blue of a winter sky, clear and assessing, and her gown—a confection of ice-blue silk with silver embroidery—clung to her figure in ways that made the footmen blush. She moved through the room like a queen entering her court, her smile radiant, her laugh like the chiming of bells.
"Lady Manoban," Isabella said, curtsying with practiced grace, "your home is even more magnificent than I remembered. The peonies are divine. You must give me the name of your florist."
"You are too kind, my dear." Lady Manoban beamed, gesturing toward the table. "Please, sit. We have placed you beside Leonid—I do hope that is agreeable."
Isabella's smile did not waver. "I could not ask for a more charming dining companion."
Jennie watched Leonid rise as Isabella approached, watched him take her hand and bow over it with impeccable courtesy. He wore a coat of deep midnight blue, his dark curls tamed for once, and he looked every inch the gentleman his mother wished him to be.
He did not look at Jennie.
She told herself she did not care. She took her seat beside Kai, arranged her napkin, smiled at the servant who filled her wine glass. She made pleasant conversation with Sir Reginald about the weather, with Lady Ashworth about the latest fashions, with Lord Manoban about the state of the turnip harvest. She was the perfect wife, the perfect daughter-in-law, the perfect lady.
But her eyes kept drifting to the other end of the table, where Leonid sat with Isabella beside him, their heads bent together in conversation.
"I hear you ride," Isabella was saying, her voice carrying just enough for Jennie to catch the words. "They say you have the finest horsemanship in the county."
"They exaggerate," Leonid replied, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I merely have the good sense to stay out of my brother's way on the hunting field. He is the accomplished rider."
"Modest as well as handsome," Isabella said, and her laugh was like a struck bell. "You shall make some lucky woman a very fine husband."
Leonid said something in reply, too low for Jennie to hear, and Isabella tilted her head back and laughed again, her hand touching his sleeve as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Jennie's fingers tightened around her wine glass.
"Darling?" Kai's voice broke through her reverie. "Are you quite well? You look a little pale."
"I am perfectly well," she said, forcing brightness into her voice. "I was merely admiring Lady Ashworth's gown. The embroidery is exquisite."
"Isabella has always had excellent taste," Lady Manoban said from the head of the table, clearly pleased with how the evening was unfolding. "Her mother and I were at school together, you know. We have long hoped that our families might be united."
"Indeed," Lady Ashworth said, her thin lips curving into a smile. "The match would be a credit to both houses."
Leonid's expression did not change, but Jennie saw his hand tighten around his fork. He said nothing, and the moment passed, but she felt a strange thrill run through her—a hope she had no right to feel.
The meal continued, course after course. Roast pheasant with truffles, glazed carrots, new potatoes glossed with butter, a wine so old and dark it tasted of the earth itself. The conversation flowed around her, but Jennie heard it only as a distant murmur. She was too aware of Leonid's voice, low and warm, as he responded to Isabella's questions about his travels, his studies, his plans for the estate he had inherited from his grandmother.
"How fascinating," Isabella breathed, leaning closer to him. "You have seen so much of the world. I have barely left the county, I confess. My father thinks travel is wasted on women."
"Your father is a fool," Leonid said, and though the words were blunt, his tone was light enough to take the sting from them. "The world would be a better place if more women were allowed to see it."
Isabella's eyes sparkled. "You flatter me, Lord Leonid. But I do not mind it." She leaned in, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered something Jennie could not hear.
Leonid laughed—a genuine laugh, full and warm, not the polite chuckle he had offered the rest of the table. It was the same laugh Jennie had heard in moonlit gardens, in music rooms, in stolen moments that now felt like dreams.
The sound of it was a blade through her chest.
Her hand moved without her permission, tightening around the stem of her wine glass until she felt the thin crystal strain against her grip. The glass was fragile, delicate, designed to shatter. She could feel it trembling, could feel the pressure building in her palm.
"Jennie?" Kai's voice, concerned. "You are gripping that glass as if it owed you money."
She blinked, released her hold, forced a laugh. "Forgive me. I was lost in thought. The wine is exceptional—I was wondering whether we might persuade your father to share the name of his supplier."
It was a lie, and not a particularly good one, but Kai accepted it with a fond smile, patting her hand. "Anything for you, my love. I shall ask him tomorrow."
At the other end of the table, Isabella said something that made Leonid smile again, that soft, genuine smile that Jennie had once believed was meant only for her. She watched them, the golden girl and the dark-haired man, and felt something cold settle in the pit of her stomach.
She had made her choice. She had agreed to marry Kai, had stood before God and man and sworn to love him until death. She had asked Leonid to leave the sewing room, had sent him away with words that now tasted like ash in her mouth.
This was the consequence. This was the price of duty.
And yet, as Isabella reached out and laid her hand on Leonid's arm, as she leaned in to whisper another private joke, as Leonid's eyes crinkled with amusement, Jennie felt the price becoming more than she could bear.
The glass shattered.
It was a small thing, barely a sound—a faint crack, a splintering of crystal. But in the sudden silence that fell over the table, it might have been a gunshot.
Every head turned toward her. Jennie looked down at her hand, at the jagged shard still clutched between her fingers, at the thin line of blood welling up from her palm, bright red against her pale skin. The wine had spilled across the white tablecloth, a red stain spreading like a wound.
"Good heavens," Lady Manoban exclaimed. "Are you hurt?"
"Just a moment of clumsiness," Jennie said, her voice remarkably steady. She set the broken glass aside, wrapped her napkin around her bleeding hand. "Forgive me. I do not know what came over me."
Kai was at her side immediately, his brow furrowed with concern. "You are bleeding. Let me call for a surgeon."
"It is nothing," she insisted. "A scratch. I shall be perfectly fine."
But Leonid was watching her, his eyes dark and unreadable, and when her gaze met his across the length of the table, she saw something flicker there—a question, perhaps, or a recognition. He had not laughed since Isabella whispered in his ear. He had not even smiled. He was looking at her as if he could see through her skin, through her carefully constructed composure, down to the broken, desperate thing she carried in her chest.
"Perhaps," Isabella said, her voice cutting through the silence with practiced ease, "Lady Manoban ought to retire and have her hand properly dressed. It would be a shame to have such a lovely dinner spoiled." She smiled at Jennie, a smile that did not reach her eyes. "Do not trouble yourself on our account. Lord Leonid and I are perfectly content to entertain ourselves."
The words were a dismissal. An assertion of territory. He is mine now. You may leave.
Jennie rose from her chair, her napkin still pressed to her bleeding palm. "You are too kind, Lady Ashworth. I shall do as you suggest." She turned to Kai, forced a smile. "Do not let me interrupt your dinner. I shall return momentarily."
She did not look at Leonid again. She could not. If she looked at him, she would break, and she could not break—not here, not in front of all these people, not in front of the golden-haired woman who was already laying claim to everything Jennie had never truly had.
She walked out of the dining hall with her head high, her back straight, her steps measured and calm. She did not run. She did not sob. She was a Manoban now, and Manobans did not show weakness.
But when she reached the privacy of the corridor, she stopped, leaned against the wall, and pressed her hands to her face.
The blood was still seeping through the napkin, warm and sticky against her skin. She could feel it pulsing in time with her heartbeat, could feel the sting of the cut, the sharp and certain pain of it.
She had broken the glass. She had broken it because she had seen Leonid smile at another woman, and the sight had been unbearable.
She was married to Kai. She had chosen this life, this duty, this golden cage. And yet here she was, bleeding in a corridor, because the thought of Leonid marrying someone else had driven her to madness.
"What have I done?" she whispered to the empty air. "What have I done?"
There was no answer. Only the distant murmur of voices from the dining hall, the clink of silver on porcelain, the sound of laughter—Isabella's bright and victorious, Leonid's low and warm.
She pushed herself off the wall, straightened her gown, and walked toward the kitchens, where she could wash her wound and her face and her pride. The stone floor was cold beneath her slippers, the air thick with the scent of roasting meat and fresh bread. Servants scattered as she passed, bowing and curtsying, and she nodded to them with distant courtesy.
In the scullery, she found a basin of clean water and a stack of linen cloths. She unwrapped her napkin, grimacing at the sight of her palm—a deep gash, still oozing blood, bits of glass glinting in the wound. She picked the shards out with trembling fingers, hissing at the sting, then plunged her hand into the cold water and watched the blood bloom like red silk.
"Let me."
The voice came from the doorway, and she spun, her heart leaping into her throat.
Leonid stood there, silhouetted against the candlelight from the corridor. He had removed his coat, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his eyes were fixed on her bleeding hand with an intensity that made her breath catch.
"You should not be here," she said. "They will be wondering where you have gone."
"Let them wonder." He crossed the room in three strides, stopping before her. "Give me your hand."
"Leonid—"
"Give me your hand, Jennie."
She hesitated, then extended her trembling hand. He took it gently, his fingers cool against her skin, and examined the wound with surprising tenderness. His hands were warm, calloused from riding, and they cradled her palm as if it were something precious.
"This needs cleaning properly," he said, his voice low. "You will not have any glass left in the wound."
"I removed it all."
"You missed a piece." He reached into the basin, withdrew a piece of linen, and began to dab at the cut with careful strokes. She hissed at the sting, and he murmured an apology, his brow furrowed in concentration. "I am sorry. This will hurt for a moment."
"It already hurts."
"Then I am sorry for that too."
She looked at him, at the way the candlelight caught the planes of his face, the shadow of his jaw, the dark intensity of his eyes. He was so close she could smell him—clean linen, tobacco, a hint of something else, something warm and masculine that made her knees weak.
"Why did you follow me?" she asked.
He did not look up. "Because you were bleeding."
"Kai did not follow me."
"Kai is a good man." His voice was flat, careful. "He trusts that you will return."
"And you do not?"
He paused, his fingers resting on her palm, his thumb tracing a gentle circle over the cut. "I trust that you will do what you must. That has always been your way."
She wanted to pull her hand away, to step back, to put distance between them before she did something unforgivable. But she could not move. She was frozen, bound by the touch of his skin against hers, by the impossible pull of everything they had never been able to say.
"Leonid," she whispered, and her voice broke on his name.
He looked up, and for a moment, the mask slipped. She saw the raw hunger in his eyes, the desperate longing he had been holding at bay for weeks. He was not as composed as she had thought. He was trembling, barely, the way a man trembles when he is trying not to reach for something he knows he cannot have.
"Jennie," he said, his voice rough. "What are we doing?"
She shook her head, the words beyond her. She could feel his breath warm on her face, could see the pulse beating in his throat. He was so close. So close.
"Lord Leonid!" A servant's voice echoed from the corridor, shrill with urgency. "My lord, your mother is asking for you. Lady Ashworth is—"
He stepped back. The moment shattered.
"Tell my mother I shall be with her shortly," he called, his voice steady, even as he let go of Jennie's hand with visible reluctance. "I am attending to a small matter."
The servant's footsteps retreated, and they were alone again, but the magic was broken. Jennie looked down at her hand, where a neat bandage had been tied with practiced skill, and felt the ache of its absence.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
He nodded, not meeting her eyes. "You should return to the dining hall. Kai will be worried."
"And Isabella?"
He paused, his hand on the doorframe. "Isabella is not my concern."
"Is she not?" Jennie's voice was sharp. "She seems to have made you her concern."
He turned, and there was something almost like anger in his eyes. "And if she has? What would you have me do, Jennie? Shall I refuse my mother's match, scandalize the family, risk my brother's anger, all because my sister-in-law cannot bear to see me smile at another woman?"
The words were cruel, and she flinched as if he had struck her.
"That is not fair," she said.
"Life is not fair." He ran a hand through his dark curls, a gesture of exhaustion. "I have spent weeks pretending you are nothing to me. Pretending that I do not think of you every moment of every day. Pretending that I did not leave that ribbon for you in the hope that you would understand what I could not say. And now you stand here, bleeding, looking at me as if I have betrayed you—when you are the one who married my brother."
Tears burned in her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. "I had no choice."
"We always have choices. You chose duty. You chose safety. You chose Kai." He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Tell me, Jennie. Was it worth it? Is this happiness you have found?"
She could not answer. The silence stretched between them, heavy with all the words they had never spoken.
"I thought not," he said, and turned away.
He left her standing in the scullery, her wounded hand pressed to her chest, her heart in pieces at her feet. From the dining hall, she heard the distant sound of laughter—Isabella's bright and victorious, Leonid's, this time, absent.
She stood there for a long moment, listening to the silence, and then she straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and returned to the dining hall to smile at her husband and pretend she was not dying by inches.
The peonies on the table had begun to wilt.