Chapter 8: The Nurse's Arrival
The morning light crept through the high arched window like an unwelcome guest, pale and accusatory. Jennie lay in her own bed, staring at the canopy above, her body still humming with the memory of his touch. Every inch of her skin remembered him—the weight of his hands, the heat of his mouth, the way he had groaned her name against her throat as if it were a prayer.
She pressed her thighs together beneath the sheets, the ache between them a sweet, secret reminder.
A soft knock at her door made her start.
"My lady?" A maid's voice, hesitant. "Lady Manoban requests your presence in the east drawing room. She says it is urgent."
Urgent. The word coiled in Jennie's stomach like a serpent. She forced herself to rise, to dress, to pin her hair with hands that trembled only slightly. The reflection in the looking glass stared back at her—composed, elegant, the perfect picture of a noblewoman. But her lips were still swollen from his kisses, her skin still flushed with the ghost of his touch.
She hoped no one would notice.
The east drawing room was flooded with morning sun, the light catching the dust motes that danced in the air like tiny golden spirits. Lady Manoban stood by the window, her back straight as a blade, a triumphant smile curving her thin lips. Beside her stood a young woman—no older than Jennie herself—with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes the color of winter moss.
"Ah, Jennie, dear." Lady Manoban gestured her forward with an imperious wave. "Come, come. I have wonderful news."
Jennie approached slowly, her gaze fixed on the unknown woman. She was beautiful in a quiet, unassuming way—delicate features, porcelain skin, a mouth that curved in a demure smile that did not quite reach her eyes.
"This is Elara," Lady Manoban announced, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "She has come from the Whitmore estate, where she served the Countess for six years. She is trained in the healing arts, skilled in the preparation of tinctures and poultices, and utterly devoted to her duties."
Elara curtsied, her movements fluid and practiced. "My lady."
"I have summoned her to attend to Leonid." Lady Manoban's smile widened. "His recovery has been slow, and I fear my son needs more attentive care than I can provide. Elara will see to his every need—his meals, his medicines, his bandages. Everything."
The words landed like stones in Jennie's chest. His every need.
"That is—" Jennie swallowed, forcing her voice to remain steady. "That is most thoughtful, Lady Manoban."
"Is it not?" The older woman clasped her hands together. "I have been remiss, I fear, in my duties as a mother. But no longer. Leonid shall have the best care, and we shall have him on his feet in no time."
Jennie nodded, her smile painted on, her heart a cold, hard knot.
She excused herself as soon as she could, claiming a headache, and retreated to her chambers. But the image of Elara followed her—that quiet confidence, that demure smile, those eyes that held secrets.
Leonid's sickroom was as she had left it the night before, but different. The change was subtle—a new arrangement of pillows, a vase of fresh flowers on the nightstand, the lingering scent of lavender where there had been only tobacco and bergamot. And there, seated beside his bed, was Elara.
She was feeding him grapes.
Jennie stood in the doorway, frozen, watching as Elara's slender fingers pressed a plump green grape to Leonid's lips. He took it, his eyes fixed on the woman before him, and Jennie felt something sharp and cold twist in her gut.
"Ah, Lady Jennie." Elara rose smoothly, curtsying with practiced grace. "I did not hear you enter. Forgive me."
"'Tis no matter." Jennie's voice came out cool, controlled. "I came to check on Leonid's recovery."
"He is much improved this morning." Elara smiled, gesturing to the tray of fruit beside the bed. "He has eaten well, and his fever has broken. I believe he will be on his feet within the week."
"Is that so."
Leonid's gaze finally moved to Jennie, and for a moment, the mask slipped. Something flickered in those dark eyes—guilt, perhaps, or longing. He opened his mouth to speak, but Elara was already moving, gathering the tray, adjusting his pillows.
"I shall leave you to visit," Elara said, her voice honey-sweet. "But do not tire him, my lady. He still needs his rest."
She curtsied once more and slipped from the room, leaving a trail of lavender in her wake.
The door clicked shut, and the silence that followed was thick enough to choke on.
"She seems—" Jennie's voice caught. "Thorough."
"She is." Leonid's voice was careful, measured. "My mother's doing. She means well."
"Does she."
He reached for her, his fingers brushing her wrist. "Jennie—"
"Don't." She stepped back, her hands clasped tightly before her. "Don't tell me it means nothing. Don't tell me she is merely a servant. I saw the way you looked at her."
"I looked at her the way I look at any woman who feeds me grapes." A ghost of a smile played at his lips. "With mild surprise and moderate gratitude."
"Your mother brought her here to attend to you. To see to your every need." The words tasted bitter on her tongue. "And from the looks of it, she has been most attentive."
Leonid sighed, shifting against the pillows. "Jennie. Come here. Please."
She hesitated, her pride warring with her desire. But the pull of him was stronger than her wounded vanity, and she crossed the room, perching on the edge of the bed with her back straight and her chin high.
"You are jealous," he observed, and there was a note of wonder in his voice. "Jealous of a servant."
"I am not jealous." The lie was thin, transparent. "I am merely—concerned. Your mother is clearly trying to—"
"My mother is trying to control me." His hand found hers, his fingers intertwining with her own. "She always has. She sees you as a threat, Jennie. A distraction. So she has brought in her own distraction, hoping I will forget you."
"That is hardly—"
"Do you think I want her?" He squeezed her hand, his eyes holding hers. "Do you think any woman in this world could compare to you? I have wanted you for years. I have dreamed of you, ached for you, lain awake at night imagining your face. And now that I have had you—" His voice dropped, low and rough. "Now that I know what it feels like to be inside you, to taste you, to hear you cry out my name—do you truly believe a servant girl with pretty eyes could make me forget that?"
The heat in his words washed over her, melting the ice around her heart. She looked at him, at the intensity in his gaze, and felt her resolve crumbling.
"She was touching you," Jennie whispered. "Feeding you. And the way she looked at you—"
"Elara looks at every man that way." He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "It is her manner. It means nothing."
"It means something to me."
"Then I shall send her away." His voice was firm. "I shall tell my mother I require no further attendance, that I am perfectly capable of healing on my own."
"And if she insists?"
"Then I shall insist harder." He pulled her closer, until she was leaning over him, her hair falling in a dark curtain around them. "I have spent my entire life doing what my mother expects. I will not spend another moment of it denying myself the only thing I have ever truly wanted."
His mouth found hers, and she melted into him, her jealousy dissolving under the heat of his kiss. His hand slid into her hair, cradling her skull, and she felt herself drowning in him all over again.
"Last night—" she breathed against his lips. "Was it—"
"It was everything." He kissed her again, harder. "It was the first moment of my life I felt truly alive. And I want more. I want every night, every morning, every hour I can steal with you."
"Your mother will suspect."
"Let her." His hands roamed her back, pressing her closer. "Let her suspect all she likes. I care not. I care for nothing but you, Jennie. Only you."
She should have pulled away. She should have been sensible, cautious, aware of the danger. But with his hands on her and his voice in her ear, she could not remember why caution had ever seemed important.
"Tonight," she whispered. "I will come again tonight."
"I will be waiting." His thumb traced her lower lip. "I am always waiting."
A knock at the door shattered the moment.
"Master Leonid?" Elara's voice, soft and deferential. "I have brought your midday tonic. Shall I come in?"
Leonid's jaw tightened, but his voice was calm. "One moment, if you please."
Jennie rose, smoothing her gown, her heart hammering. She caught his eye, and he gave her a half-smile that was equal parts apology and promise.
"Tonight," he repeated.
"Tonight," she echoed, and slipped out the side door, just as Elara entered through the main one.
The corridor was empty, the house quiet. Jennie pressed her back against the wall, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The jealousy had faded, replaced by something far more dangerous—a desperate, consuming need that she could not name and could not control.
She was falling.
And she feared there would be no ground to catch her.
The afternoon passed in a haze. Jennie took her meals in her chambers, pleading a megrim, and spent the hours staring at the ceiling, replaying every touch, every kiss, every whispered word. Her body still ached with the memory of him, and she found herself counting the hours until darkness would allow her to slip back to his room.
But when she finally emerged, as the sun began to sink below the horizon, she found Kai in the hallway, leaning against the wall with a bouquet of roses in his hand.
"Jennie." He smiled, that warm, easy smile that had once made her heart flutter. "I have been looking for you all day. You have been hiding from me."
"I have been unwell." She forced a smile. "A headache."
"Ah." He stepped closer, pressing the roses into her hands. "I was worried. I have been so consumed with business of late—I fear I have neglected you terribly."
"'Tis no matter." The words came automatically, the polite response she had learned to give. "I understand your duties."
"You are too gracious." He cupped her cheek, his palm warm, and she had to resist the urge to flinch. "I promise, once Father's affairs are settled, I shall make it up to you. We shall go to the theatre, take a carriage ride through the park—whatever you desire."
"That sounds lovely."
He leaned in, kissing her forehead, and she felt nothing but a cold, hollow emptiness. This man, who was supposed to be her future, felt like a stranger. And the man she could not have—the man who was forbidden to her—felt like home.
"I must go," Kai said, glancing at his pocket watch. "A meeting with Father's solicitor. But I shall see you at dinner, yes?"
"Of course."
He kissed her once more and was gone, leaving her alone in the corridor with the scent of roses and the weight of her own betrayal.
She looked down at the bouquet, at the perfect, blood-red petals, and felt tears prick at her eyes. She was engaged to one brother and in love with another. She was living a lie, and every moment she spent with Leonid made the lie more complicated, more dangerous, more impossible to escape.
But she could not stop.
She would not stop.
The roses went into a vase in her chamber, beautiful and useless, a reminder of everything she was supposed to want and everything she could not have.
And when the house fell silent, she rose from her bed and slipped through the shadows, back to the only place in the world that felt real.
He was waiting, as he had promised.
The candle had burned low, casting long shadows across the room. The book lay forgotten on the nightstand, and his eyes found hers the moment she crossed the threshold.
"I thought you might not come." His voice was low, rough with something that might have been fear.
"I will always come." She crossed the room, shedding her robe as she went, letting it fall to the floor in a pool of silk. "Always."
She climbed onto the bed, straddling him, and felt his hands find her hips as if they had been waiting for her all along.
"I saw Kai in the hallway," she whispered. "He gave me roses."
"And what did you do with them?"
"I put them in a vase." She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "Then I came here."
He exhaled, a shuddering breath, and his hands tightened on her waist.
"I love you," he said, the words harsh and raw. "I love you so much it terrifies me."
"I know." She kissed him, soft and slow. "I love you too."
And in the flickering candlelight, she surrendered to him once more, burying herself in his warmth, his passion, his love. She did not think of the morning, or the future, or the inevitable moment when everything would fall apart.
She thought only of now.
Of him.
Of this.
And when he held her afterward, his chest pressed against her back, his breath warm against her neck, she let herself believe—just for a moment—that this could last forever.
"I have been thinking," he murmured against her skin. "About us. About how we might—"
"Don't." She turned in his arms, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't think about the future. It will only bring pain."
"We cannot hide forever, Jennie."
"I know." She closed her eyes, refusing to let the tears fall. "But we can hide for tonight."
He was silent for a long moment. Then he nodded, his arms tightening around her.
"Tonight," he agreed. "And tomorrow night. And every night after that, until the world tears us apart."
"It will tear us apart eventually."
"Then let it." He pressed a kiss to her hair. "I will take what I can get, for as long as I can get it."
As dawn crept over the horizon, they lay tangled in each other, the weight of their love and their lies pressing down upon them. They had stolen this moment, this fragile, forbidden thing, and they would hold onto it for as long as they could.
But in the distance, the cocks crowed, and the world waited to reclaim them.