Chapter 6: The Reckoning in the Study
The sting of the bruise was a welcome anchor in the swirling quiet of the hallway.She pushed off the wall, the ghost of his disapproval clinging to her like cobwebs.The house felt different when he wasn’t in it—a painted set waiting for its principal actor.
She found herself not in her room, but in the conservatory.The humid air smelled of damp earth and forced blossoms, a cloying sweetness that made her teeth ache. She stood before a rose, its petals too perfect, and remembered the wild brambles of the garden where he’d last cornered her.
“He asked after you, you know.”
Rosé’s voice was soft as she entered, carrying a basket of mending.She set it down on a wrought-iron table, the clink of scissors breaking the stillness.
“Who did?” Jennie asked, though she knew.She didn’t turn from the rose.
“Lord Leonid. Before he left.” Rosé picked up a stocking, her needle flashing. “He told Cook to save some of the apple tart from supper. Said you’d sulk if there wasn’t any left.”
A laugh, sharp and brittle, escaped Jennie.She plucked the perfect rose head, crushing its velvet in her palm. “He thinks a tart fixes it.”
“It’s not about the tart,” Rosé murmured, her eyes on her darning. “It’s a note. A little flag stuck in the ground saying ‘I am still here.’”
Jennie looked at the maid, this gentle girl who saw too much.The crushed petals dripped from her hand. “He’s not here, though. He’s gone. He always goes.”
Later, the summons came as the long afternoon shadows bled across the carpets.Marco required her in his study. The walk there was a slow march to the gallows, each footfall on the Persian runner muffled and final.
His study was a tomb of ambition, every bookbinding and ledger a brick in the wall of his legacy.He stood by the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantel, staring into the low flames. He did not turn when she entered.
“Sit,” he said.
She remained standing, just inside the door.Her heart was a frantic bird in a cage of ribs.
“Your presence has become untenable,” he began, his voice devoid of the morning’s heat. This was colder, a surgical pronouncement. “You are a fracture in this household’s reputation. A distraction my son cannot afford.”
“I am not his distraction,” she said, the words ash in her mouth.“I am his.”
Marco finally turned.His face was in shadow, the firelight etching the severe lines of his profile. “You are a ward. A charity case. And that charity has reached its end.” He moved to his desk, picking up a single sheet of vellum. “Baronet Gable. A widower of fifty-three with an estate in the north. He is… pragmatic. He requires a young wife to manage his household and provide an heir. He is aware of your… origins, and is willing to overlook them.”
The air left the room.Jennie heard the crackle of the fire, the pound of her own blood. “You are selling me.”
“I am settling you,” he corrected, placing the paper down with finality. “It is a favourable match, given your circumstances. The contracts are prepared. You will depart in three weeks.”
The walls seemed to bow inward. The musky scent of the old books turned cloying, suffocating. She saw not a room, but the slick, freezing alleyways of her childhood, the hunger that gnawed like a living thing.
“I would rather starve,” she whispered, the words scraping her throat raw.
“A romantic notion,” Marco said, a thin smile touching his lips. “One that lasts until the first frost. You have forgotten what the world is like for a woman with nothing. I have not. You will go, or you will be put out with the clothes on your back. There is no third option.”
He had planned this.Signed the papers while she was throwing scenes at breakfast. She was already gone. The realization was a physical blow, a dissolution of the ground beneath her feet.
She turned and fled, the polished door handle slipping in her sweat-slick palm.The dark hallway yawned before her, a tunnel. Her vision blurred, hot and liquid, and she ran blind, the silk of her skirts tangling around her legs.
She collided with a wall of wool and warmth, the impact knocking a gasp from her lungs.Strong hands closed around her upper arms, steadying her. The scent of him—sunlight on linen, saddle leather, and something clean and sharp like winter air—filled her senses.
Leonid.
He held her there, her body nearly flush against his, her frantic breathing the only sound in the corridor.His gaze scanned her face, taking in the wild eyes, the tear-tracks she hadn’t felt, the utter wreckage of her composure. The cold mask he wore in the study, at the table, was gone. In its place was something stark, unsettled, and alive.
“Jennie.” Her name in his mouth was not a reprimand. It was a question, low and urgent.
The dam within her broke. A choked, broken sound escaped her, and she felt his fingers tighten on her arms, not to hurt, but to hold her together.