Leaving Gairos to his play, Rosemary searched for Graham. He was not in the parlor, nor in the hall. As she moved toward the study, the faint creak of floorboards reached her ears.

  Stepping inside, she found him standing near the desk, his waistcoat removed, sleeves rolled up, exposing the sinew and strength of his forearms. The crisp linen of his shirt stretched against his broad shoulders, the fabric slightly open at the collar. His dark trousers, held firm by a sturdy leather belt, accentuated the disciplined strength of his frame. The lamplight cast long shadows, making him appear even taller, his presence filling the space with quiet authority.

  “What is it?” His voice was calm but laced with a slight wariness.

  Rosemary opened her mouth but found herself momentarily at a loss. In the past year, she had barely set foot in the study, and Graham had long since accepted her avoidance as a given.

  Today, however, she had sought him out.

  Graham studied her in silence.

  “If you want to use the study, I’ll leave,” he said after a moment.

  It was habit now. She had always made it clear that she preferred the space to herself.

  But Rosemary did not move aside. The space between them had never felt so small. If he took even half a step forward, they would touch.

  Perhaps it was guilt, but for the first time, she did not find Graham so unapproachable. Up close, the strong lines of his face, the sharp brows, the straight nose, the solidity of his form—none of it was unpleasant.

  On impulse, she raised her hand and pressed it against his chest.

  Graham’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. He looked down at her hand, then back at her with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, as if questioning whether she had taken leave of her senses.

  Rosemary withdrew her hand abruptly. She owed him an apology, but she had never imagined it would be this difficult.

  She pretended that nothing happened, pinched the fabric of her dress near the collar, and lifted it slightly, inhaling.

  “Do I smell?”

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Graham halted, his gaze sharpening. “Did you bathe in the city?”

  She met his eyes without hesitation. “I didn’t even change my clothes.”

  Something flickered in his expression—something softer. He did not answer but turned on his heel and left the study. Moments later, the sound of clattering and the rush of pouring water echoed from the kitchen.

  Soon after, a servant appeared at her door, informing her that fresh clothing had been laid out and that a bath awaited her.

  Rosemary exhaled a soft laugh.

  The warm water was a welcome relief as she sank into the tub, letting the heat seep into her weary limbs. The room was dimly lit, the scent of lavender rising with the steam. The tub was deep, the water filled nearly to the brim, a rare indulgence. She ran a washcloth along her arms, watching the grime of travel dissolve into the water.

  She had not realized how tense she had been until now. Her muscles ached from the days of unrest, her mind still tangled in the events of the past weeks. She leaned her head back, closing her eyes for a moment, allowing herself this fleeting sense of ease.

  Halfway through the wash, the door creaked open.

  Graham.

  Instinctively, she turned her back, crossing her arms over her chest, her wet hair clinging to her shoulders. The water sloshed softly as she shifted.

  But Graham did not even glance at her. He stepped inside with his usual measured composure and set a small wooden box beside the tub.

  “Use this,” he said simply.

  Without another word, he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.

  Rosemary hesitated before reaching for the box. A fine, imported soap—fragrant and smooth to the touch. A luxury few could afford for bathing.

  She ran her fingers over the polished surface of the box, her lips curving into the faintest smile. He had not needed to do this.

  Then, shaking her head, she let out a quiet sigh and sank deeper into the warm embrace of the water, letting it wash away more than just the dirt of travel.

  After finishing her bath, Rosemary stepped outside and found Gairos running barefoot across the courtyard. His small feet, pale and soft, padded against the cool stone with childlike delight.

  “Do you want a bath?” she asked, amused.

  Gairos shook his head. “No, Nana washed me yesterday.”

  Rosemary hummed in response, then glanced toward the house. “Where is your father?”

  “Meeting with Mr. Sutton and Miss Silva,” Gairos answered without hesitation.

  Rosemary froze mid-step. “Miss Silva?”

  She turned back, frowning. “Who is Miss Silva?”

  Gairos shrugged. “I don’t know. But she calls Mr. Sutton uncle.”

  His simple logic made her pause. He did not know Miss Silva personally, so he provided only what little information he had.

  Rosemary, however, knew exactly who Miss Silva was.

  A memory surfaced—whispers among the servants, a name spoken in hushed tones. Miss Silva had never concealed her ambition to become the mistress of this household. Once, Rosemary had not cared. At that time, she had been consumed by her own desires, blinded by her longing for another.

  But now—now, she had to care.

  As this realization settled over her, movement at the courtyard door caught her attention. She turned, just in time to see a young woman standing there, her bright eyes widening in disbelief.

  Miss Silva’s lips parted slightly as she took in the sight before her. “You’re really back?”