Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Emily blinked rapidly, shaking her head as if to clear a lingering dream.
She had to be seeing things.
She stood at the threshold of the nursery, the early morning light filtering through the heavy drapes in soft, golden slats, and there, in the center of the bed, was a sight she hadn't prepared for in a thousand years.
Theodore was fast asleep, his frame curled awkwardly, but protectively around Frederick.
Fully dressed, above the blankets, his back against the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him, and his head dropped forward at a particular angle.
Frederick was tucked against his side with the boneless, absolute trust of a sleeping child, his small face turned into Theodore's arm, one hand curled loosely around the fabric of his shirt.
She looked away. She looked back. The scene remained exactly as it had been.
Slowly, Emily moved forward on instinct, her heart hammering against her ribs. Her first thought was to check Frederick’s fever. She leaned over Theodore's sleeping form, reaching out to press the back of her hand to Frederick’s forehead to check his temperature.
But before her fingers could make contact, a hand shot out with the swift, mindless precision of a hunter.
Theodore caught her wrist.
She froze.
He was still asleep. She could see that immediately, the slow, even breathing, the weight of him still entirely relaxed, the eyes still closed. Slowly, as if guided by some deep, subconscious instinct for comfort, he drew her hand down.
His head turned toward her hand. She felt his breath against her knuckles, warm, and then he did something that undid her entirely.
He brought her hand toward him, still in his sleep, tucking it against his chest. He snuggled into her hand, pulling it closer until it was pinned against the heat of his chest, his cheek resting perfectly in her palm as if she were a pillow made specifically for him.
The sensory overload hit Emily like a physical blow.
She had to bend low, her knees hitting the rug by the bedside as she was pulled into his orbit.
The heat of him was staggering, radiating through her skin and sending a violent swarm of butterflies through her stomach.
Her heart wasn't just beating; it was thrumming, a frantic, tingling rhythm that made her fingers tremble.
She looked at him.
At his face in the early morning light. At his jaw, which was sharper than usual without the animation of expression over it. At his hair, which had given up entirely and fallen across his forehead, dark gold and entirely without order, curling slightly at the temple.
She had never seen him like this. She had seen him charming, infuriating, sharp, teasing, and, on one occasion, on a staircase, unexpectedly gentle.
She had never seen him unguarded. She had never seen him simply asleep, unaware, and human in the way that everyone was human when nobody was watching.
She thought, with a clarity she could not have produced at any other hour, that he was the most unreasonably handsome person she had ever been this close to.
His heartbeat was very steady under her palm.
She was going to have to remove her hand.
She was going to do that in a moment.
A dangerous, reckless urge rose within her. She knew she should pull away, but the pull of him was stronger.
She was looking at the piece of hair on his forehead, the one that had fallen across it, the one that was obscuring the line of his brow, and she had a thought that was entirely involuntary and entirely inconvenient, which was that she wanted to move it.
She wanted to reach up with her free hand and brush it back from his forehead so she could see his face properly.
She recognized this thought as that of a person who had entirely lost their grip on the situation and needed to regain it immediately.
She reached up anyway.
Slowly, her free hand rose. Her breath hitched in her throat as she reached out, her fingers barely grazing the air before she finally touched him.
She gently swept the stray lock of hair away from his forehead, intending to tuck it behind his ear so she could see the full clarity of his face.
She wanted to memorize this version of him, the one who took care of feverish boys in the middle of the night.
But the moment her skin brushed his temple, Theodore’s eyelashes flickered.
His eyes snapped open, clear and startlingly blue.
Emily let out a strangled gasp, the spell shattering instantly. Panic surged through her, cold and sharp. She tried to pry her hand from his grip, her movements frantic as she scrambled to find her footing.
“I— I was just—”
She moved so quickly to get away that her slipper caught on the edge of the rug. She stumbled backward, losing her balance entirely, and fell with a dull thud onto the nursery floor, her chest heaving as she stared up at him in utter mortification.
She looked up at Theodore from the floor.
He looked down at her from the bed.
“Emily?” Theodore groaned.
Emily scrambled to her feet, her face burning as she smoothed her rumpled gown. She did not look at Theodore. “Good morning, Your Grace.”
“Could we…” she said, with great composure. “…speak in the corridor. I do not want to wake him.”
Theodore didn't move for a moment, staring at her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
Then, he let out a long breath and climbed out of bed.
He looked entirely disheveled; his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, his waistcoat was missing, and he ran his fingers through his hair to push the disheveled locks back from his face.
They stepped into the corridor, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind them.
“What happened?” Emily asked, her hands twisting together. “Why were you in there? Did something happen in the night?”
“I found him wandering the halls at midnight, Emily,” he said, his voice low. “It was dark, it was late, and he was out of his mind with fever, stumbling toward the stairs.”
Emily flinched. “I... I thought he was asleep. I had just left him —”
“Why was I not told he was unwell?” he interrupted, taking a step toward her.
“Why did I have to find out by stumbling over a sick child in the shadows? I could have sent for the family physician. We could have had a specialist here. Instead, I find that my own house has decided to keep me in the dark as if I were some stranger guest in this house.”
“I am sorry,” she whispered, though she lifted her chin defensively. “I truly am, and I thank you for taking care of him, I do. But I didn't want to trouble you. I had the situation under control, and you have been so busy with the transition —”
“It doesn't matter if you think you have it under control,” Theodore’s voice rose slightly before he caught himself.
“We are married now. Whether by choice or by circumstance, we are a single household. Anything that concerns Frederick concerns me. He is a little boy, Emily. His health is not a trouble to be managed; it is a priority. I should be informed of everything.”
Emily felt a wave of guilt, but it was quickly eclipsed by her own stubborn pride. She didn't want him to feel obligated to a life he hadn't asked for.
“I said I was sorry,” she said, her voice turning cool.
“But truly, you do not have to concern yourself with Frederick.
He is my responsibility. I can take care of him.
You don't have to worry about being burdened by us anymore.
I will make sure I keep a tighter rein on things so he doesn't trouble you again.”
Theodore froze. He took a slow, deliberate step back, as if she had physically pushed him. The fury in his eyes vanished, replaced by a look of deep, stinging offense that caught Emily completely off guard.
“I do not like what you just said,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “I do not like it at all.”
Emily blinked, confused by his reaction. “I was only trying to say that you are free of the obligation —”
“Frederick is my ward now,” Theodore snapped, his jaw tight. “By law, and by the virtue of the name he now carries in this house. He is not a trouble to be reigned in, and I have every right to involve myself with him.”
“All right,” she said almost immediately, her voice small and trembling. She was flustered, her thoughts racing to keep up with the sudden, stern intensity in his eyes. She pressed her hands together in front of her. “I understand. I hear you.”
He looked at her.
She wanted to reach for him. That was the thing she was not going to examine.
Some instinct had moved in her, the instinct to place a hand on his arm, to say sorry, properly, to close the distance between them that she had been carefully maintaining, but she stopped herself. Pressed her hands together more firmly.
“I understand,” she continued, her voice gaining a sharp, defensive edge to mask her vulnerability.
“But we would not be having this conversation now if you had simply talked to me when I asked you to on the stairs. We have not discussed our arrangement, Your Grace. I do not know what anything means in this house because you have spent the last two days hiding in your study.”
Theodore went to speak, but she pressed on, the words tumbling out in a rush.
“I am trying to navigate this without tripping over your pride. I mean, technically, you never asked for any of this. You never asked for this marriage, or for a ready-made family, or for the burden of a wife, and a boy who is far too frail. I am simply trying to give you the space you surely must want.”
She didn't even realize her eyes were welling up until she felt the sudden, warm ghost of his touch. Theodore stepped into her space, his fingers grazing her skin as he gently wiped a stray tear from her cheek.