Chapter 3
The world outside Lady Louisa’s bedchamber conspired against her rest, refusing to let her sleep off the indignities of the night.
Below, a clock chimed four in the morning—late enough that any self-respecting debutante should be deep in dreams or at least cocooned in her sheets, shielded from scandal.
Louisa was not a self-respecting debutante.
Judging by her current state—half-crouched on the windowsill, hair unbound, shivering in a chemise so thin it might as well have been woven from mist—she doubted she respected herself at all.
The window’s leaded glass gaped open, its frame cool against her palms and feet as she calculated the distance to the gravel walk below.
She could not fathom why she felt compelled to escape in such an undignified manner.
The house felt suffocating as the aftermath of the evening’s dance simmered feverishly in her mind.
Every glance, every whispered slander, and every memory of Foxmere’s confident hands at her waist during the waltz stitched into her nerves.
The library lay closed to her. Her pride was too bruised to endure another defeat at Foxmere’s hands.
Thus, the window. Thus her predicament. Ankles hooked over the stone ledge, fingers clenched into the sill, breath a visible fog against the glass.
Below, the garden shimmered in moonlight. The topiary yew trees hunched like gossiping dowagers. Louisa surveyed the drop, which appeared reasonable from a distance but now loomed like a chasm eager to shatter her bones and what remained of her reputation.
She wriggled forward, teeth chattering, almost losing her grip.
Her shift snagged on a splinter as she reached for the edge of her balcony.
A sharp gasp escaped her—an involuntary sound so small it felt like a betrayal.
She froze, suspended between escape and humiliation, unable to move for fear of toppling.
In a moment of madness, she considered clinging to the ledge until morning, like some tragic heroine preserved in her own folly.
A shadow detached itself from the hedge below, and a voice drifted upward—soft, laced with the amusement of a man who had never faced consequences.
“Planning a midnight adventure, Primrose?”
If moonlight could speak, it would sound like Lord Foxmere’s voice—bright, indifferent, and just a touch too loud for the hour.
Louisa went rigid. Her first thought was: Kill me. Her second: If I jump and the fall doesn’t finish me, he certainly will.
She found her voice, a hissed whisper barely louder than the rustle of the hedges: “You are the last person I wish to see.”
Foxmere appeared fully, standing in the moonlit path. He was not dressed for nocturnal seduction or lurking. He wore what appeared to be the remnants of his evening attire—shirt unlaced, hair a disheveled mess, and eyes trained on her with infuriating alertness.
“You’ll freeze, you know,” he called, his voice so civil it felt rude. “Or worse. That drop’s farther than it looks.”
“Go away,” Louisa snapped, mortification battling hypothermia for control of her voice.
“Not a chance,” he replied. “You’ll break your neck.”
She gritted her teeth and attempted to maneuver herself back into the room, but the sill was narrow and the window narrower. In her struggle to untangle her hem, her hair slipped forward in a wild curtain.
The silence below stretched, and for a moment she hoped, against all evidence, that Foxmere had simply evaporated.
“Lovely view from here,” he observed. “Though I feel I should avert my eyes for your modesty. It’s a point of pride with me to preserve the honor of damsels in distress.”
“If you valued my honor,” she ground out, “you would remove yourself and your idiotic commentary.”
“Primrose,” he said, “if I left you hanging, I’d never forgive myself. And think of the ton. Society would collapse for lack of scandal.”
With great effort and personal disgrace, she leveraged the balcony frame and scrambled back onto the sill. Her bare feet landed on the wood with a slap. She yanked the window shut—nearly catching her hair in the process—then sagged to the floor, pulse racing.
Minutes later, there was a polite knock on her door. She cursed—eloquently, in three languages—then hurried to lock it. The knock came again, followed by a low, urgent whisper: “Louisa. Let me in.”
She pressed her back to the panel, shivering. “No. I am not decent.”
“You’re hardly decent at the best of times,” he replied. “And I have already seen you, so you’re perfectly safe.”
“I will scream,” she threatened.
He laughed—a sound so cheerfully wicked it made her fists clench. “Do, by all means. It would liven up the night for everyone.”
She hesitated, caught between the prospect of humiliation and the certainty of adventure if she allowed him in. Eventually, she cracked the door an inch. Foxmere’s face appeared, eyes glinting.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, unexpectedly gentle.
She scowled. “Only my pride. I’m not sure it will recover.”
“On the contrary,” he said, pushing the door wider without trying to enter. “I believe your pride is indestructible. Like a black beetle. Or a particularly tenacious rumor.”
She considered slamming the door, but he was quick—his palm pressed flat to the edge, holding it open. “Let go,” she ordered.
“Not until you explain why you were attempting to escape in,” he glanced, and his brow rose, “what barely qualifies as sleepwear, and through a window no less.”
She drew herself up, arms folded across her chest. “I was warm,” she lied. “And I needed air.”
“In that case, next time use the stairs, or step onto your balcony.”
“Next time,” she spat, “I will ensure you are elsewhere. Perhaps in France.”
He grinned, all perfect teeth and challenge. “If you wish. But I must say, I would regret missing the site. The view from below was unparalleled.”
Heat rushed up her neck. “Forget what you saw.”
“I shall try,” he said, “but I am a man of strong recollection. It’s a failing.”
Suddenly aware of her state—hair loose, skin bare, dignity still clinging to the stone outside—she wrapped her arms tighter, as if she could squeeze the memory from existence.
“You are intolerable,” she whispered.
“I am also right,” he said. “Your reputation was in more peril dangling from that window than it ever could be standing here with me.”
He waited, silent, for her to refute him. She had no retort. Instead, she watched as his expression shifted—still amused, but now softened by something like understanding.
“Goodnight, Primrose,” he said, stepping back, his shadow receding down the hallway.
Louisa shut the door, slid the bolt, and leaned against it, shivering, not from cold, but from the aftershock of exposure. She could still hear the echo of his laughter in the garden ringing in her ears.
With all the resolve she could muster, she vowed that he would never catch her off guard again.
Yet the prospect of next time was, even now, oddly comforting.
The following afternoon, Lady Louisa sat through breakfast with the resolve of a woman determined to outlast both her family and fate.
As always, she was the first to finish and excuse herself, leaving her mother to discuss floral arrangements with the cook and her sisters to squabble over the pronunciation of chignon.
She had almost reached the upper hallway when a shadow fell across the landing. The broad silhouette of the Earl of Foxmere loomed before her.
“You have the unfortunate knack,” she called without turning, “of being exactly where you’re least wanted.”
“I consider it a talent,” he replied, emerging from behind a bust of Cicero as if he had been lurking there for ages. “And you, primrose, possess the rare gift of being impossible to ignore.”
She contemplated escape, but there was nowhere to go except the servants’ stairs or straight through him. Neither option preserved her dignity.
Instead, she faced him, arms crossed as a shield, chin tilted high enough to invite a duel. “If you are here to discuss last night, I will save us both time. It never happened.”
He inclined his head in exaggerated civility. “Of course. But for the sake of argument, let us pretend it did. The question is… What will you do about it?”
“I intend,” she replied, “to forget. That is the entire plan.”
He smiled. A slow, feline grin that seemed designed to infuriate.
“Admirable. Unfortunately, the rest of society is not so disciplined. Already, Lady Honoria is spinning tales of midnight assignations and reckless behavior. I should know, for she asked me about my favorite nocturnal habits just this morning.”
Louisa felt her skin tighten. “And did you confess to being a prowler and a nuisance?”
“I told her,” he said, stepping closer until they were almost toe-to-toe in the narrow corridor, “that I was simply enchanted by the beauty of the moonlight. It seemed kinder than the truth.”
She wanted to slap him. She wanted to laugh. Instead, she settled for a glare.
“Is there a point to this?” she demanded. “Or do you enjoy wasting my time?”
His eyes glinted with mischief. “A proposal, actually.”
She recoiled. “You cannot be serious.”
“Not that kind of proposal.” He leaned against the wainscoting, arms folded, looking relaxed.
“A truce, of sorts. We court each other—publicly, of course. In the eyes of the world, we are besotted. Meanwhile, in private, we despise each other as usual. Think of it. All your midnight wanderings become romantic trysts, not social suicide.”
She blinked, incredulous. “You want to fake a courtship?”
He shrugged, as if this were a reasonable suggestion. “It would amuse me. And it would protect your reputation.”
She processed this and then did something she hadn’t done in months. She laughed. Not the polite titter expected of ladies, but a loud, genuine laugh that startled even her.
“You are mad,” she gasped, still laughing. “Utterly mad. I would sooner court a hedgehog.”
He inclined his head in mock defeat. “Then I hope the hedgehog is free for the next assembly.”
Still smiling, she swept past him. “You’ll have to book him early. Hedgehogs are in high demand.”
He caught her hand—not tightly, not possessively, but just enough to stop her for a heartbeat. “Think about it, Primrose. There are worse things than being seen with me.”
She looked at their hands. Hers narrow and pale, his tanned and broad. For a moment, she almost believed the logic. Almost.
She extracted her hand. “I’ll take my chances,” she said, and fled down the corridor before he could see the smile she couldn’t quite suppress.
Foxmere watched her go, the corridor echoing with her laughter. For the first time since he had known her, his smile was not triumphant but thoughtful—almost uncertain.
Louisa evaded Foxmere for the rest of the day, when night descended she found herself once more unable to sleep.
Not from panic, but from a curiosity she refused name.
Foxmere’s truce, offered with that infuriating blend of logic and mischief, replayed in her mind until it felt less like a jest and more like a dare.
At two, she surrendered, slipped a shawl over her nightdress, and padded barefoot down the stairs, determined to outwalk her thoughts.
The Pembroke gardens transformed at night, tranquil yet alive with secrets. Bats flitted overhead. Something small rustled in the knot garden. Dew beaded the flagstones and dampened her soles, but she welcomed the sensation. It grounded her, a reminder of her existence.
She wandered between the herbaceous borders and moonlit rose beds.
The house was quieter than she’d expected, asleep except for the occasional creak or distant snore.
Louisa almost convinced herself she was alone when a pair of voices rose from the direction of the arched arbor—low but urgent enough to fracture the night’s stillness.
She paused, pressed against a tangle of clematis, and listened. The first voice was unmistakably Foxmere: smooth yet tinged with a weariness she had not heard before.
“I am not a disappointment, if that’s your aim,” he said. “I have no use for the trappings of responsibility. Not when they come tailored to choke.”
The reply was older, rougher, carrying the authority of a man long past caring for social niceties. “You’re the only one left, Niall. You can’t just drift forever. Your father—”
“My father,” Foxmere, Niall, she realized, “had the luxury of believing in duty. I learned early it was a pretty word for a gilded cage.”
A silence hummed between them.
“He’d be disappointed to see you still running from it,” the older man said, his voice gentle now. “Always the jester, never the king.”
A laugh escaped Foxmere, but it was ragged, pulled from deep inside. “Perhaps I prefer a different sort of kingdom.”
Louisa’s breath caught. She found herself rooted, hand over her mouth, heart racing. She had never considered Foxmere’s rebellion to be anything but sport. She had not realized there might be history, pain, and loss behind his relentless pursuit of chaos.
The men shifted. Louisa ducked further into the clematis, holding still as Foxmere emerged from the arbor, head bowed. His companion laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezed once, then disappeared down the gravel path toward the mews.
For a moment, Foxmere lingered alone under the arbor.
In the moonlight, his face looked not devilish but terribly young—eyes rimmed with exhaustion, mouth set in a line of hopeless resignation.
He kicked at a stone, muttered something Louisa could not hear, then turned toward the house, his stride slow and careful.
She waited until he was out of sight before she moved, her skin prickling with cold and something else—empathy, perhaps understanding.
As she wandered the rest of the garden, she wondered what it would be like to lay down one’s armor.
To trust that the world might not use your truth against you.
And she pondered if Foxmere had asked her to play at courtship not as a jest, but as a dare—to see if she might be the one to see through the mask.
Louisa shivered and pulled her shawl tight. She was wide awake now, and the dawn would bring no answers.
But perhaps, she thought, it would bring the chance to ask the right questions.