Chapter 8 #2
He was not touching her, not even an inch of him pressed to her, yet somehow he was everywhere—heat and restraint and aching tension surrounding her like a second body.
“You should stay away from him,” he murmured, voice deepening.
“No,” she whispered, matching his stare, her heart thundering. “I should not be told which men I may speak to. I should not be accused of impropriety when I have done nothing wrong.”
Wilhelm’s jaw worked, a storm gathering behind his eyes. “I am trying to protect you.”
Madeline’s throat tightened. “From Lord Heathston?”
“Yes.”
“Why does it concern you?” She asked, trying to read his expression as she spoke, looking deeply into his eyes.
There, she saw sparks dancing there in the icy blue orbs, and she found herself wishing, almost immediately, that she hadn’t spoken those words aloud. For they implied her employer was too concerned about her well-being.
Madeline felt him still, felt the sudden, terrifying shift in his breath. His hand lifted, as though against his own will, hovering beside her cheek, trembling faintly before curling into a fist and dropping again.
“Miss Watton,” he said, but it did not sound like a warning. It sounded like a plea.
Madeline’s fingers curled into the bookshelf behind her, nails pressing into wood. “Why are you angry with me?” she whispered.
His eyes closed briefly, as though gathering strength. When he opened them, the restraint in them was fracturing. “Because you smiled at him,” he said softly, raw. “And he made you blush. And I have no right to care. None.”
Madeline felt her breath unravel and her voice dropped to a tremor. “Then why do you?”
Wilhelm inhaled sharply, but it was shallow and unsteady. Then he moved before she saw it.
One moment her heart was pounding helplessly in her chest, and the next Wilhelm’s hands were on her—one braced at her waist, the other lifting to the back of her neck, pulling her toward him with a force that stole the air from her lungs.
His mouth crashed against hers.
Madeline gasped, her hands flying to his coat to hold on as the world tilted precariously beneath her. His lips were insistent and demanding, moving against hers with a hunger that shocked her, devoured her, asked for nothing and everything all at once.
Heat surged through her in a fierce, dizzying rush.
She felt his breath tremble against her cheek, his restraint already unraveling as he pressed closer, deepening the kiss with a low sound in his throat that made her knees weaken.
Her fingers curled helplessly into his coat, pulling him closer.
She responded before she could think, kissing him back with a desperate, aching need she hadn’t known lived inside her.
He made a harsh sound—half groan, half curse—his hand sliding to her lower back, drawing her fully into him. She felt the hard line of his body, the heat of him, the intensity he’d been presenting since the moment they met.
“Madeline…” he breathed against her mouth, voice breaking.
He kissed her again, and it was deeper, slower, unbearably tender for one brief, devastating moment. And then he tore himself away.
Madeline stumbled forward, breathless, lips parted, her hands still twisted in the fabric of his coat until she realized he was no longer holding her. She dropped them instantly, as if burned.
Wilhelm staggered back a step, chest rising and falling rapidly. There was a wildness in his eyes, a mixture of fear, desire and regret tangled into something that hollowed his expression.
His voice was rough. “I should not have done that.”
Madeline swallowed, her lips trembling in the echo of his kiss. “Your Grace…”
“No.” He lifted a hand, not in warning but in apology. “Miss Watton, forgive me. This cannot happen. I have no right. You are my daughter’s governess. I crossed a boundary I should never have crossed.”
Her chest tightened painfully. “I did not push you away.”
“That is not the point,” he said, almost whispering it, as though the admission wounded him. “This cannot happen again. I will not allow myself to… to compromise your position. Or mine. It was a mistake.”
The words sliced through her like cold steel, but Madeline forced her breath to continue thrumming evenly all while her heart fractured quietly beneath her ribs. She nodded once. “I understand.”
Wilhelm closed his eyes, jaw clenching. “Good. Then… then we shall speak no more of this matter between us.”
The room felt suddenly cold. The heat he’d ignited inside her still roared through her veins, but outwardly she made herself calm, distant, and composed. God, it hurt.
“I shall return to my duties,” she said softly, her voice breaking on the last word.
She turned away from him in a resigned fashion.
As she reached for the door and began to pull it open, Wilhelm spoke again—quietly this time, the words strained as though they cost him something to release. “Madeline.”
Her hand stilled on the latch, her breath catching in her throat as she paused without turning back.
She felt him behind her, felt the weight of his restraint pressing against the space between them, but he didn’t move toward her, or attempt to soften the blow he had just delivered nor did he offer even the smallest gesture of comfort.
He simply said, with a controlled severity that cut straight through her chest, “This will never happen again.”
The words landed and immediately bloomed like a slow bruise, spreading under her skin.
Madeline lowered her head, dipping it in a small, perfectly polite nod that hid the tremor tightening her throat. “Of course, Your Grace,” she managed, the words quiet and restrained even as her heart splintered.
She stepped through the doorway before he could see the way her eyes burned, before he could witness the tears she refused to let fall in his presence.
And the door closed gently behind her, shutting her out, and leaving the air in the corridor feeling colder than it had ever been.