Chapter 13 #2
“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying with precision, her gown a shimmering pale blue that caught the candlelight. Her smile widened. “Lady Fenwick. It is an honor.”
They spoke of weather, the Season, and of mutual acquaintances whose names meant nothing to him beyond obligation.
He listened, responded, nodded at the appropriate moments, aware of her gaze lingering on his mouth, his hands, the line of his shoulders.
She laughed a little too quickly at things that were not amusing and leaned a fraction closer than necessary.
And all the while, his mind betrayed him.
Madeline would never laugh like that, he thought, unbidden.
Her amusement was quieter, earned. When she smiled, it was as though she had decided to allow it, not because it was expected of her.
Her gowns were modest, practical, chosen for movement rather than display, and yet he could recall with brutal clarity the way fabric clung to her when she bent over Tessa’s lessons, the way the wool of her cloak had outlined her shape in the snow.
“Your Grace?” Lady Fenwick prompted.
“Yes,” Wilhelm replied, dragging his attention back with effort.
She touched his sleeve lightly, as though testing how many liberties she might take. “Perhaps you would care to dance?”
The music swelled, a lively set that encouraged movement and closeness alike.
“I do not dance,” Wilhelm said.
Her smile did not falter. “Perhaps just one, then.”
He could have agreed. It would have been easy. Yet even as he considered it, the image of Madeline by the fire rose unbidden, book in hand, her voice low and expressive, her body relaxed in a way it never was in company. The thought burned in his chest.
“I fear I must decline,” he said.
Lady Fenwick blinked, surprised, then recovered with admirable speed. “Another time, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.”
She withdrew, and another took her place not a minute later.
Then another. Brunettes, blondes clustered around him.
Their laughter was sharp with ambition or softened with practiced gentleness.
Each one assessed him with open interest, which he didn’t seem to reciprocate much more than the bounds of politeness.
None of them would kneel in the snow without hesitation, skirts forgotten, simply because it made Tessa laugh. None of them carried fear beneath their composure in a way that sharpened his instincts, that made him want to shield and hold her all at once.
Henry leaned close again after the third conversation ended. “You are offending half the room.”
“I am surviving it,” Wilhelm replied.
Henry studied him, his expression sobering. “You are thinking of her.”
Wilhelm’s jaw flexed. “Do not start.”
“You compare them all,” Henry said quietly. “And don’t even try to hide it.”
Wilhelm exhaled through his nose, the effort of restraint beginning to weigh on him. “They are not—” He stopped, unwilling to finish the thought aloud.
“Her,” Henry supplied. “No. They are not.”
Wilhelm turned away, his gaze drifting across the room without seeing the occupants.
Desire pulsed in him, overwhelming and persistent, but it was not for any woman here.
It was for the governess waiting at home, likely sitting beside his daughter as he spoke, her hand smoothing Tessa’s hair, her voice gentle in the quiet of the townhouse.
The irony was bitter. He had come here to distract himself, to prove Henry wrong, and instead he felt more acutely aware than ever of what he wanted and could not have.
“I should go,” Wilhelm said abruptly.
Henry’s brows rose. “The night has barely begun.”
“I have had enough,” Wilhelm replied, already reaching for his coat.
Henry did not stop him this time. “You know what this means,” he said.
Wilhelm paused, hand on the door. “It means I am tired.”
“It means,” Henry corrected, “that you cannot outrun your feelings for Miss Watton.”
Wilhelm did not answer.
The night air was sharp against his face, cold enough to clear his head and yet not enough to still the heat beneath his skin. The carriage ride home passed in restless silence, his thoughts circling, returning again and again to Madeline with a persistence that felt almost cruel.
When he entered the townhouse, the lamps were low, the servants scarce. He moved through the familiar space quietly, removing his gloves, already preparing to retreat to his study and bury himself in papers that would ask nothing of his heart.
Then he heard Madeline’s voice, low and soothing, carrying softly down the corridor.
Wilhelm slowed, his steps instinctively quiet.
“…and then the knight realized that courage was not the absence of fear,” she was saying, “but the choice to act despite it.”
He edged closer, stopping just short of the doorway.
Tessa nestled close to Madeline on the narrow sofa, her head leaning against Madeline’s shoulder and her fingers twisting in the gown’s fabric.
With one hand, Madeline held the book; her other hand rested gently on Tessa’s back, her thumb tracing slow, soothing circles that offered comfort instead of guidance. ’’
Tessa’s eyelids drooped. “I like that,” she murmured.
Madeline smiled, soft and genuine, her head tilting slightly as she looked down at the child. “I thought you might.”
Wilhelm’s chest convulsed painfully. This was what Henry had meant. This was the image that would haunt him long after desire had burned itself out. The quiet intimacy of care, the way Madeline gave without asking for anything in return.
Tessa shifted, yawning, and Madeline adjusted her without breaking the rhythm of her voice. “Sleep now,” she murmured. “I am here.”
Wilhelm felt something give way in him, not desire this time, but resolve.
He stepped back before either of them noticed him, retreating down the corridor with the same care he had used to approach, his heart beating too fast, his thoughts uncomfortably clear.
He went to his study and closed the door, leaning his forehead briefly against the cool wood before straightening.
Henry was right. Desire would torment him if he let it. But more than that, he could not ignore what he had just seen. Tessa deserved that tenderness. She deserved a woman in her life who would offer warmth without fear, joy without calculation.
If Madeline could not be his, then he would find someone who could be without endangering her. The decision settled in him with grim clarity.
He would find a wife. Not for himself alone, though the thought of companionship stirred something in him, but for his daughter.
For the future he owed her. And perhaps, selfishly, because he needed a way to look at Madeline without wanting to reach for her, to keep her safe by placing distance where his restraint was beginning to fail.
Wilhelm straightened, adjusting his cuffs. Tomorrow, he told himself, things would begin to change.