Chapter Nineteen
For as long as she could remember, Maggie’s evening ritual had been to sit before her looking glass—if she had one—and brush her hair. One hundred strokes, every night, before she plaited it for bed.
Of course, there was nothing unusual in that. Most ladies brushed their hair before sleeping; it was a perfectly ordinary task. It ought to take no more than five minutes—ten, if she lingered.
Tonight, however, she had been sitting there for nearly an hour.
Not because her hair was tangled, but because she could not seem to lift her hand to finish the strokes.
Her own reflection gazed back at her: pale, drawn, and faintly disbelieving.
A single candle burned on the table, its flame trembling in the faint draft.
Her hair fell loose about her shoulders like a curtain, warm and heavy and oddly comforting.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Neil standing at the Shy, the stone poised loosely in his hand, his eyes narrowed upon the bottles. She saw the muscle in his jaw tighten, saw his arm draw back to throw.
Clack. The sharp crack of impact echoed in her head, followed by Emma’s delighted squeal. The child had gone to bed that night clutching her new ragdoll—Goldie, she’d called her. A good, sturdy name for a doll.
Something in Neil had seemed unbound that afternoon. Lighter. Less careful. As if, for once, he had allowed himself to breathe. She’d caught his eyes on her more than once, and there had been something in that look she could not name.
You are a fool, she told herself sternly, lifting the brush again. How many strokes had it been? Twenty-five? Twenty-six? She would start at twenty, just to be sure.
Do not make this into something it isn’t. He does not think of you. He cannot.
She told herself this again and again, as firmly as she could—though the words did not seem to take root.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine… forty, forty-one.
She lost count again.
With a soft groan, Maggie set the brush down and leaned back in her chair, pressing her hands over her face.
What is wrong with me?
It was clear she would not sleep tonight. Not yet, at least. After a moment’s hesitation, she rose, pulled on her robe, and eased open her door. The candlelight flickered ahead of her as she stepped into the dim corridor.
The house was utterly still. Lord and Lady Farendale, she’d been told, had retired the moment dinner ended, and Lady Constance had gone with them. They had spoken of leaving at first light—and Maggie hoped they would.
She tiptoed down the wide staircase into the Great Hall. Even with her candle, the vast room seemed full of shifting shadows. The portraits on the walls appeared to watch her as she passed. It was not a place one lingered in after dark.
Still, the morning room drew her onward. Even had she been blind, she thought she might have found it by instinct.
No curtains hung at the windows, and moonlight streamed through the glass, silvering the shrouded furniture. Once, the room must have been full of warmth and laughter, when Neil’s sister had presided over it. Now it felt hollow, stripped of its life.
The pianoforte stood in the corner, right where it had been left.
The dust sheet covering it had been thrown back halfway, exposing the gleaming ivory keys and the deep brown wood beneath.
Maggie set her candle on its polished surface and lowered herself to the stool.
Her fingertips came to rest lightly on the cool keys.
She wanted to play something different this time. Something that belonged to her mood. Music seemed to rise inside her like water from a spring.
She began softly—the slow, mournful opening notes of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
She had never memorised the entire piece, and soon her playing faltered. The silence that followed was deeper, almost aching.
“I always find that a sad composition.”
Maggie flinched, spinning around.
Neil stood in the doorway, watching her. He carried no candle, and she was inclined to think that he had been dressing for bed. He wore the same breeches and Hessians she’d seen him wear at the fair, but had stripped down to a loose, almost transparent linen shirt.
On that note, Maggie suddenly recalled that she herself was in her nightgown, with only a threadbare robe over it all. She swallowed and did her best to work moisture into her mouth.
“Your Grace,” she managed. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry, I didn’t realise my playing carried.”
He shook his head. “No. I was in my study—working instead of sleeping, as usual.”
“Ah.”
“I did not mean it isn’t beautiful,” he added quickly. “Only that it carries a kind of sorrow with it. You can almost feel the ache of the man who wrote it—or so I imagine.”
Her fingers rested on the keys. “Perhaps that’s why people love it,” she said softly. “Because of its tragic beauty.”
“Tragic beauty,” Neil repeated, stepping closer. The air between them seemed to hum. “A fine way to put it. Tell me—did Emma enjoy the fair today?”
The sudden change of subject made her blink, but she recovered quickly.
“She had a wonderful time,” she said. “She fell asleep almost the moment her head touched the pillow. She went to bed clutching her doll—the one you won for her. She adores it.”
A slow smile spread across his face.
It’s odd, Maggie thought, how a smile can change a person’s face so entirely. So completely.
When Neil smiled, the stone-faced Gambling Devil disappeared entirely. His eyes crinkled at the corners; his whole expression opened and warmed. The deep blue of his gaze seemed to stir with hidden light.
Tension pressed itself against Maggie’s chest, almost forcing the breath out of her lungs. The silence in the room seemed so loud that it rang in her ears.
She was just wondering how to break the silence when Neil spoke, his voice ever so slightly strained.
“I think Lord and Lady Farendale will be leaving soon. Lady Constance as well.”
“Thank goodness,” she blurted before she could stop herself, then clapped a hand to her mouth. “I beg your pardon.”
Neil sank down beside her on the pianoforte stool, exhaling.
“No pardon needed,” he said quietly. “I never invited them. This scheme to marry me to Lady Constance—my aunt’s idea, as you might have guessed—was never a good one.”
Maggie’s skin prickled. She dragged her gaze away from him, focusing on the pianoforte keys instead.
“I see,” she said at last. “For what it’s worth, I never thought you and Lady Constance would make a good match.”
“We wouldn’t,” he said bluntly. “Will you keep playing?”
Maggie glanced at him, quirking up an eyebrow. “Is that a request—or a command?”
He laughed, low and quiet. “Neither. Only a hope.”
Something in that answer made her throat tighten. She turned back to the keys and began to play again, though the notes trembled under her fingers. A discord, then another. Focus, she told herself. Do not think of him sitting beside you. Do not think of his closeness, or his warmth, or—
His hand came down over hers, light and sure, stilling the sound.
Maggie froze. Her breath caught. Her gaze followed the strong lines of his arm up to his face, where his eyes—dark now in the flickering light—held hers. Shadows leapt and danced across his features.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Neil said at last, his voice unsteady. “I’m sorry, Maggie, I—”
Her name in his mouth sounded like a secret. She smiled faintly, shaking her head.
“Sorry? I’m not sorry.”
His hand moved upward, slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of her cheek. Maggie’s breath hitched. She could not look away. The warmth of his palm cupped her face; the pad of his thumb brushed her cheekbone, feather-light.
When she opened her eyes again, he was watching her with something close to wonder. She wasn’t sure who leaned forward first. Perhaps it was her. It didn’t matter.
His lips met hers—tentative, searching. Maggie let out a shuddering breath, breathing him in: rain, woodsmoke, and something wholly his own. She leaned closer, her arms moving of their own accord to wind around his neck, drawing him in.
It’s been so long since I’ve wanted anything, she thought. Not since—
The thought sliced through her like cold water.
He doesn’t know who I am. Everything he knows about me is a lie.
She jerked back, the pianoforte stool clattering to the floor. Neil started, nearly losing his balance. His eyes were wide, his lips parted, a flush on his cheeks she’d never seen before.
“I—” Maggie stammered, words failing her.
Neil rose abruptly, stepping back as though to restore the distance between them.
“I should never have put you in such a position, Miss Winter,” he said crisply, his composure returning like armour. “Forgive me.”
Forgive you? she thought. There is nothing to forgive.
All she could manage was a strangled breath. Then her nerve broke. She darted past him, out into the darkened hall, leaving her candle flickering alone atop the pianoforte.
Only her own heartbeat followed her into the dark.