Chapter Twelve #3
"Everyone should be allowed to dream, Alistair.
Even dukes." She turned her head to look at him, though she could barely make out his features in the starlight.
"Dreams don't have to be practical to have value.
Sometimes they're just... escape routes.
Ways of imagining that life could be different, even if we know it won't be. "
"And what do you dream of, Miss Harrow?"
The question caught her off guard. She thought about it before answering.
"I dream of a home," she said slowly. "Not a house, I've lived in plenty of houses, but a real home.
A place where I belong. Where I'm not just useful but wanted.
Where I don't have to worry about being dismissed or replaced or moved on to the next position.
" She laughed softly. "It's not a very grand dream, I know.
No adventures or riches or romantic heroes. Just... belonging somewhere."
"It's not a small dream at all." His voice was rough. "It might be the biggest dream of all."
Henry was between them, pointing out constellations with enthusiastic imprecision. "That one's the Great Bear—see his tail? And that one's... um... I forget what that one's called."
"Cassiopeia," Eliza said. "The queen. She was very vain, and the gods punished her by putting her in the sky upside down."
"That seems extreme punishment."
She smiled in the darkness, nodding.
"Like His Grace when I track mud into the house."
"Henry." Alistair's voice was reproachful, but there was warmth in it. "I have never turned anyone upside down for tracking mud."
"You look like you want to, sometimes."
"Wanting and doing are very different things."
Eliza felt those words resonate in her chest. Wanting and doing. The story of her life, lately. The story of whatever this was between her and the man lying just feet away, separated by a child and a thousand reasons why they couldn't act on what they felt.
The stars blazed overhead, ancient and indifferent to the complications of human hearts. Henry's chatter gradually slowed, then stopped altogether as his eyes drifted closed.
"He's asleep," Eliza whispered.
"Yes, he is." Alistair's voice was soft in the darkness. "We should take him inside."
"In a moment." She turned her head, looking at his profile against the star-filled sky. "This is nice. Just... being still."
"Yes." He turned to meet her gaze. "It is."
They lay there in silence, the sleeping child between them, and the winter stars wheeling slowly overhead. It was entirely innocent; two adults and a child watching the night sky.
But when Alistair's hand moved, crossing the small distance to where her hand rested on the blanket, and his fingers brushed against hers, tentative, questioning, barely a touch at all…It felt like the most intimate thing that had ever happened to her.
She didn't pull away.
Neither did he.
They lay there, fingertips barely touching, while the stars burned cold and bright above them and Henry slept peacefully between them.
Later, after Henry had been carried to bed, they stood in the hallway outside the nursery.
"Thank you," Eliza said. "For the stargazing. For the comb. For…" She gestured vaguely. "For everything."
"You don't have to thank me." He was standing too close. She could feel the warmth of him even through the layers of clothing. "I should be thanking you. For wearing it. For…" He stopped. His eyes dropped to the comb in her hair, then to her face, then to her mouth.
The moment stretched, taut as a bowstring.
"I should go," Eliza whispered.
"Yes." He didn't move.
"Good night, Your Grace."
"Good night, Miss Harrow."
Still, neither of them moved. The hallway was silent except for the distant crackle of dying fires and the sound of their own breathing.
Then, slowly, Alistair reached out. His hand rose toward her face, and Eliza stopped breathing entirely.
But he didn't touch her cheek and didn't close the distance and kiss her the way every line of his body suggested he wanted to.
Instead, with exquisite care, he adjusted the comb in her hair, because a pin had worked slightly loose during the stargazing. His fingers brushed the copper strands, just for a moment. Just long enough for Eliza to feel the touch burning through her like fire.
"It was slipping," he said, his voice rough.
"Thank you."
He dropped his hand and stepped back, but the loss of his warmth felt like a physical blow.
"Good night," he said again, and this time he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway until they faded into silence.
Eliza leaned against the wall, pressing her hand to her racing heart, and tried to remember how to breathe.
This is dangerous, she thought again. This is so, so dangerous.
But she touched the comb in her hair, and she couldn't bring herself to regret a single moment of it.
She walked back to her room on unsteady legs, her mind replaying every moment of the evening.
He had not kissed her, but somehow, that made it worse. The restraint was its own kind of confession. He was holding back because he respected her, because he didn't want to compromise her position, because he was trying to be honorable even as his eyes betrayed his every feeling.
She didn't know whether to be grateful or frustrated.
In her room, she stood before the mirror and looked at herself. The comb glinted in her hair, silver against copper, green stones catching the candlelight. It suited her, just as he had said, and it looked like it belonged there.
She fell asleep that night with the comb on her nightstand, the books under her pillow, and a heart full of something that felt terrifyingly like hope.