Chapter Nine
Abigail lay rigid beneath the mosquito netting, staring at the shifting lace of moonlight across the ceiling.
Echoes of music still clung to her skin like perfume, but whatever ease she had hoped the evening would bring had slipped away, leaving only a hollow certainty she would never be more than a stranger here.
Going to the party should have helped her feel closer to home. Instead, she felt further than ever.
She traced the hem of her nightgown with one finger, remembering the way Mr. Moreau’s eyes had lingered on her as she moved through the ballroom. Every glance, every brush of hands in the dance… it made her chest tighten in ways she didn’t fully understand.
She closed her eyes. Even now she could feel the ghost of his hand at her back, the phantom heat of his palm still seared into her skin.
Mr. Ainsley’s touch on her waist had always been measured and polite, as if afraid of crossing some invisible line.
She tried to summon his face now, to picture his pale gaze fixed on her with devotion.
Mr. Moreau’s storm-filled eyes greeted her instead, dark and roiling as thunderheads on the horizon.
They raked through her soul, stripping away every polite layer she’d ever built around herself.
A flutter she did not know how to name stirred low in her belly, and with a breathless gasp, she sat up.
Samantha would have laughed at her, would have told her she was letting her imagination run wild. The thought of her friend tightened her chest. Always practical, always steady, Samantha had a way of pulling her back to earth when her romantic notions strayed too far. A single dance meant nothing.
A dull thump broke the quiet below. She held her breath. Another sound followed—a scrape, then a low voice. “Where are you?”
Mr. Moreau.
She swung her feet to the floor and grabbed a robe Eloise had left draped over the chair.
Wrapping the soft fabric around her shoulders, she crept out onto the landing and eased down the stairs.
Shadows danced across the walls in the flickering lamplight, and her heart picked up pace.
She pressed herself against the wall, moving quietly toward the study.
The door hung ajar, and Mr. Moreau paced in front of his desk, an empty glass in one hand.
“Why aren’t you here?” His voice came tight and bewildered. His hand lashed out at a stack of papers, and they scattered to the floor in a flurry. “Show yourself.”
Abigail froze, pulse hammering. Had he seen her? She swallowed hard, feet itching to retreat, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes from him. After pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes, he slumped in his chair and let his head fall onto the desk with a long, groaning exhale.
She blew out a shaky breath as the study fell silent, save for the tick of the clock on the mantel. Better to turn back now, climb the stairs, and pretend none of this had happened. Yet she stayed where she was, heart thudding, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders.
Before she could second-guess herself, Abigail stepped over the threshold. The robe whispered against her ankles as she crossed the room, her voice low and tentative. “Mr. Moreau?”
He didn’t stir. His face remained pillowed on his arms, the glass at his elbow glinting in the lamplight.
She reached out, her hand hovering for a moment before she dared to touch his sleeve.
He groaned, shifting, but did not lift his head.
A muffled word she couldn’t catch slipped from him, half sigh, half plea.
Abigail bit her lip. She could still turn and flee back upstairs, but the thought of leaving him like this made her stomach knot. Leaning closer, she laid a tentative hand on his shoulder and gave a firm shake. “Mr. Moreau?”
He lifted his head and squinted up at her. Suspicion flashed across his face, and he lifted a hand, giving her arm a tentative poke. “Are you real?”
Abigail’s pulse jumped, and she instinctively drew a step back. A nearly empty bottle of brandy sat next to him. Great, he’d been drinking. She crossed her arms. “I would certainly hope so.”
A ghost of a grin tugged at his lips. “Well, that’s a relief.”
She glanced up the stairs. “You don’t want your aunt seeing you like this.” He gave a half-hearted laugh and let his head fall back onto the desk, the shadows of the room playing along the line of his jaw. “Mr. Moreau!”
He jerked upright and lifted a finger to his lips. “Shh. She’ll hear you.” His gaze flickered toward the hallway, then back at her, confusion knitting his brow. “Wait… who?”
“Your aunt.”
He scrunched his brow as if deep in thought. “No, she’s not.”
Abigail’s hands went to her hips “Goodness. Listen to you. You’re making no sense at all. You should be ashamed.”
He shrugged. “Better than hurting.” His hand flopped toward the bottle, and she snatched it away.
“Well, drinking yourself to death certainly isn’t the answer.” She let out a long sigh and tugged his hand gently. “Can you stand?”
He blinked down at where their fingers met. “Just leave me be.”
“Mr. Moreau, you are going up to your room right now.” She injected as much sternness into her voice as she could muster and gave a harder pull.
He didn’t budge.
Blasted man could have been made of stone for all her effort. She stepped back, folding her arms across her chest. “Have it your way, then.”
A full pitcher of water sat on the corner of the desk, and she poured him a glass. He took it from her, but didn’t drink, eyes fixed on the wavering shadows in the room. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
She couldn’t help slanting a glance at Isabelle’s knowing eyes gazing down at them from the portrait. “Of course not.”
Lips pressed together, he leaned back in his chair, a faraway look settling over his face.
“Sit with me.” He tipped his cup toward the wingback chair across from the desk.
She hesitated. Part of her wanted to flee, to leave him to whatever demons haunted him tonight. Still, his distant stare tugged at something in her. With a quiet sigh, she let her shoulders drop and sank into the chair. She’d already crossed so many boundaries, what was one more?
Several minutes passed in silence as he sat still. The light shifted across his face, highlighting the rigid set of his mouth and the quiet weight in his gaze.
“You must think me foolish.” He nodded toward the bottle.
“I think…” Her words caught in her throat. “I think that some allowances must be made for a broken heart.”
He stared into the glass of water. “Some days, I wonder if it would be best to throw myself into the channel and let the swamp swallow me.”
Abigail’s breath caught. “That’s a terrible thing to think.”
His eyes lifted to hers, gray and heavy. “I know.”
She folded her hands in her lap as she tried, and failed, to find words. Grief was not something genteel people brought up in conversation. Yet here it sat between them, raw and unvarnished, daring her to look at it.
“My friends tell me I should start living my life again. Start sailing again.” His thumb traced the rim of the glass, eyes fixed somewhere beyond her shoulder. “As if it were that easy.”
Abigail’s fingers tightened in her lap. “Perhaps they only mean to remind you that the world still waits for you.” Her voice softened. “That you still have a place in it.”
His gaze flicked to her, then away, jaw tightening as if her words had pressed on a bruise. “It’s hard to find purpose in life after losing the one thing worth living for.”
“I can’t pretend to know the type of grief you feel, but I do sympathize.” She drew the robe tighter around her shoulders. “I didn’t grieve the loss of my mother until I was old enough to understand. Even then, I never knew her, so it was more an ache for what I missed than for what I’d lost.”
“I’m sorry.” His words hung between them like a fragile thread.
Abigail gave him a small smile. “In a way, I’m jealous of you. Maybe it hurts more, but at least you have memories.”
He gave a soft huff. “The memories hurt worst of all.”
“Perhaps.” Her lips trembled. “Still, I would give anything for even one snippet of a memory to hold onto.”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stared into the corner of the room, chewing on his cheek. The silence stretched, heavy and still, until Abigail felt the pull of her own weariness.
After a long minute, he let out his breath. “I’d never thought of it that way.” He drank the water and set the empty glass down.
Abigail stifled a yawn, her hand pressing to her mouth. His gaze swept over her and the hard edges around his face softened.
“We should go up.” He pushed himself to his feet.
She nodded, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Together, they left the room, the silence between them gentle but charged as they climbed the stairs.
They reached the landing, the soft glow from the hallway lantern painting the walls in muted gold. She paused outside her bedroom, hand resting on the doorknob. Mr. Moreau came to a stop behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body.
He drew in a slow breath. “Thank you, Miss Ross, for talking with me.” Fatigue and something deeper she couldn’t name roughened his voice.
She swallowed and turned. “Will you be alright?”
Something flashed across his eyes. “Depends on what you mean by that.”
She pressed her eyes shut. “I meant for now—tonight?”
“Right now? Yes.” The answer came low, almost against her ear, the sound thrumming through her.
Her lashes fluttered open. When had he gotten so close?
He leaned nearer, gaze dropping to her mouth, the gentle puff of his breath a caress on her check. “You know what I think?”
Heat gathered in her belly as her pulse thrummed. “What?”
“I think…” He grazed the back of her hand with his knuckles, a whisper of contact that made her pulse leap. “I think I’ve wanted to do this all night.”
Her breath hitched, caught between anticipation and disbelief. Then, his lips brushed hers in a feather-light caress. She gasped, her body frozen in place as if held under a spell. The soft weight of his mouth over hers sent a thrill racing through her veins, every nerve alight with fire.
Don’t encourage him.
But her mind had narrowed to the dangerous pull between them, one she couldn’t resist. With a soft exhale, she stepped into his embrace.
A low groan rumbled from deep within his chest, the sound deepening the kiss from a question into something wild.
The crush of his lips branded her, the searing heat traveling straight to her core.
Her heart hammered a wild, stuttering rhythm while his tongue traced along her bottom lip in a slow sweep.
She had never imagined a kiss could feel like this—like fire and ice mingled, like nothing else existed beyond the press of him.
She parted her lips, and his tongue drove forward, tasting her with a boldness that sent her knees trembling.
The faint taste of brandy lingered on him, warm and intoxicating.
His hand splayed against her lower back, pressing her body to his.
A breathy laugh escaped her, and an answering tremor wracked through him.
Her fingers found his shirt, tangling in the soft linen.
Rough fabric bunched beneath her grasp, his body solid and unyielding beneath.
A wild heartbeat drummed against her palms, the tempo matching the frantic beat in her own chest. The world beyond them dissolved—the hall, the ghosts, the ache of old grief—leaving only the intoxicating heat where they met.
His hand slid lower, fingers grazing the curve of her hip before settling against her bottom.
The touch sent a spark through her, her breath catching on a soft gasp.
He urged her backward, his body following, and her spine met the door with a muted thud.
The sound seemed to jolt him, a low growl breaking in his throat.
Something flickered behind his eyes, and as swiftly as it began, he broke the kiss.
His breath came ragged, his forehead resting against hers.
The silence between them pulsed, filled with everything the kiss had said and everything it should not have.
After a shuddering groan, he drew away, gray eyes dark and anguished.
He drew his thumb along her jaw as he stepped back, the deliberate caress sending one last tremble down her spine.
“Goodnight, Miss Ross.”