Page 88 of A Shadow Amongst the Roses

She shook her head. “Because I didn’t trust anyone else to help him.”

Silence settled between them.

His breath caught, just once. His eyes, so carefully guarded, softened with something unfiltered.

“You cannot say things like that to me,” he said quietly. “Not when I’m not ready for what they ask of me.”

Her heart stuttered.

She opened her mouth—

Footsteps sounded beyond the stable doors. Voices came from the courtyard. A gate distant slammed in the distance.

Thomas rose at once, offering his hand.

She took it without hesitation.

Their fingers tightened together, too quickly, too willingly.

“Eliza,” he said urgently, “go. If Ashwood sees us alone—”

“I trust you,” she whispered.

His eyes closed briefly, as if the words pressed too hard to be held.

“And I,” he said, barely audible, “am trying very hard not to deserve that.”

She released him only when she had no other choice.

She made her way to the side door without being seen, then slipped back into the corridor. Her pulse still raced as she left Thomas in the warm shadow of the stables, her trust suspended between them, precious and unfinished.

Chapter Forty-One

The afternoon light slanted through the upper windows of the gallery, dulled and gray, as though the sun itself declined to illuminate Hartleigh. Eliza walked its length with her hands loosely clasped behind her back, her gaze passing over the lineage portraits she had known since girlhood.

She was not studying faces. She was listening.

For footsteps. For the house shifting. For any sign that Thomas had returned from repositioning Sammy deeper in the passage.

She paused before a portrait of Adrian as a child. He stood beside his parents. The familiar ache caught her unawares. In the painting, his eyes were bright, expectant, unaware of what the years would take.

Her fingers brushed the carved frame.

“Adrian,” she murmured, “I hope I’m choosing well.”

A draft slid down the corridor, cool and slow, circling her skirts before moving on.

The house had heard.

Footsteps followed, deliberate and heavy, not a servant’s tread. Eliza straightened, composure settling into place before the man appeared.

Ashwood.

He approached with unhurried intent, a small ledger in his hand, his expression courteous and edged.

“Lady Thornhaven,” he said, bowing. “I hoped I might find you.”

“Is there a difficulty?” she asked calmly.