Morning at Everthorne Manor crept slowly by. The previous night's storm had gentled into a drizzly mist, leaving the air with a crisp smell of damp soil.
Amelia lay awake, her eyes on the ceiling, her mind weighing heavy with everything that had occurred in the past day. Sleep had not eluded her over the late-night raid in the kitchen or even Claude's maddening yet oddly appealing behavior.
Claude eventually left her, but only after ensuring she was well and snuggly settled beneath the covers—an strangely warm gesture from a man she thought was cold and aloof before.
And now, she was left with thoughts that refused to settle.
She turned on her side, rubbing her arm absentmindedly. It hurt. Everything hurt.
A knock came at the door, breaking her from her reverie.
Grace poked her head in. "Your Grace, are you awake?"
Amelia groaned. "Unfortunately."
Grace stepped inside, carrying a tray of tea. She hesitated for a moment before speaking. "The Duke is already awake. He's. giving orders."
That wasn't surprising.
Claude had barely slept well in days, and still, he was always the first to get up, always the one making sure the house was in line. He had grabbed control with ease, taking over security, getting more guards, and dealing with the aftermath of the attack.
"Lord Francis?" Amelia ventured, knowing she would regret it.
"Gone."
Amelia's eyebrows shot up. "Gone?"
"Fled before sunrise," Grace stated, putting down the tea. "I imagine he was afraid of what the Duke would do if he stayed."
Coward.
She should feel relieved, but something about Francis sneaking off without actually having to suffer real repercussions left a sour impression on her tongue.
"Will you be seeing the Duke for breakfast?" Grace asked timidly.
Amelia hesitated. They didn't usually eat together unless it was absolutely necessary. But something had changed between them.
And maybe—just maybe—she wanted to see him.
She sighed, pushing the covers away. "Yes."
—
The dining hall was already full of the muted clatter of silverware and quiet conversation when she walked in.
Claude sat at the head of the table, his posture as sharp as ever. His dark eyes lifted to meet hers the moment she stepped inside.
For a fraction of a second, his gaze softened.
Then, as though catching himself, he returned his attention to his plate.
Amelia took her seat beside him.
Silence held between them for a moment before he finally spoke.
"How do you feel?"
"Sore," she admitted, taking the tea poured for her. "But I'll live."
Claude nodded, his eyes flashing over her with care. "Good."
The tension between them was different now. Not cold. Not hostile. Something else entirely.
She cleared her throat. "Have the guards discovered anything else regarding the attack?"
Claude's face grew somber. "Not yet. But I will discover who was behind it."
She didn't doubt it.
During breakfast, Amelia could sense Claude's gaze on her, as if he were measuring every movement, making sure she was really okay.
It was… unnerving. And yet, she didn't mind.
Before she was able to say another word, a servant burst in, his face pale.
"My Lord," he said uncertainly. "There's. someone who demands an audience."
Claude's jaw clenched. "Who?"
The servant gulped. "A woman. She insists on it being urgent."
Amelia scowled.
Claude dropped his knife, though he moved with slow deliberation. "Bring her in."
Seconds later, a woman was escorted in.
She was tall, with striking golden hair, her dress rich and elegant, though travel-worn. Her blue eyes landed on Claude immediately, filled with something unreadable.
Amelia straightened.
Claude's face, usually so controlled, betrayed the slightest flicker of recognition.
"Clara?"
Amelia blinked.
Who?
The woman stepped forward, her hands clasped tightly before her. "Claude," she said softly. "It's been a long time."
Silence descended upon the room.
Claude's face remained inscrutable. "What are you doing here?"
Clara swallowed. "I—I had nowhere else to go." Her eyes darted to Amelia. "I did not know you were married."
Something in her voice caused Amelia's spine to stiffen.
Claude's fingers tapped against the table. "That was years ago, Clara."
Years ago?
Amelia raised an eyebrow, observing the unspoken communication between them.
Who was she?
Why did Claude seem to have just seen a ghost?
And why, for the first time, did Amelia's stomach tie itself into knots of something perilously close to jealousy?