Chapter 35

On the day he delivered the invitation to Dwight and begrudgingly secured him the horses, Elwin retreated to his study, stifling his mounting resentment.

Craving the numbing sanctuary of routine, he dispatched the accumulated estate ledgers with frantic efficiency. He leafed through the documents, scrawling his signature in rapid succession. Only when he finally set his pen aside did he notice that a delicate, fragrant note had bloomed through the sharp tang of ink.

It was a scent so distinct that he did not need to look up to identify its author.

At some point, Leon had slipped into the room.

Listening closely, Elwin caught the faint, rhythmic whisper of turning pages.

He remained entirely ignorant of when Leon had crossed the threshold, or how long they had quietly shared the space. Leon, who would typically provoke some infuriating altercation the moment their paths crossed, remained unusually quiet. He seemed remarkably composed, as though the dramatic confrontation of the previous evening had never transpired.

Was he, too, attempting to proceed under the guise of mutual amnesia, just as Elwin had resolved to do?

Elwin felt a wave of relief, yet beneath it stirred a subtler, far more vexing emotion that he could not quite name.

True to his own resolve, Elwin did not break the silence, nor did he retreat from the study. He remained anchored to his seat, reading for hours simply because the quiet companionship felt strangely vital. Over the succeeding days, this unspoken arrangement hardened into a routine. Although rumors circulated among the household staff that Leon had been interrogating the servants about the Finch family in preparation for the upcoming gala, he nevertheless materialized in the study at the exact same hour each afternoon.

He kept returning.

Because Elwin had been delayed by a final fitting of his altered jacket, he assumed Leon would already be waiting. Finding the chair vacant, a strange sense of desolation settled over him. He sat at the table and retrieved his volume.

It was the very novel that had captivated him the day before, and he had finally reached its narrative climax, yet the words swam uselessly before his eyes. After skim-reading a few pages, Elwin found himself glancing toward the heavy oak door.

A few moments later, his gaze drifted anxiously toward the manicured gardens beyond the window.

Had Leon ventured out? Perhaps he had simply grown weary of their silent vigil. For days, they had exchanged nothing but the quiet friction of paper, Elwin seated at the central table and Leon maintaining his distance by the sunlit window. Elwin had stolen occasional glances, sometimes catching the phantom sensation of Leon’s eyes upon him, though their gazes never truly collided. To an outsider, such sterile silence would have seemed agonizing. Yet to Elwin, those hours had been deeply comforting—even, in some small, illicit way, exquisite.

Reading is inherently pleasurable, he reasoned. It is not as if I require his specific presence. And yet… his absence is incredibly distracting. Why?

The sudden resonance of footsteps echoing down the corridor made his ears strain, his pulse quickening to a frantic flutter. But as the door swung open, his chest hollowed. He recognized the incoming scent instantly.

“Young master!”

It was Toby, his fiercely loyal and incorrigibly cheek servant. Stifling a sharp prick of disappointment that it was Toby rather than Leon who had breached the room, Elwin felt a sudden, hot flush of shame at his own ingratitude. Oblivious to his master’s internal turmoil, Toby proudly presented his prize.

“Look at this! Mr. Alfred fashioned a neck ornament out of your old hair ribbon, young master. Look at the luster of this gem! I had no idea the butler possessed such artistry.”

Toby held up a beautifully structured ribbon ornament designed to secure a cravat. Nestled in the center of the deep navy velvet was a brilliant sapphire, undoubtedly salvaged from his late mother’s jewelry box.

“Once you don the altered tailcoat and pin this to your throat, you will look absolutely magnificent, young master,” Toby chirped. “I am certain Lord Dwight’s eyes will fly wide open!”

At those words, a suffocating weight settled upon Elwin’s chest. Alfred had undoubtedly poured his devotion into the piece with that very hope; the maids who had meticulously altered the coat had labored under the same desperate expectation. This was the duty Elwin had to perform. He understood it perfectly, and yet…

“Um, young master…?” Toby’s voice wavered, his eyes darting anxiously over Elwin’s frozen features.

Pulling himself back from the brink of his thoughts, Elwin forced a fragile smile. “Ah. It is truly exquisite, Toby. Please convey my deepest gratitude to him. Take it and show the maids as well; they should see how perfectly it complements their work.”

Even after Toby scampered away with the ornament, Elwin sat motionless, marooned in his thoughts. For days, he had completely forgotten what he “had to do.” Time had marched on relentlessly, leaving a mere ten days before Dwight’s scheduled departure from the estate. And Elwin…

All this time, I have been consumed by the wrong things, he thought bitterly. I have abandoned my family and lost myself in feelings I cannot even comprehend…

Just as his heart began to sink into a dark, suffocating mire, the door creaked open once more. This time, the man he had been waiting for—no, the man he had repeatedly insisted he was not waiting for—stepped into the light.

“Sir Elwin.”

Leon addressed him with casual ease, as if their days of companionable silence had earned him the right to speak. He wore an overcoat that exhaled the crisp, sharp scent of the winter wind, and his eyes held an unusual, bright animation.

“I am a bit late today,” Leon said, offering a warm smile. “I went down to the village.”

Elwin remained silent.

“Aren’t you at all curious to know what I was doing there?”

Leon’s smile was disarmingly innocent, like a child returning from a successful adventure, but the sight of it only provoked a chaotic tempest within Elwin’s breast—a volatile mixture of guilt, shame, apprehension, and raw confusion. He wanted to demand answers to a dozen questions at once.

Why do you apologize for being late when we made no promises? Why do you look at me with such warmth? Why do you sit in my study day after day, reading in silence, only to suddenly call my name now? What did you do to me on the night I was trapped in your chamber? He knew, rationally, that nothing physical had occurred, but his heart had been irrevocably altered. Did you plan this? Did you know my heart would end up in this state? Surely you know the name of this feeling.

Elwin desperately tried to maintain his icy facade, but the storm in his chest bled through his pale, fragile features. The bright curve of Leon’s lips faltered, replaced by a shadow of concern.

“Sir Elwin, is something…?”

“No,” Elwin interrupted, his voice tight. “It is nothing. I see.”

He asked none of his questions. The desire to know was entirely eclipsed by the terror of the answers. He picked up his half-read novel, its plot entirely forgotten, and gave a stiff, formal bow.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. I must take my leave.”

“Ah…”

Leon reached out as if to stay him, but Elwin fled the study before a single word could halt his escape. Before that dangerous, sweet emotion could take root again, he chanted his silent mantra like an exorcism: This is not right. This is not right.