Stephen stood on the doorstep, shaken to his core and staring at the wood that had come close to knocking him in the nose. Bracing his palms against the wood, feeling the dew of the cold air bleed across his skin, he was tempted to defy her and follow her. Let him abandon every rule just to follow her and explain himself better.
Why do I wish to explain myself? After all, I achieved what I wanted. She does not expect a proposal now.
Still, he longed to follow after her. It took a minute or so for him to realize that the concept of Dorothy hating him in any way cut deep. He couldn’t bear the thought, and his chest ached so much that he turned and leaned against the wood, sliding down to sit on the step.
He could feel the dew seeping through his trousers. No doubt, if anyone saw him in this state, he’d be unrecognizable in the exhibition he had made of himself. He tried to adjust the lapels of his frock coat as if it would make the slightest bit of difference, but that pain in his chest persisted, and his heart thudded hard.
Come back, Dorothy. Please.
He closed his eyes and hung his head forward, reliving the moment he had kissed her. God’s wounds, the passion had overtaken him suddenly, to show her what he felt for her, that it amounted to far more than just tension from arguments.
What is it I feel for you, Dorothy?
It was why he had kissed her. Unable to find the words, he had sought to act it out instead.
A sound made his eyes fly open. Something scuffed beneath someone’s boots.
Stephen scrambled to stand and hurried down the garden path, jerking his head back and forth. Was it possible that Dorothy had returned outside, after all? Did he have another chance to be alone with her, to try again, to persuade her not to hate him and relieve this ache in his chest?
He thought he saw a shadow, someone moving at the far end of the path, and then the figure darted around the west corner of the building and vanished.
Was that Dorothy?
Stephen ran forward, hardly caring what sounds he made. His shoes scuffed loudly on the gravel before he skidded to a stop, rounding the corner, expecting to come face-to-face with Dorothy.
There was no one there. The empty path, lit strongly by the moonlight, glowed silver and bare. Stephen turned on the spot, spinning on his heel quite madly, sure he had not imagined the figure.
Something creaked at a distance up ahead, and he moved forward again, inching toward the sound. It took a minute or so for him to realize what the source of the noise was. Reaching the house, he found that the door to the kitchen and the servants’ quarters wasn’t shut tightly. Taking hold of the handle, he turned it and heard that same creaking whine.
“No, no, no,” he murmured as he opened the door and looked inside.
The corridor was as bare as the garden path behind him, though, in the distance, he could hear someone’s footsteps running somewhere, perhaps up a set of stairs to the main part of the house.
Someone else was in the garden.
As if he had been struck across the face, Stephen stumbled back, the fear ricocheting through him strongly. If someone had seen him and Dorothy arguing this late at night in the garden, it would have been inappropriate, indeed. In fact, by breakfast the next morning, there could be talk of scandal.
“What do I do now?”
Stephen stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He hurried through the house, trying to track down the person that had been in the garden. He found a speck of mud at the top of the stairs leading to the corridor where all of Lady Webster’s guests were staying. But with no further clue as to who had been in the garden, he slunk back to his chamber.
Someone may well have seen us.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
“Are you well, Stephen?” Allan whispered as they sat down for breakfast. “You’re not eating. It’s unlike you.”
Stephen stared at his plate. He could eat, he could find a reason to do so, but every time he thought of reaching for some food, he looked around the room with unease. His eyes darted from one face to the next as he hoped to discover who had been in the garden the night before.
He was on tenterhooks, waiting to see which of the guests would spread the rumor, but to his amazement, no one seemed to know of his escapade into the garden with Dorothy the night before. His suspicions appeared to be wrong, for the conversation was purely about the changes Lord Webster intended to make to his house and Lady Webster’s plans to hold as many balls and parties as she could during the Season.
“Stephen?” Allan hissed in a low voice. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing. Just didn’t sleep well. That’s all.”
“Here, take this, then.” Allan refilled his coffee cup for him. “That will help.”
Across the table, Dorothy didn’t look up from her plate. She hadn’t said a single word to anyone yet, and she firmly refused to look at Stephen, even though he frequently looked at her, waiting to meet her eyes. He’d sat opposite her in the hope of catching her eye, and being as they were, with their easy jibes and taunts of one another.
