Her skin tingled. Her heart pounded so wildly it felt like her ribs might crack from the force. The heat between them grew unbearable, swarming through her in wild, dizzying waves until her chest ached and her lips trembled against his.
She needed air. She needed space.
With a soft, strangled gasp, Cecilia tore herself away, panting. Her palms came up to press against his chest, just enough to put distance between them, though the heat of him still radiated through her hands.
“I...” she began, but the words wouldn’t come. Only a shallow, ragged breath.
He stood there, eyes dark, lips parted, dazed.
“I’m sorry. Good night, Your Grace,” she whispered, her voice barely holding together. Then she turned, nearly stumbling as she fled down the corridor, her heartbeat pounding louder than her footsteps.
Valentine didn’t follow. He remained rooted where she’d left him, as if stunned by the force of what had just passed between them.
Cecilia reached her room and closed the door behind her with trembling fingers. She didn’t bother with the lamp. She just let the darkness settle as her back slid down the door, and she sank to the floor. She sat there in silence, her chest still heaving, herhead spinning, one hand resting over the place in her ribcage that still felt the thunder of his nearness.
It was only a kiss. But heavens, deep down, she knew it had unlatched something wild, something impossible to contain now that it had tasted the light.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
They had not spoken of the kiss. Not even once.
A week had passed since that night in the corridor, and for some reason, neither of them could bring themselves to speak of it. The kiss lingered only in silence, tucked away like a fragile secret they both pretended not to notice. Valentine had not mentioned it. Cecilia hadn’t dared. Instead, they slipped back into the rhythm of civility, polite greetings, harmless banter, shared mealtimes with Abigail, and carefully measured distance.
Cecilia told herself it was for the best. Perhaps they were pretending it never happened. Perhaps it was easier this way.
But now, as she stood outside his study door with her hand poised just inches from the polished wood, she didn’t know how to even go about talking to him in private. The problem was that they hadn’t been alone together since that kiss. Not truly alone.
But what she needed to discuss with him was urgent, and it required privacy. She exhaled slowly, pressing her palm flat against the door as though it might steady her nerves. She drew in a breath, lifted her hand, and knocked.
Seconds passed before she heard his voice. “Come in.”
Cecilia pushed the door open. She stepped into the study, her hand tightening briefly on the door before she closed it behind her. He was exactly where she expected him to be, seated behind his desk, coat discarded, sleeves rolled, a pen still poised in one hand. But he wasn’t writing. He was looking at her.
She faltered for just a breath.
There was something unreadable in his gaze. He seemed focused. Intently so. Her heart skipped as her eyes, quite against her will, flickered to his lips. It happened before she could stop herself, and as quickly as it happened, she panicked. Her stomach turned, heat rushed to her cheeks, and she looked away, anywhere but at him, frustrated with herself for recalling the way he had tasted, the way his breath had mingled with hers.
Not now, Cecilia. Not now.
She made her way forward and stood before his desk, her hands clasped primly in front of her. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t moved, and that only made it worse.
“I am sorry to interrupt your work, Your Grace,” she said. “But I wish to call on my aunt.”
His brow lifted slightly. “Your aunt?”
She nodded.
At last, he stirred. Valentine set his pen down and rose from his seat slowly, watching her the entire time. “Is that” he paused, walking around the desk until he stood just before her, “a good idea?”
“I believe it is,” Cecilia said quietly, folding her hands before her. “A good idea, I mean.”
Valentine’s brows drew together in mild protest, but he said nothing at once.
She drew a breath, steadying herself. “Ever since the fair,” she began carefully, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what Mr. Rogers said about the rumors.”
Valentine’s jaw flexed. A shadow crossed his expression.
Cecilia pressed on before he could interrupt. “I know it was her. My aunt, she has always taken great pride in shaping the narratives that suit her best, and now that she no longer has control over this, I believe she’s trying to come after your image in hopes that it hurts me too.”
