Page 153 of Immortal Rose

His gaze fell on my hands, where I realized I was absently twisting the wedding ring on my finger. I turned to the shelves again. I’d meant to take it off and set it beside the quizzing glass on the tray but . . . hadn’t.

Feeling my neck and cheeks flush with color, I changed the subject. “I’ve been reading through Rosebourne’s commonplace book, and there’s a mention of a ‘Lord F’ revealing the names of DeForest spies in the House of Rosebourne.”

“I have a feeling I know who this Lord F may be,” Hugh said wryly.

“It seems the DeForests made an attempt to buy out the perfumery from under Rosebourne,” I said. “Your great-uncle appears to have offered his assistance in destroying them.”

Hugh seemed unsurprised by this. “I wouldn’t put it past him. He always saw situations from a bird’s-eye view and likely thought destroying a notable Gallian business would undermine the country’s economy.”

The pride in his voice was obvious; it was only his expression that was troubled. Hugh rubbed at the back of his neck.

“I should have accompanied you to Briarwood Palace,” he said suddenly. “I let my anger get the better of me today, and it nearly cost us both.”

“What happened?” I asked. “Reddy told me that Glenmoor struck Eleanor and you went to confront him, but it ended in a draw.”

“A draw.” Hugh let out a humorless laugh. “I played right into his hand and left you vulnerable.”

“You can’t always be at my side,” I reminded him. “I realize the last few days have done a poor job of demonstrating it, but I’ve taken care of myself for years.”

“I only . . .” He picked up his cup, then set it back down. When he spoke again, his voice was low, crackling like the wood in the fireplace. “I do not like the idea of you going anywhere without me,” he said, his eyes searing. “Not to the palace, not to the shops, not even to breakfast—”

“I’m hardly going to be murdered at the breakfast table,” I interrupted. “Unless it’s Mrs. Silver’s nefarious plan to feed me pastries until I burst.”

“That’s not . . .” Hugh began roughly, pressing a hand to his forehead, turning his gaze away from mine. “That’s not . . . what I meant.”

In the silence that followed, I was sure he could hear the rising beat of my heart from the other side of the study. It kicked painfully against my ribs, harder with each passing moment I said nothing. I stood there, entranced by the force of my spinning thoughts as his meaning set in.

I do not like the idea of you going anywhere without me.

Every possible reply felt more perilous than the last, and I realized how thin the boundary was between terror and excitement.

It felt as though we’d arrived at a crossroads from different directions and now were waiting to see which way the other might go next. Tension thickened the air like fire smoke escaping the flue.

Desperate to evade his scrutiny, I spun back toward the hearth, forcing myself to make a long, careful study of the painting hanging over it. I’d barely noted it the other night, and now no detail was small enough for me to consider. The Ruin of Love by an artist called Accardi, according to its plaque. It was a rather forlorn take on the myth of Silvana, the ancient goddess of animals and the woods, and Ardus, the god of war, and the sundering of their love.

As a steadying quiet settled between us, Hugh circled back around the desk, picking up the delicate tweezers. He studied the walls he’d already erected, carefully considering where to place the next piece.

“I went to find her because of you,” he said suddenly. “How frightened you were for her. I cannot abide—” The words broke off roughly. “I despise the way this world treats women, and yet I’m guilty of having done something equally terrible to you.”

“Even if it was necessary?” I asked, barely a whisper.

“It wasn’t,” he said sharply. “I told myself it was necessary to convince you, but I know now that it wasn’t. For that, I apologize unreservedly and from the very depths of my soul.”

The words broke over me with a wave of pure, dizzying relief. And there I was again, back at the crossroads. Seven, maybe eight steps, and I would reach him on the other side of the desk. Seven steps back, and I would be at the door, leaving to go to bed, as I should. I had done what I had come here to do. There was no reason to stay now.

It made no sense, the way my body angled toward his, how greedily I took in the sight of his careful hands as he performed his ridiculous hobby with all the beautiful focus and consideration he did everything else.

I suddenly, desperately, understood the flame’s appeal to the moth. My body couldn’t forget the press of his against it, the hungry murmurs as he’d kissed me so thoroughly I’d forgotten the world. He’d awakened something in me, and now, the slightest provocation—that gaze, that voice, that tentative smile—was enough to spark my blood to flame. I resented him for what he’d done and longed for that touch with a need I’d never experienced before. I felt it even now. My pulse was a staccato beat at my throat, my wrists, in the secret parts of myself. I struggled to find a way to shift us to safer ground.

“Oliver came by the house today,” I told him, watching as Hugh tensed. “He told me that he’d heard a man named Dobbin has been seeking out fairy plants and oils. I think it may be worth looking through the House of Rosebourne’s employment records, or at least see if Rosebourne had paid anyone with that name to procure the oils for him.”

Hugh said nothing. His gaze shifted to my collarbone, where Mama’s necklace rested against my skin. My hand closed over it, and I didn’t understand the impulse I had to hide it.

“I’d wondered when it had turned up,” he said carefully after a long moment.

“Oliver found it at a pawnbroker’s shop,” I told him.

“Ah.” Hugh’s expression turned sardonic in the way I despised. “Of course.”