Page 91 of Maksym

She turned from the window then, and the almost-smile became more visible. “Endured.”

“With varying degrees of grace.”

“Careful. That is my name.”

“So I have noticed.”

The small exchange settled something in me that the flight had not.

Yuri brought the SUV beneath the porte cochere and stopped with such precision that the rear door aligned exactly with the central stone steps. Before I could move, a figure descended from the entrance.

Tilden stood under the lantern-light as if the night had dressed itself in a waistcoat.

He was impeccably arranged. Dark suit, white shirt, silver tie pin, hair smooth, posture perfect without stiffness. Age had not bent him; service had refined him into something nearly architectural. He had been in my father’s household long enough to understand that genuine pleasure could exist inside formality without cheapening either.

Taras was out of the front passenger seat and through the front door before I managed to step out. He patted Tilden’s shoulder as he passed.

I opened the door and stepped out moments later.

Cold air touched my face. Damp stone. Hickory smoke from one of the estate’s chimneys. The faint iron note of old wards waking as they recognized my bloodline.

Tilden bowed.

“Welcome, Your Grace.”

The title belonged to the Western throne. My father preferred older forms in his house, and his staff knew exactly which knife belonged in which drawer.

“Tilden,” I said. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, sir.” His eyes warmed.

I turned and offered Grace my hand and was more pleased than I’d like to admit when she took it. I helped her from the SUV.

She stepped beneath the porte cochere, navy skirt settling around her knees, boots landing soundlessly on stone. She looked up again at the carved ceiling overhead, where winged creatures chased one another through knots of vine and shadow.

Tilden turned to her. His bow was deep, proper, and entirely sincere.

“My lady.”

Grace did not flinch.

She did not laugh, did not correct him, did not retreat into sarcasm. I saw the title strike her, yes. Saw the faint tightening at the corner of her mouth, the quick calculation behind her eyes. But she accepted the honorific without visible discomfort, and something possessive and proud moved through me before I disciplined it.

“Tilden,” I said, “this is Gracelyn Marlow.”

“Welcome to the Kozlov estate, my lady,” Tilden said. “We are honored by your arrival.”

Grace gave him the kind of nod she might give meeting any person of import.

“Thank you,” she said. “It’s Grace, if that’s permitted by the laws governing houses with turrets.”

Tilden’s eyes creased. “I shall endeavor to comply when circumstances allow.”

“That sounds like a no with excellent tailoring.”

“It is perhaps a conditional yes.”

Grace looked at me. “I like him.”