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Brendan’s cheek came to rest once more against her temple.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“It is my pleasure, milord. Shall I send someone for Briggs?”

“Yes.” Brendan’s arms tightened around her again, not with panic, but possessive relief. And this time, Lily leaned into it freely. His grip no longer frightened her. Her hand slid around his waist, fingers curling into the fabric of his coat.

She became aware of his breath at her temple, then the light press of his lips in her hair. Gentle. Reverent.

He tipped her chin and kissed her—soft, slow, as though promising he would never let her come to harm again.

Lily sighed, all her fear dissolving into stillness. Her heart fluttered like petals caught in spring wind.

When he rose, he carried her as if she weighed nothing, striding from the small drawing room with careful purpose.

“John,” Brendan said over his shoulder, “find a sheet to cover the body until the coroner arrives. Then meet us in the drawing room at the top of the stairs.”

Ridley House was rapidly running out of suitable rooms, Lily mused in a hazy sort of way as she nestled into her husband’s chest, his familiar warmth anchoring her to the present.

Brendan carried her down the corridor, up the stairs, and into the larger drawing room on the next floor. Without a word, he crossed to the windows overlooking the quiet street and sank into the faded navy settee, keeping her gathered close against him. His cheek came to rest atop her head, and he simply held her.

Lily did not mind the silence. Not in the least.

She floated somewhere between exhaustion and wonder, her mind too muddled to piece together all that had just occurred. Perhaps it was the shock of the assault, the breathless terror of nearly being strangled, or the dizzying relief that she was still here, in Brendan’s arms. Whatever the cause, she refused to dwell on the horror. For now, she let herself simply feel the miracle of being alive, safe, and cherished.

They sat without speaking while her pulse slowed and her chest eased, her thoughts gradually aligning into order. At last, she stirred.

“Michaels shot Wesley?” she asked softly.

“He did.”

“Is he … ?” She trailed off, uncertain how to phrase the question.

Brendan nodded once.

Lily stilled. A ripple of revulsion passed through her, her stomach twisting. She had been beneath the footman, beneath the lifeless weight of the man who had threatened her life. The lassitude that had dulled her mind since the moment she hit the floor began to fade.

“That is … horrifying.”

“I have never been so afraid,” Brendan said, his voice low. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

She pressed her cheek to his chest again, comforted by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. “Would that have been such a terrible thing?”

His arms tightened around her. “A very terrible thing, Lily Ridley.”

“Why—?”

A discreet cough from the doorway interrupted her.

“I have sent for Briggs,” Michaels said calmly, “and I have arranged to notify her ladyship’s family of what has occurred. Shall I bring a restorative for Lady Filminster? Perhaps a cordial for the nerves?”

Brendan did not move, still wrapped around her protectively. “No. Lady Filminster does not imbibe.”

“Some sweetened tea, then? Or coffee, perhaps?”

Lily stirred slightly. “Coffee? I have never tried it. Is it truly any good? It costs a fortune. I remember seeing the accounts at home. Papa pays an outrageous sum for it. He is not one to spend frivolously.”

Brendan chuckled and raised his head. “Coffee, then. But, Michaels, with plenty of milk and sugar.”