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The door opened and shut again, signaling Mr. Clarke’s departure. Jacob slipped back behind the pillar, his eyes sweeping over her disheveled form.

“Do you need help?” he asked softly.

She let out a nervous laugh. “No. Thank you.”

He nodded. “I need to go.”

“Yes.” She nodded, too. “Go.”

He hesitated, then leaned in and pressed a lingering kiss to her lips.

* * *

The rest of the day passed as usual. Honoria busied herself with her daily chores. Rosie spent most of the afternoon painting, frequently running up to Honoria to display her masterpieces with pride. Robbie was buried in his studies—until he realized one of his prized beetles from his pinned collection had gone missing. His indignant cries about the “vanished beetle” echoed loud enough for the entire block to hear.

Everyone heard him, except, as it turned out, for Rosie, who had the beetle all along, using it as a model for her latest artistic endeavor. The ensuing drama sent the entire household into a minor uproar, with shouting, sulking, and the beetle being triumphantly reclaimed. Eventually, peace was restored when Elise spirited Rosie away to the pianoforte to soothe her with a cheerful tune.

Aside from that little snafu, the day was peaceful. Calm. Happy.

Honoria felt as though she were floating, walking on air, unable to hide the smile tugging at her lips.

Mrs. Clarke commented on her unusually bright spirits more than once, teasing her and even hinting that the earl might have something to do with it.

Did she know? How could she?

Then again, Mrs. Clarke had always been perceptive. Perhaps she’d noticed the quiet tension that had built between Honoria and their employer over time. Or worse—perhaps her husband, the butler, had seen something in the glasshouse and passed it along in the great underground network of household gossip.

What a terrifying, mortifying thought.

But not even that could dampen Honoria’s mood.

Jacob had been out on business for most of the day, returning just in time for supper with the children. He spent the rest of the evening with them in the parlor, as he often did.

Later, Honoria helped Mrs. Sharp get Rosie ready for bed, then returned to her room and paced its length, waiting.

Waiting for Jacob to finish reading Rosie her bedtime story.

Waiting for the servants to deliver steaming buckets of water to his chamber.

Waiting for his valet to finally retire to his quarters.

As soon as the house had quieted down, she slipped out of her room, made her way to Jacob’s door, and knocked.

He opened it, his shirt half-undone, no waistcoat in sight, his hair disheveled. Before he could say a word, Honoria stepped forward, rose on tiptoes, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him.

He wrapped his arms around her waist instantly, pulling her against him, dragging her farther into his room as he shut the door behind them.

He met her kiss with equal fervor, his tongue plunging inside her mouth, devouring her. His beard prickled pleasantly around her mouth, adding a delicious edge to the sensation.

His hands slid down her sides, sending shivers along her spine, then swept her off her feet and carried her to his bed.

Without taking his mouth off her, he laid her on his mattress, then climbed on top of her, his weight warm and welcome.

They continued kissing feverishly, tugging at each other’s clothes, fingers tangled in hair, limbs intertwined until they didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

He broke the kiss to pull off his shirt, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths.

Honoria propped herself up on one elbow, drinking him in. Firelight danced over his bare torso, reminding her of that fateful evening when she’d seen him bathing in the stream.