Chapter 16
Therese wakes with a start, a knock on the door slicing through the remnants of a dark, oppressive dream. Her body trembles. Cold. Another knock. Urgent. Demanding.
She fumbles for the oil lamp and turns it up, bathing the small room in flickering amber light. Wrapping a shawl over her nightgown, she rises.
It’s ten o’clock. Who would come at this hour?
The door creaks open, and there he is. The Duke. Jacob. Tall. Commanding. Still in the same attire from earlier that day. His presence is startling—almost unreal.
“I’m sorry to wake you, Miss Antonio. I just returned and wanted to see how you.”
His voice is hesitant. Cautious. But his eyes aren’t. They roam, devouring her in a way that steals her breath. She doesn’t know if the heat rising in her chest is from the fire—or from him.
“It’s fine, Your Grace,” she murmurs. “Would you... like to come in?”
He nods. A pause. Then he steps inside.
She brushes the sofa—an unconscious, nervous gesture. He watches her. There’s a flicker of amusement in his eyes. The room is tidy. Respectable. Hers.
“It’s not fitting for a duke,” she says quietly.
“It’s perfect,” he replies, his voice warm, though a strange chill hums between them.
She moves to the kitchen hearth, adds wood to the fire. He watches. Silent. But not still. His thoughts drift—to his brother, to the war, to the losses etched into his memory. His brother stabbed over and over, vanished into chaos. All that came back: a letter. A miniature. A handkerchief. Grief, sharp as glass, presses in.
“Would you like some tea, Your Grace?”
Therese’s voice breaks the gloom.
“Coffee, if it’s no trouble,” he says, returning to her with a soft smile.
She pauses. Then smiles too. “I thought the English preferred tea.”
“We do. But I grew to love coffee in Portugal.”
Her shoulders tighten. Barely. But he sees it.
“You must’ve learned a great deal there.”
Her tone is mild. Guarded.
He steps behind her. Places a hand gently on her shoulder. His fingers trace lazy, idle lines. Even through the shawl, the contact sparks fire. She stiffens. Then softens. He draws her closer.
His lips brush her neck. His breath is hot. Her skin tastes of citrus and woodsmoke. She moans. He trails kisses lower.
“Therese…”
She leans into him. The shawl slips. His hands slide over her arms. He kisses her shoulder. His voice deepens.
“I want to taste you. May I?”
She nods. Breathless. Dazed.
“Let me in, Therese. Into your heart. Your secrets.”
Something in the words snags.
A voice rises inside her. A warning. Cold and sharp.
She freezes.
Then steps away.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”
He sees the flush on her cheeks. The hunger in her eyes. He doesn't touch her again.
“Don’t apologize,” he says softly.
The kettle whistles. She turns toward it, grateful for the interruption.
“You don’t need to bother with the coffee. It’s late. You should rest.”
She nods. Disappointment flickers but she says nothing.
He moves toward the door. She hesitates.
“Wait, Your Grace… Did you come just to check on me, or…?”
He turns back. Steps closer. Their bodies nearly touch. He lifts her chin.
“Isn’t it obvious, Miss Antonio?”
Then he’s gone. The door clicks shut behind him. Silence swells in his absence.
***
Thursday, 26th April
“Jacob, won’t you have breakfast with us?”
He stops. Boot heels echo through the marble hallway. His mother’s voice—the Dowager Duchess—floats after him. He turns.
The dining room is warm, cheerful. The Duchess beams from behind a tea service. MaryAnn sits beside her, poised and polished, sipping with the delicacy of a woman born to be watched. Jacob tastes bitterness.
“Good morning, Mother. I trust your trip was pleasant? How is my cousin, the Earl?”
He joins them. His mother opens her arms, and he bends to kiss her cheek. Her embrace is soft. Familiar. She fusses.
“You never let the footmen serve you, Jacob.”
He pours his own coffee. Smiles. She pouts.
“As long as I breathe, Mother.”
She launches into stories—Ireland, Kilmore, the weather, dances, proposals declined. He listens, half-distracted. His mind wanders.
Until she draws him back.
“I hear we have a new dressmaker. A talented one. My maid can’t stop praising her embroidery.”
He straightens. “Is that so?”
“Yes. Mrs. Fletcher is bringing her now, in fact...”
“Your Grace,” the butler announces, “Mrs. Fletcher and Miss Antonio.”
Jacob freezes.
So does MaryAnn.
The Duchess only smiles, blissfully unaware of the fault line about to split the room.
“Your Grace, Mrs. Fletcher and Miss Antonio,” the butler announces.
Jacob turns just in time to see Mrs. Fletcher and Therese step out from behind him.
“That will be all, Festus,” Jacob dismisses, his eyes snapping straight to Therese.
A glance passes between them—brief, electric—as her gaze finds his and then quickly drops. She looks radiant, wrapped in an olive green day dress. Her hair is pinned in a low bun, with a few rebellious wisps curling around her face, softening it. The sunlight catches her skin, illuminating it like porcelain. Her head remains bowed, respectful. He hasn’t seen her in three days—not since the night they shared that dangerous moment. He had avoided her deliberately, disciplined himself to stay away. But it has cost him. His nights have been restless. His body tight with want. The memory of her kiss, the scent of her desire—it had haunted him.
Now, looking at her, it haunts him all over again.
“Miss Antonio, how have you found England so far?” Jacob asks, voice warm, smooth, and just sharp enough to prickle. “Has there been any pleasure since your arrival?”
Therese’s eyes lift to his—startled, wide, that same liquid spark of wanting flickering there. She senses the meaning beneath his words. Of course she does.
“I... I... It…”
“Jacob, don’t tease the poor girl,” Vallejo Wilson chides. “She’s barely settled in. I believe she came from the Americas, didn’t she, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Jacob’s mouth twitches at the corners. He doesn’t look away from Therese, but the amusement in his eyes deepens as he watches her squirm.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Mrs. Fletcher says hastily. “She is from the Americas.” Her head bows low, voice small.
“Splendid!” Vallejo claps her hands with girlish enthusiasm. “And I’m told her embroidery is already remarkable. I want to see it this instant. Let’s go to the workroom, MaryAnn.”