Translator: Nox

Chapter 18

“If your schedule permits, Lord Preston, would you care to join me for tea? It’s nearly time. I was meant to share a glass of lemonade with Benjamin, but Madam Ritz has whisked him away to the washroom. It sounded as though he’s in for a full bath.”

Windsor cast a brief look at the clock before setting his pen aside. His response was characteristically blunt.

“Teatime is precisely seven minutes away. At present, I am on the clock.”

“I am aware. It will take Betty roughly that long to prepare the service, so please, finish your task. I shall wait here quietly.”

With that, Jacqueline settled herself onto the sofa. Windsor found her behavior baffling. Surely it was more efficient to arrive exactly on the hour rather than endure seven minutes of idle waiting?

Then, a realization struck him, and he gave a knowing nod.

“Your desire to lecture me must be profound if you are willing to suffer such boredom just to get a head start.”

“Don’t be absurd. Have you forgotten? I am your…”

Jacqueline caught herself, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Though they were the only two in the study, she was a woman who valued discretion.

“Your secret governess. A tutor always takes an interest in her pupil’s progress. Besides, Benjamin’s birthday ball is only days away. You will be expected to share tea and conversation with the nobility there.”

Windsor arched an eyebrow but returned his focus to the documents on his desk. Exactly seven minutes later, he rose.

Right on cue, Betty entered with the tray. Jacqueline offered the maid a warm, appreciative smile as the tea service was arranged.

“Thank you, Betty. That will be all.”

“Of course, Miss Somerset.”

As Windsor approached the sitting area, Jacqueline focused on the silver tray, her instructional tone returning.

“Today, we shall cover the fine points of tea etiquette. Since you’ll be expected to exchange pleasantries with other gentlemen before the dancing begins, this lesson is vital, Lord Preston.”

Windsor sat straight-backed, giving her his full attention. Her voice was clear and melodic, possessing a rhythmic quality that felt almost like a song.

She was his polar opposite in every conceivable way. He found her emotional range particularly striking; she moved between laughter and gravity with a fluidity he couldn’t grasp.

There were moments when her mood turned sharp for reasons he couldn’t fathom—and he suspected he never would.

“First, take the teacup and bring it toward your face. You must appreciate the bouquet.”

Jacqueline demonstrated the movement, and Windsor mirrored her.

“It is customary to offer a brief remark regarding the scent.”

Windsor stared at her, momentarily lost for words. Jacqueline gave him an encouraging nod.

“The specifics matter less than the gesture; everyone says the same things regardless. ‘The aroma is quite robust’ or ‘This is a lovely blend’ will suffice perfectly.”

“Aren’t you being a bit dismissive of the tradition?”

Windsor eyed her skeptically. Jacqueline met his gaze with unshakeable poise.

“As I told you, it is a fussy, over-complicated social grace. Not every movement requires a deep philosophical justification. Now that you have sampled the scent, you may take a sip.”

Following her lead, Windsor brought the porcelain to his lips.

The more one observed him, the more naturally refined his movements seemed. Windsor appeared unaware of it, but even without formal training, his innate dignity was such that few would ever think to criticize him.

His striking appearance acted as a perfect shield, masking any minor technical errors by commanding the full attention of everyone in the room.

“The tea is excellent.”

“Perfect!”

Jacqueline’s eyes shone with the pride of a teacher whose student had mastered ten lessons in the span of one. After a moment, Windsor lowered his cup.

It was these small moments that emphasized the chasm between them. They were different species entirely—as distinct as a cat and a sparrow, or a whale and a frog.

Their lives, their temperaments, their very ways of thinking—nothing about them aligned.

“When you return the cup to the saucer, aim for a soft, clear sound—nothing jarring.”

Clink.

He was a natural pupil, and Jacqueline felt a genuine sense of accomplishment. Bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sun, she turned her gaze toward him.

Unexpectedly, their eyes locked.

Jacqueline felt her spine stiffen with a sudden, inexplicable tension. Was it the intensity of his stare, which felt as though it might consume her? Or was it the dangerous edge he kept hidden beneath a veneer of indifference?

At times, the man radiated an aura far sharper than any pampered aristocrat. It was a predatory stillness, like the lethal balance of a blade.

She wondered if it was a lingering shadow from his former life.

Those born to the peerage were almost universally slow and languid, having never known true want. They had never bled for a living or lost sleep over a debt. Consequently, they moved with an inherent, weary boredom.

Windsor was different. He was a bowstring pulled taut, vibrating with the potential of a released arrow. Even in repose, he didn’t possess the idle laziness of the high-born; he had the calculated calm of a predator that had eaten its fill but remained ready to strike.

To mask her fluttering nerves, Jacqueline forced a slight smile. Her lips felt stiff, but she maintained the mask.

Comfort and unease.

He managed to provoke both sensations at once—a confusing, irrational duality.

Averting her eyes, she toyed aimlessly with her teacup before a new thought struck her. She looked up again.

Windsor, who had been drinking with effortless grace, slowly raised his head.

Who could doubt his nobility? And yet—who could truly believe he belonged to their world?

“Oh, I nearly forgot—you’ll be expected to dance at the ball.”

“Dance?”

Windsor’s brow furrowed. It was clearly a prospect he found distasteful. Jacqueline nodded firmly.

Anything was better than the heavy, suffocating weight of his silence.

“A gentleman of your standing is expected to request a turn about the floor with the ladies in attendance.”

“Ah—another one of those needlessly complex and irritating customs.”

Ignoring his grumbling, Jacqueline stood up. She planted her hands on her hips and looked down at him with a determined expression.

“Now, ask me to dance.”

“There is no point. No young lady will have any interest in dancing with me.”

Jacqueline fell silent. She heard the self-deprecation in his voice regarding his birth. It left a bitter taste in her mouth, reminiscent of the sting she felt when she referred to herself as a “penniless lady.”

“You are the Marquess of Preston,” she countered softly, her voice sounding like an excuse even to her own ears. “Surely there are many who would—”

“I intend to abdicate and hand the title to Benjamin the moment he reaches his majority. Do you honestly believe any debutante would seek a dance knowing that?”

The ton was rife with rumors that Windsor intended to usurp his nephew’s inheritance—that he was a vulture circling the Preston estate.

But Jacqueline knew better. He had no thirst for the title. Windsor Preston might be a stern, difficult man, but he was no thief.

“It is my responsibility to ensure Lord Preston is a gentleman of distinction. I have never met a true gentleman who lacked the ability to dance. So, stop being difficult and ask me.”

“Stop being difficult…?”

Windsor squinted at her, as if doubting his own ears. Jacqueline ignored the look and boldly offered him her hand.

She dropped her voice an octave, imitating a formal masculine tone.

“In this situation, you should say: ‘Might I have the honor of this dance, Miss Somerset?’ Now, take my hand.”

Windsor didn’t move; he simply stared at her palm. Losing her patience, Jacqueline gave her hand a sharp little shake to hurry him along.

She did not possess Benjamin’s gift for quiet waiting.

“Come now.”

“I have never danced a step in my life.”

Jacqueline’s eyes went wide.

“But was your mother not an opera singer? Did she never teach you?”

“She was not the maternal type. She was far more interested in dancing with her latest paramours than instructing her son.”

“Oh—I am sorry.”

The apology felt clumsy as it left her lips.

Windsor, however, saw no reason for it. It wasn’t her fault his mother had been a woman of many distractions.

“How long do you intend to leave me standing here? It is quite ungentlemanly to ignore a lady’s hand.”

Finally, Windsor reached out, his hand slowly covering hers.

Jolt.

A shiver raced through Jacqueline. A sharp tingle, like a static shock, pulsed through her fingers. For a fleeting second, she thought she heard the distant roll of thunder.

She glanced toward the window, but the sky remained a vivid, cloudless blue. She took a quiet, steadying breath.

A crisp, sophisticated scent drifted toward her—a fragrance that suited him perfectly.

He took a step forward, closing the distance until they were barely a handspan apart.

Jacqueline’s breath hitched. A strange, heavy pressure seemed to settle over her.

Up close, he was taller than she had realized, his shoulders broader. It was as if she were seeing the sheer scale of him for the first time.

Her heart began to race. Fearing her hand might tremble and betray her nerves, she bit her lip.

Slowly, his eyes traveled from their joined hands up to her face.

When he spoke, his voice was a low, resonant growl.

“What is the next step?”

“Oh—right.”

Pulling herself together, Jacqueline looked up. She took his other hand and guided it into the proper position—his hand low, hers raised.

She lowered her gaze with the practiced modesty of a lady accepting an invitation.

“Since Lord Preston has been so kind as to ask, I shall grant him this dance.”

Windsor’s eyebrow twitched, a detail she missed while looking down.

“We have no music, so you must simply follow my lead and keep the rhythm. I’ll keep the pace slow. Are you ready?”

Windsor didn’t answer; he simply watched her, his expression unreadable.