Chapter 20
Jacqueline stepped out of the manor, her attire carefully chosen for an afternoon in the city. Waiting for her at the entrance was a carriage emblazoned with the prestigious Preston family crest.
Under William’s attentive eye, she climbed inside. Nearby, a group of maids watched the departure, their faces etched with curiosity, though none possessed the boldness to voice their questions.
Once she was settled, William offered a polite bow. “I wish you a pleasant journey, Miss Somerset,” he said.
Jacqueline acknowledged him with a graceful tilt of her head.
The carriage lurched forward, leaving the estate behind. As the horses picked up speed, Jacqueline leaned against the windowsill, watching the landscape blur into a tapestry of green and gold. She closed her eyes, letting the cool breeze brush her skin. The air held the delicate, citrusy scent of oranges.
The fragrance pulled her back in time. She remembered the long, winding drive leading to the Somerset estate, lined with orange trees that heralded her arrival. In those days, that specific scent was the only thing that truly made her feel she had come home.
“I wonder,” she mused softly to herself, “if the new owners share my fondness for those trees.”
A faint sigh escaped her as she pictured the elderly Viscount and his silver-haired wife. They had been overjoyed when she signed over the deeds, claiming the house was the perfect sanctuary for their twilight years. She recalled the hollow sensation that had settled in her chest the moment the keys left her hand—the jarring realization that the only home she had ever known was no longer hers. It felt as if her very roots had been shaken, or like a sweet treat snatched away just as one began to savor it.
“It isn’t yours anymore,” she whispered, firming her resolve. “Stop dwelling on it.”
By the time she shook off her melancholy, the carriage had come to a halt before a grand, high-end department store. Windsor Preston was already there, having just stepped down from his own conveyance.
As he approached her carriage, Jacqueline instinctively reached out a hand for assistance. Windsor, who had been waiting with his hands clasped behind his back, blinked in momentary surprise at the gesture.
A small, embarrassed sound caught in Jacqueline’s throat as she realized they were drawing the attention of every passerby on the street.
“Ahem.”
Windsor cleared his throat and stepped forward, taking her hand in his. Jacqueline let out a quiet breath of relief, thankful to have avoided a public blunder.
“My thanks, Lord Preston,” she said, maintaining a regal composure for the sake of the onlookers. He didn’t release her hand until her feet were firmly planted on the pavement.
Even through the fabric of her glove, the warmth of his touch felt unexpectedly lingering. Jacqueline found herself curling her fingers into a tight fist as they turned to enter the store.
They walked side by side in a silence that felt practiced, both staring straight ahead, yet neither could block out the frantic whispering of the local gentry.
“Goodness, is that Lord Preston? And who is the lady? I’ve never seen him escorting anyone before.”
“That’s Jacqueline Somerset.”
“Somerset? You mean the girl from that ruined family?”
“The very one. Her father lost everything overnight. But what on earth is she doing with him?”
“I heard a rumor she’s working as a governess at Preston Manor. It seems the gossip was true. But why bring a governess to a department store?”
“Could there be something more between them?”
As one noblewoman fluttered her fan to hide her lips, another lady joined the fray with a more practical theory.
“Master Benjamin’s birthday gala is next week. They’re likely just shopping for a gift for the boy.”
“Ah, of course. He is the uncle, and she is the tutor. It’s only logical.”
“Still, if they were a match, who would be the one to pity? A man with more gold than pedigree, or a woman with a title but not a penny to her name?”
“It’s a toss-up. They’re almost too well-matched in their misfortunes. If a romance blooms, high society won’t talk of anything else for months.”
Jacqueline offered the world a thin, bitter smile that never reached her eyes. She pulled her shoulders back, her spine turning to steel. She had long ago mastered the art of appearing unbothered by the wagging tongues of the elite.
She stole a glance at Windsor. He must have heard them, yet his face remained a mask of cold indifference.
“Are you quite alright?” she asked.
Windsor arched an eyebrow, looking down at her. It took him a beat to realize what she was referring to. “Ah,” he grunted softly. “If I allowed rumors to affect me, Miss Somerset, I would have had a total collapse years ago.”
“I suppose that’s true,” Jacqueline replied lightly. “My mother, unfortunately, was not so resilient. The endless swarm of reporters and the way our ‘friends’ turned their backs overnight broke her. She still relies on medicine just to find a few hours of sleep.”
Windsor’s gaze lingered on her profile for a moment, a rare flicker of something resembling concern softening his stern features. Jacqueline felt a small, genuine smile tug at her lips. Beneath his gruff exterior, she could sense a buried streak of kindness.
“There is no need to look at me with such an expression, Lord Preston.”
“…And what expression would that be?”
“Pity? Perhaps a touch of admiration?”
Windsor’s brow twitched. Jacqueline kept her eyes forward, her voice humming with feigned innocence.
“Or maybe you’re simply proud of the poor girl who refused to be crushed by her circumstances?”
“Hardly,” he countered, his voice flat and certain.
Jacqueline glanced at him, slightly taken aback by his bluntness.
Windsor moved through the store with an air of total confidence, though Jacqueline was certain he had never darkened the door of a retail establishment in his life. Her suspicion was confirmed when he began marching purposefully toward the women’s high-fashion wing.
“Lord Preston, you’re heading the wrong way. We need the second floor.”
He stopped dead in his tracks.
Windsor paused, adjusted his course without a word of acknowledgment, and headed for the stairs. Jacqueline bit back a grin, keeping her expression perfectly neutral.
When they reached the second floor, Windsor’s face soured. The level was a chaotic wonderland for children—overflowing with tiny shoes, lace-trimmed bonnets, elaborate toys, and miniature porcelain sets. It was clearly a foreign land to him. Jacqueline, having already researched where to go, took the lead.
Windsor followed several paces behind, his reluctant gait making him look very much like a schoolboy being hauled to a lesson he despised.
They stopped at the capital’s premier toy emporium. Windsor froze at the threshold, staring blankly at the whirlwind of activity inside. A young girl hurried past clutching a doll, a gentleman was engaged in a somber inspection of stuffed bears, and a boy Benjamin’s age was currently having a spectacular tantrum on the floor while his mother looked on in despair.
To Windsor, it clearly looked like a circle of hell.
“Do come along,” Jacqueline urged.
He followed her in with the air of a man facing a firing squad. “Are you entirely certain,” he muttered, “that Benjamin’s gift is to be found in this… place?”
“I can promise you it will be far more welcome than another tome on royal history.”
The crowd seemed to part for them like the Red Sea, the couple’s combined reputation creating a bubble of sudden, awkward silence.
“Our notoriety has its perks,” Jacqueline whispered. “See how they clear the path?”
“The book was a practical choice,” Windsor defended. “Every young man of his station should be well-versed in our history before entering boarding school.”
“A noble sentiment. But as I told you, that is the gift you want to give. It isn’t what he wants to receive.”
“And you claim to be an expert on the hidden desires of a six-year-old? Are you sure this isn’t just something you want to buy?”
Jacqueline stopped and turned to him, her eyes bright with certainty. She gestured grandly to the display before them. “I guarantee he will cherish this more than any history book.”
Windsor looked at the item she indicated, a deep furrow forming between his eyes. He looked back at her, skeptical. “You are positive about this?”
Jacqueline gave a firm nod. Before he could argue further, she gestured to a shop assistant.
“We’ll take this one, please. And have it wrapped beautifully for a gift.”
“An excellent choice, Miss,” the clerk beamed. “A master craftsman’s work. There were only ten made, and this is the final piece in our inventory. I’ll prepare it immediately.”
“Thank you.”
Jacqueline moved toward the counter, then looked back at Windsor, waiting for him to handle the mundane task of payment. He approached slowly, peeling off his gloves and setting them on the counter before producing his checkbook.
Jacqueline watched the wrapping process with the infectious excitement of a child. When the clerk finished, he held out the large, yellow-wrapped box.
“Here you are, Miss.”
Jacqueline looked at Windsor. Her eyes were a kaleidoscope of emotions—sometimes they chided him, sometimes they flashed with irritation, but right now, they held a rare spark of approval.
“Hand it over,” Windsor sighed.
“Of course, Lord Preston.” The clerk handed the package to the Marquess.
Windsor took the bulky box in one arm, silently cursing himself for not bringing Roman along to act as a porter. He felt as though every eye in the store was burned into his back. He didn’t look left or right, simply heading for the exit.
Jacqueline noticed his leather gloves sitting forgotten on the counter. She snatched them up and hurried to catch his long strides.
“You’ve forgotten these,” she said, holding them out.
Windsor glanced at the gloves, took them in his free hand, and kept walking.
“How curious,” Jacqueline remarked.
He shot her a questioning look. She was busy smoothing a stray wrinkle in her dress as she walked.
“For a man who prides himself on precision, you are remarkably prone to losing things. First your spectacles, then your walking stick, and now your gloves. I wonder what’s next?”
“They are merely objects,” Windsor replied dismissively. “They don’t warrant my focus.”
“Not important?” Jacqueline stopped, forcing him to turn back to her. She looked at his stoic face. To her, those items were the very symbols of a gentleman’s dignity. “If those aren’t important, what is?”
“The lack of them won’t kill me, Miss Somerset,” he said simply.
