Translator: Nox

Chapter 80

Windsor moved across the room with measured steps and pulled the door open. Just as he suspected, Jacqueline had been pacing in the hallway; she froze instantly, her head snapping toward him.

Only then did her restless feet go still against the floorboards. Windsor’s gaze lingered on her feet for a moment before he slowly looked up to meet her eyes.

“What exactly are you doing?”

“A woman of reputation can hardly be seen knocking on a gentleman’s door at such an ungodly hour, can she?”

Jacqueline adopted a haughty air, her expression radiating the poise of a high-born lady. As she spoke, the oil lamp in her hand cast a rhythmic, swaying light between them.

A shadow of understanding darkened Windsor’s features.

“So the heavy footsteps were intentional? A signal?”

“I got to thinking,” she explained, “that a man like Lord Preston would surely keep water and spirits in his chambers. A quick, discreet inquiry with a maid confirmed my theory. And since you were already inclined to suspect me—not that I hold a grudge, of course…”

She didn’t sound resentful, though perhaps there was a hint of wounded pride in her tone.

She took a steadying breath under his piercing stare and pressed on.

“The logic seemed sound: if I made enough noise in the corridor in the middle of the night, you would eventually emerge to investigate—whether to keep a watchful eye on me or for some other purpose.”

“Initially, that was the case.”

Windsor spoke up abruptly. He couldn’t quite place the source of his sudden unease, but he found himself rubbing his chin and offering a rare, uncharacteristic explanation.

“But my motivations changed.”

At his admission, a soft smile touched Jacqueline’s lips. She held the oil lamp out toward him.

“Will you join me for tea? After the extraordinary events of the day, sleep seems to be eluding me.”

Without a word of protest, Windsor followed her. In the shadows of the kitchen, Jacqueline moved with practiced grace, preparing the brew before turning back to him.

“Which would you prefer to carry—the lamp or the tray?”

Windsor took the tray and led the way toward the sitting room. Jacqueline fell in beside him, holding the lamp high to cast a warm glow over the path ahead.

The sensation was profoundly foreign to him. Windsor Preston had spent his life in solitude. His mother, once an opera singer, had never been the type to shower her child with affection.

Left to his own devices from a tender age, Windsor had learned the art of self-reliance. His mother always had a revolving door of admirers, and she had far more time for her lovers than for her own son.

Solitude became his natural state. He learned never to lean on anyone, carving out a lonely, resolute path through the world.

That isolation persisted even during his military service. The stigma of being the “illegitimate son of the Marquess of Preston” was a shadow he could never quite outrun.

Even after earning the rank of major through sheer grit and merit, the whispers remained—people claimed his advancement was merely the work of the Marquess’s invisible hand.

Consequently, his resolve to remain independent only hardened. Life was a solitary trek, and he had grown numb to the sting of loneliness long ago.

Yet here was Jacqueline, matching him stride for stride, lighting the darkness for him.

He realized then that she was tilting the lamp toward his side. Despite her own admitted fear of the dark, she was prioritizing his footing over her own.

She was making sure that he, burdened by the tray, would not trip.

It was a strange realization. As they entered the sitting room, Windsor felt a swell of unfamiliar emotion.

He settled into a deep, upholstered armchair as she placed a teacup before him. Steam curled from the rose-patterned porcelain. He took the handle and lifted it to his lips.

“The fragrance is quite delicate.”

“…Ha.”

Jacqueline’s eyes went wide with startle before she broke into a sudden peal of laughter. Windsor could only stare at her, momentarily lost for words.

She dabbed at a stray tear of mirth. “You really are a perfect gentleman, aren’t you?”

Windsor remained silent, unsure of how to navigate the compliment. He was a man who listened well but struggled to find his own words—especially in the absence of a formal agenda.

“I made it a bit weaker than usual, given the hour. I hope it’s to your liking, Lord Preston.”

With that, the conversation drifted into a quiet lull. They sat in companionable silence, sipping their tea.

The lamp on the table provided a soft, intimate radiance. There was no need for more light; the dim glow felt sufficient.

A tranquil atmosphere settled around them—not the jagged silence of strangers, but a warmth that felt as protective as a heavy quilt.

With a soft click of porcelain against a saucer, Windsor set his cup down and looked at her. For once, he hesitated, loath to shatter the perfect stillness of the room.

“I wanted to thank you for what you did today, Miss Somerset.”

He looked directly into her eyes, which were as clear and bright as river stones after a rain. Jacqueline met his gaze, unable to look away.

A sudden current of tension hummed through the air. The peace of a moment ago had shifted, becoming something fragile and dangerously charged.

Jacqueline felt a sudden restlessness. Her heart began to race as if standing on the precipice of a great change, and her throat felt tight with nerves.

She felt a desperate need to break the spell before…

—Miss Somerset is in love with Lord Preston. Her word cannot be trusted.

Before the silence consumed her.

Jacqueline spoke quickly, her voice a pitch higher than usual as she tried to snap the tension that had stretched tight as a violin string.

“Please, think nothing of it. I should apologize for the delay, Lord Preston. Had I stepped forward as your witness from the beginning, things would have been much simpler.”

She looked down, a trace of bitterness in her expression. Windsor was well aware of what that testimony had cost her.

Watching her hands tighten on the fabric of her robe, he spoke in a low, grounding voice.

“I understand. Your mother will be disappointed.”

“She will.”

Jacqueline didn’t bother with polite denials. She cradled her teacup in both hands, letting the heat seep into her skin and soften the tension in her heart.

Windsor rubbed his chin, his expression taut.

“If it is necessary, I will provide whatever support you need. I could personally pay the reward that His Majesty promised you.”

Jacqueline shook her head slowly but firmly. Her green eyes seemed to darken with resolve.

Windsor’s brow twitched. He felt a sudden, sharp thirst. He took another sip of tea, but it did nothing to quench the dry sensation in his throat.

She looked up at him, her voice steady and calm.

“If you did that, the papers would scream that I had been bought by Lord Preston. The public would turn on you, and your reputation would be in tatters.”

“That is of no concern to me.”

Again, she shook her head. She was gentle, but her stubbornness was absolute.

The thirst returned. Windsor reached for his cup but stopped, curling his hand into a fist instead. This was a craving that tea could never satisfy.

“That isn’t what I want for you.”

“And what of my mother? She would still blame me regardless.”

Jacqueline gave a small, weary laugh. Windsor watched the faint smile ghost across her lips and went back to rubbing his chin.

He had always prided himself on clarity; his own feelings had never been a mystery to him. But now, he found himself unable to name the emotion swirling within.

“She probably will. Mother… she will hold a grudge. But she has to face the truth eventually—the prestige of House Somerset is a thing of the past. It will be a bitter pill, but perhaps this will finally force her to see it.”

Windsor knew then that he couldn’t change her mind. Still, he couldn’t simply agree with her—not after reading the letter her mother had sent.

Soon, Jacqueline would have to hear those venomous words in person. There would be no setting the letter aside or looking away; she would have to stand there and take it.

He wondered how much she would suffer. Would she stand alone again, silently swallowing her tears?

Had sending her to Southfield been a mistake? Or more importantly—did he even have the right to keep her here? Who was he to her, after all?

His fist tightened as he spoke softly.

“I’ve already secured your train ticket.”

“You are very kind, Lord Preston. I suppose I’ll be missing another one of our lessons.”

She gave him a brave, slight smile and a small nod. She was resilient; Windsor knew she had likely faced many such storms with that same quiet strength.

“Don’t worry about the lessons. But tell me—have you reconsidered your schedule? You don’t have to take the first train there and the last one back. You could stay for a few days if you wish.”

“I don’t think Mother would appreciate that very much.”

“Will you be alright on your own?”

Jacqueline’s eyes widened. She remembered then—he had asked her that very same question once before.

Slowly, her face softened into a look of genuine warmth.

“I will. I’ll be fine.”

Windsor watched her in silence. He had been a creature of solitude since he was a boy. Because his mother lived a life of total independence, he had never learned how to lean on others.

He had earned his own way, fed himself, and shouldered his own burdens without help.

Because of this, he preferred people who kept their distance. He was uncomfortable with those who were too needy; in his mind, if a person couldn’t stand on their own, a companion wouldn’t change that fact.

By his own standards, Jacqueline was the ideal—a woman who stood firmly on her own two feet and fought her own battles.

But strangely, even though she was exactly the kind of person he respected, it bothered him. He found himself wishing, quite irrationally, that she would lean on him just a little.

Realizing the contradiction in his own thoughts, Windsor scowled and clicked his tongue inwardly.

It was always like this with her. Jacqueline Somerset was a constant source of conflicting impulses.

Silence with her was both perfectly natural and deeply unsettling; talking to her brought him peace one moment and agitation the next.

She was like the ocean—something he was drawn to, yet something that commanded a wary respect.

Jacqueline took a delicate sip of her tea. The night was still, the moon a pale sliver in the sky. The distant cry of a nightjar echoed through the air as the lamp fought back the encroaching shadows.

After a long pause, Jacqueline finally spoke, her soft voice rippling through the quiet room.

“Benjamin was so happy when the verdict came in. You really should have a proper talk with him tomorrow. As his governess, I feel compelled to mention that the two of you don’t speak nearly enough.”

Windsor looked off into the distance, his eyes clouded with memory.

“I’ve tried my best,” he admitted quietly, “but I’m afraid I’m not much of a guardian.”

“You are a good guardian, Lord Preston.”

Jacqueline spoke with such absolute conviction that Windsor looked at her in genuine shock, as if she had told him something impossible.