Page 51 of A Touch of Charm
Thea turned quickly, her skirts brushing the floor with a soft whisper, intent on escaping before her composure fractured entirely. Yet as she reached the shadowed corner of the hall, she hesitated, glancing back despite herself. The light from the wall sconce flickered faintly, illuminating Andre where he stood—or rather, where he leaned now, his back pressed against the cold stone. His head tipped forward, his hand gripping the wall beside him as though bracing against the burden he carried. His broad shoulders, always so resolute, sagged under the weight of some unseen anguish. His jaw tightened, but his eyes betrayed him, dark with a tempest of emotions he seemed unable—or unwilling—to release.
From the shadows, Thea watched, her breath caught in her throat, her heart splintering as she tried to make sense of the sight before her. He was not merely composed or withdrawn, as he often made himself in her presence. No, he appeared unraveled, broken in a way that made her chest ache. She had done this. She was certain of it. Her presence, her foolishness, her very existence seemed to bring danger to him and cause pain.
The memories pounced on her like wolves—twice now, the danger that had burst into her life had caught him too. Andre, steady and loyal, had been pulled into the fray not out of duty but because of her. The attackers had seen her weakness, and in their threats, Andre had stood by her side, his life entangled with hers in ways it never should have been. She was a princess, born to a world of privilege but also peril, and he—he was a healer who sought to mend, not to bear the brunt of her troubles. Yet here he was, suffering in silence, crushed by emotions he would never allow himself to voice.
Because of her.
Her fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the hallway’s frame. She wanted to go to him, to speak, to say something—anything—that might ease his torment. But the weight of what she’d seen rooted her in place, guilt pressing down until the idea became impossible. How could she apologize for what could not be undone? Could she unlove the man who’d captured her heart?
No, she realized, her stomach twisting as tears pricked her eyes. She was not good for him. She brought him nothing but danger—and, worse still, despair.
Unseen in the darkness, she lingered a moment longer, her heart unable to look away even as her mind screamed that she must. Then, turning once more, Thea slipped into the stairwell, the soft fall of her footsteps swallowed by the stillness of the night.
*
Andre stood inthe quiet hallway, unmoving except for the rise and fall of his chest. He could no longer hear Thea’s footsteps and the rustling of her dress. He pressed his hand flat against the cold stone of the wall for even the elegant wallpaper barely hid the hard bricks underneath. His fist was still trembling from both the force of his earlier blow and the raging turmoil within him. Although his knuckles burned in fiery protest, he barely felt it compared to the hollow ache deep in his chest.
The faint echo of Thea’s retreating steps still haunted his ears, though she was gone now, vanished into the shadowed halls. He could picture her even now—her slender shoulders stiff with unspoken emotions, her skirts gliding against polished wood, each step purposefully quiet yet heavy with meaning. She had turned from him not just physically but emotionally, and he could feel that distance as surely as a blade had come between them. And it was his fault. He had driven her away.
Andre turned to lean his forehead against the wall, the cool surface grounding in a way the air could not. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the relentless pounding of his thoughts to still themselves. Stan was just two doors down, close enough to catch any noise—close enough to make all of this unbearably real. Thea had only just walked out of sight, and he could not risk her hearing him break apart in the hallway like a man undone. He owed a princess, at the very least, his restraint.
But his heart did not listen, and neither did his body. The dull throb in his knuckles wasn’t enough to release the tension coiled in his stomach, nor was bracing himself against the solid wall. He wanted to hit it again, to feel something sharper, something clearer. He wanted to shatter the thoughts spiraling through his head, dragging him down into a futile, aching place where his longing for her rose undeniably against every shred of logic.
He couldn’t move forward—she had left. He wouldn’t follow her.
His promise to Stan was a cord wrapped tight around him, binding him not to his emotions but to his word as a man. Protect Thea. Look after her. Ensure she was safe at all costs—that had been Stan’s request, given to him in trust. Andre had taken them to heart, perhaps too much so. But what choice did he have now? To fail at that charge, even for a second, was unthinkable. And to compromise her in any way—even just to tell her what simmered inside him—would be the worst betrayal of all.
Thea was a princess. Her title was not a mere formality; it was her entire identity, built on the expectations of a world far above his own. And he—he was no prince. Medicine was his calling, but it was also his boundary, defining him more concretely than any title could. He was not a lord or even a gentleman of means. He had no estate, no legacy aside from the patients he patched back together one broken limb or feeble cough at a time.
What could he offer her? The answer came as quickly as it always did—nothing. Worse than nothing. A life with him would reduce her to obscurity, to whispers from the court and wagging tongues that would follow their union ruthlessly. A doctor’s wife. A princess who had abandoned all she was born to for a man who could boast little beyond his skill with stitches. It wasn’t just scandalous; it was impossible.
He pressed his aching fist lightly to his forehead, his pulse thrumming in his ears. And yet, even knowing all that, even with the clarity of every reason why he must not—he could not—his mind betrayed him. It betrayed him with the memory of her warmth, her frame pressed to his side as she had sought him for comfort only days ago. He could remember it too clearly, the way her breath had brushed against his neck, the feel of her head resting so lightly against his shoulder. It had been an accident of necessity, a fleeting moment that should have passed like mist. But instead, it lingered, as vivid now as if it were happening again. The weight of her had steadied him and set him aflame all at once.
She sought his closeness and protection.Him.
What if she likes me back?
Andre swallowed hard, fighting against the swell of emotion that threatened to choke him. Thus, he drew back from the wall and rubbed at the dull ache spreading through his hand. He had not meant to strike it as he had, just as he had not meant to ache for Thea as he did. But his control slipped further every day. The promises he made to himself—to keep his distance, to do only what was necessary—they were eroding faster than he could rebuild them.
His shadow stretched long against the wall as he turned to gaze down the hall once more, toward the silent stairwell where Thea had disappeared. The thought struck him then, painfully clear, like stepping into frigid water—what did it matter if he burned for her, if his chest ached and his stomach twisted with longing? It changed nothing.
Onlyshecould changeeverything—if she liked him back.
With shaking breath, he clenched his hands into fists again, forcing himself to feel the ache, to bind his emotions within those raw, bruised knuckles. Thea deserved far better. She deserved the life waiting for her, the suitors who could offer her gowns and jewels and castles. She deserved stability, honor, ease—even if Andre himself hated thinking that no other man might fulfill that role. It did not matter what he wanted. He could never earn the privilege of standing beside her, not in this life. All that mattered to him was what she wanted.
Chapter Nineteen
Cloverdale House, later that evening…
Thea found theupholstered chairs too hard as she sat beside the flickering light of the hearth, her posture straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap. The ticking of the clock on the mantel marked the hour with a steady rhythm, each tick a reminder that it was now past eight and soon Mary’s bedtime, but Thea still didn’t want to be alone. She glanced at Mary, sprawled on the thickly patterned rug, diligently brushing her toy cat’s painted-on fur with a tiny brush. The girl’s soft hum of concentration filled the otherwise quiet parlor at Cloverdale House.
“Do you think she misses me?” Mary asked without lifting her eyes from her self-imposed campaign. Her dark curls, like her mother’s, tumbled over her face.
Thea hesitated. Mary’s tiny fingers paused, hovering over her toy cat, Lady Felicity Whiskers. The fire cracked, sending a sharp pop like an inconvenient truth Thea couldn’t ignore.
“I think your mother has been very busy supporting your father’s growing business,” Thea replied carefully, smoothing her skirt over her knee to avoid Mary’s gaze. It was the same answer she’d given before.
Mary sighed, her shoulders slumping. “She said the traveling was exhausting, so she didn’t take me along. If she dislikes it so much, why must she go?”
