Page 67 of Duke of Diamonds
“Forgive the abruptness,” Elaine said, pulling back. “I was nearby and could not resist the temptation to inspect your welfare.”
“It’s a delight to see you,” Fiona replied. “No apology needed.”
Elaine turned with a grin. “And I am relieved to see that my brother’s tedious habits have not yet frightened you into retreat.”
They laughed together, the sound bright and unforced. He felt its weight, felt it settle somewhere he couldn’t quite name.
“You arrive at an opportune time,” Fiona added, turning slightly toward him. “I was just about to ring for tea.”
“Why, and I’m quite parched too,” Elaine said, linking her arm easily through Fiona’s as they turned for the door.
Isaac watched them move together, voices mingling like they’d known one another far longer than a single afternoon. He shifted in place.
“I see I’ve suddenly become invisible,” he said, clearing his throat.
They stopped, turning in perfect unison. The mirrored look of surprise might have amused him, had it not been so convincing.
Their shared glance turned to laughter, light and irreverent.
“You must join us, of course,” Fiona said, waving him forward with a smile. “We cannot have the master of the house feel neglected.”
In the drawing room, he took his place with something between reluctance and curiosity. He had not meant to spend the afternoon sipping tea and making polite conversation, yet here he was, seated beside two women who seemed intent on drawing out parts of his home—and himself—that had long settled into silence.
He watched Fiona as she gave her instructions to her maid, something soft in the cadence of her voice that pulled at him. A few minutes passed before the girl returned, carrying a small wooden chest with worn brass hinges.
She placed it on the table with care, and Fiona leaned forward, lifting the lid.
Inside, nestled in small compartments lined with soft cloth, were glass jars and tiny paper sachets. The subtle scent of dried herbs drifted into the room—floral, spiced, foreign and familiar all at once.
“I could not resist bringing my little collection,” Fiona said, glancing at Elaine with a half-guilty smile. “Though I suppose calling it ‘little’ is something of a lie.”
Elaine’s eyes lit up. “My, you didn’t tell me your wife was a collector of tea, Isaac. A true connoisseur, it would seem.”
He looked to Fiona, brows raised. “This is yours?”
She nodded. “It began with my governess, years ago. She had a fondness for chamomile and told me it cured all manner of ills. I didn’t quite believe her, but I was rather taken by the scent. From there, it became something of an obsession.”
She spoke as she sorted through the chest, her fingers brushing over labels, her eyes alight with a kind of energy he’d never seen in her before.
“I collect when I can. Dry what I find. And when it’s warm enough, I even grow some. Mint, lavender, lemon balm—if one coaxes them carefully, they thrive.”
Isaac remained still, unsure what to make of the feeling gathering in his chest. He had not imagined she could speak so—eagerly. Or that her voice could shift in that way, fuller somehow, carried by the weight of something she clearly loved.
She was lovely in that moment. Not in the polished way society approved of, but in something far more elusive. And far more dangerous.
She is beautiful,the thought came without warning, as unwelcome as it was undeniable.Beautiful in every sense.
He looked away, though he could still hear her voice, still feel the shape of her presence beside him. It unnerved him more than he cared to admit.
As much as he tried to keep his gaze fixed on the rim of his cup or the fire in the grate, Isaac’s eyes returned to her—drawn back like iron to a lodestone. There was something almost absurd about the seriousness with which she approached the task, as though she were conducting a ritual rather than preparing a beverage.
Fiona moved with quiet focus, selecting a mixture of leaves from one of her little jars and adding them to a waiting pot. Her fingertips moved delicately, reverently, as though the tea might flee if startled. She poured the hot water slowly, her eyes narrowing as if the angle mattered, and then replaced the lid with a finality that made it feel like a spell had been sealed.
He watched her hands, steady and sure, and tried not to imagine how that steadiness might feel resting against his skin.This is nothing,he reminded himself.A domestic scene. A cup of tea. That is all.
She handed him the cup with a small flourish, her expression expectant.
“So?” she asked, her eyes scanning his face for a verdict as he brought it to his lips.
