Wycliffe Manor
The long corridor near the servants' quarters smelled of beeswax and old stone. Afternoon sun sliced through the arched windows, casting sharp lines across the marble floor.
Emilio Wycliffe lounged against the doorframe to the linen room, his cravat loose, a gleam in his eye that made the young maid across from him shrink back a step. She clutched a stack of freshly folded sheets to her chest like a shield.
"Come now, sweet thing. You know I'd take care of you. The Duke won't notice if one more bed's left rumpled." Emilio said, his eyes filled with bad intentions.
His voice was slick with entitlement, his fingers brushing the top sheet.
The maid Lottie, barely seventeen nervously took steps back to avoid him. Her eyes darting around as she silently cried for help.
"Please, my lord, I...I have duties. The Duke will be arriving..."
Smirking, he inches closer to her and blocking her path.
"And I'll see she's well welcomed. But for now…" He reached for her wrist.
She pulled back fearfully, the sheets falling to the ground in a scattered heap of white cotton.
He stood behind her as he sized up her petite body, his hands wrapping around her waist. Lottie clutched her apron as she tried to twist away from the hand gripping her waist.
"Please, sir...someone might see..." She said softly, looking very uncomfortable yet helpless.
Grinning, Emilio replied nonchalantly,"Let them. This house was built for secrets."
His hand slid lower, and Lottie gasped, wrenching free and stumbling against the wall.
"I'll scream." Lottie warned, her eyes fearful.
Emilio sneered, "Go ahead. I'll scream louder when I tell the steward you've been stealing bread from the kitchens. Or perhaps I'll simply say you disrespected me, the Duke's cousin. Your choice."
His words dripped with practiced cruelty. He stepped closer again, like a cat circling its prey.
"I'll be generous. Fifteen minutes. In the upstairs linen closet. Believe me, you'll enjoy it. If you become my favourite, I'll make you one of my mistresses and treat you" He leered, leaning in closer to sniff a whiff of her scent.
"Please, don't make me..." Lottie cried pleadingly.
Emilio's eyes darkened and he said harshly, "I could have you dismissed by supper. Or sent to the stables to scrub muck, if you'd rather", his voice hardening.
"She'd rather you pulled your trousers up and stopped rutting like a mutt in daylight."
The voice cracked across the air like a whip. Lady Rosalind Wycliffe stood at the end of the hall, one gloved hand resting on her cane, the other clutching a silver-buckled handbag. Her gaze was a thundercloud.
"You. Get out of my sight. And try not to cry like a milkmaid on the way out. You'll get no favor from me if I hear of this in the kitchens."
She ordered.
Lottie hesitated then fled, skirts flying, disappearing down the corridor without a backward glance.
Emilio straightened and made a mock bow, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve.
Lady Rosalind rounded on her son, her gaze searing.
"You are a disgrace to your lineage, Emilio." She berated.
Rolling his eyes, Emilio huffed,"A little fun. Hardly worth a fuss."
"Fun? Is that what you call pinning down servants in broad daylight like a common alley cat?"Lady Rosalind yelled.
Emilio shrugged."Better than brooding like Nathaniel. She's beautiful so why can't l have a taste of her."
Lady Rosalind narrowed her eyes dangerously. "Mind your tongue. That 'brooding man' is your host. And your cousin. The Duke. And he returns today with his new bride." She said.
Emilio's smile changed then something sly sparking behind his eyes.
"So it's true. The Ice Duke has really married. I'm curious what kind of lamb signs herself over to that man?"
Lady Rosalind warned firmly. "She's a young lady from a good family. And she will not be drawn into whatever sordid game you're planning."
Emilio grinned, feigning ignorance.
"Game? Oh, Mother, I'd hardly seduce the Duke's new wife. Not unless she begs for it." He said.
Lady Rosalind stepped forward and struck her cane against the floor so hard he flinched.
"You listen to me, Emilio. One wrong step, one whisper of scandal and I will see you shipped back to Florence or buried under the Wycliffe's vineyards. Stay away from her. No tricks. No schemes. Do you understand me? If you ruined my plans, you'll regret it."Lady Rosalind warned sharply, her eyes fierce and serious.
Emilio offered a mock bow.
"As you wish, Mother. I shall be the model of virtue."
Emilio laughed, but the edge in her tone left him watching her warily as she turned and strode away, her cane clicking like a metronome of judgment.
The East Wing Corridor, Wycliffe Manor
Juliana stumbled into the side corridor of the East Wing, her slippers damp, cheeks flushed a vivid rose. A few stray curls had escaped her braid and clung to her temples, kissed by sweat and the garden's summer heat. The hem of her gown was speckled with grass and a smudge of mud from when she nearly tripped over a root.
She clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders, though the morning was warm and thick with the scent of honeysuckle. Her chest rose and fell in short, trembling breaths.
The image refused to leave her mind.
Thomas. Standing waist-deep in the shimmering lake, water sliding over sun-browned muscle. His hair soaked, his eyes squinting into the sun, utterly unaware he was being watched.
Her heartbeat kicked wildly at the memory, and she was still reeling when she heard a voice.
"Well, what's this, then?"asked Mrs Bramble.
Juliana halted, nearly colliding with the short, round frame of Mrs. Bramble, who emerged from a nearby parlor holding a cup of cooling tea and a raised brow that could strip paint off a door.
Mrs. Bramble eyes widened at the state of her appearance. She softly scolded,"You're panting like a fox and look as if you've rolled through the hedgerow. Where in heaven's name have you been, my girl?"
"I...I went walking. In the garden."Juliana explained.
"The garden doesn't usually wrestle back. Look at your hem!"Mrs Bramble scoffed.
Juliana glanced down and winced. Her gown bore the unmistakable signs of her sprint across the lawn and her graceless retreat into the nearest hedge when Thomas had turned toward the shore.
Mrs. Bramble tried fixing her dress and with a more gently voice, she spoke, "You're a lady of title, not some barmaid galloping about like a colt. Suppose one of the servants saw you? Or worse the Duke?"
Juliana swallowed hard. She loved Mrs. Bramble. The old woman had spoon-fed her as a child, patched her knees, dried her tears after nightmares. But this...this burn in her chest, this tight ache low in her belly was not something she could explain to someone who still saw her as a girl with skinned elbows.
"I'll change before anyone else sees." Juliana said quietly.
"See that you do. And please have a maid brush that wild hair before I'm tempted to bring out the comb myself." Mrs Bramble said.
Juliana nodded, offered a faint smile, and darted past her, the hem of her dress whispering over the tiles.
Juliana's Bedchamber.
The door clicked shut behind her.
Juliana leaned back against it, her fingers pressing to the wood as if to hold back the flood in her veins. She closed her eyes.
Thomas. The way his back flexed when he tossed his shirt onto the grass. The water rippling around his hips. The sharp angles of his body softened by sunlight.
She let out a shuddering breath.
Her fingers loosened the ties of her gown. The bodice fell open slightly, and she pressed her palm to the bare skin above her corset stays.
"This is madness," she whispered. "I am engaged. I am a Wycliffe."
Her fiancé, Viscount Ambrose Denham, was everything a match should be, dignified, wealthy, titled. And utterly uninspiring. He'd kissed her hand three times and never once looked her in the eye for longer than a breath.
Thomas, on the other hand, had barely spoken to her but when he had, he said her name like it belonged to no one else.
"Thomas…"
She whispered it aloud, the sound blooming heat under her skin.
What would he have done, had he known she watched if she waited? Would he have come out to meet her?
The question itself sent a thrill down her spine. Her thighs pressed together without thought.
She sank onto the edge of her bed, letting the moment wash over her. Desire: raw, new and frightening curled in her belly like smoke from a newly lit fire. She didn't want to quench it.
"I will forget him," she lied to the empty room. "I must."
But even as she lay back, the name echoed through her again.
And in the flicker of candlelight against the ceiling, she saw not Ambrose's cold, calculated courtship but Thomas, rising from the lake like something carved by gods.