The drawing room was shrouded in a heavy silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the faint chirping of birds beyond the windows. Rafe stood near the tall panes of glass, one hand resting on the frame, his pale blue eyes fixed on the sprawling lawns of Hawthorne Grange. A cigar smoldered lazily between his fingers, the faint ribbon of smoke curling upwards, lending him an air of careless indifference. Yet his posture—too rigid, too still—betrayed the disquiet simmering beneath.

His gaze flicked briefly toward the room’s occupant. She moved with effortless grace, and the light of the late afternoon caught in her hair, turning it into something almost luminous. He let out a slow breath, the memory of her laughter echoing in his mind. The sound—so free, so unrestrained—had cut through him like the edge of a blade. And worse still, it had not been him who had drawn it from her lips.

Rafe’s jaw tightened at the thought of Lord Harrington’s smug, easy smile. The sight of her conversing with that man, laughing as though the world itself did not weigh upon her, had kindled something dark and restless in his chest. Jealousy. It gnawed at him, uninvited and unwelcome, leaving a bitter taste behind.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and controlled, though an unmistakable edge lurked beneath his tone. “You appeared to find Lord Harrington’s company most agreeable yesterday.” He paused, taking a deliberate puff of his cigar. “Tell me, does he always hang upon your every word with such devotion, or is it merely a performance for my benefit?”