Page 22 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

But the creak of a floorboard in the corridor startled her, followed by the shuffle of steps as though someone lingered just beyond the door. Her breath caught, the box balanced in her hand. In that suspended instant, the metal warmed against her skin, eager, waiting.

Then, with a prudence Pandora had lacked, she carefully set the box back onto the desk. The metal kissed the wood with a soft, decisive thud.

The key, she tucked back beneath her dress, where it lay heavy and cold against her skin.

She turned instead to the drawers. Their handles were tarnished brass, shaped like curling ivy leaves. She pulled at the first drawer, its resistance giving way with a reluctant scrape.

Inside, she found what one might expect in a desk: an assortment of neatly arranged quills, ink pots with dried rings staining their bases, brittle sheets of unused parchment. The smell of ink and aged wood rose to meet her, familiar and soothing. There was nothing unusual here, nothing secretive.

Closing the drawer, she then moved to the next, driven not merely by curiosity, but by a vivid certainty that there was something to find.

Inside the drawer was a collection of ledgers bound in cracked leather, the edges stained with use, the spines marked with faded lettering. Accounts. Inventories.

The third drawer was slightly off kilter in its frame, the handle loose, splintered at the edge as though it had been wrenched open in haste at some point. The drawer slid free with a reluctant groan, protesting her intrusion. Inside was a stack of correspondence in an untidy pile.

The topmost letter caught her attention. Her father’s handwriting slanted across the page. She froze.

Reaching into the drawer, she fanned the pile and saw that there were several letters written in Papa’s distinctive hand. The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled and rose.

The letters she had discovered in Papa’s desk had been letters from Rhys Caradoc. These must be Papa’s replies.

She unfolded the first.

Sir,

I must once again decline your invitation and your offer. Whatever it is you believe I possess, or whatever qualities you perceive in my daughter, I assure you they are of no value to you.

My daughter is a good girl. She is innocent, kind, and with no knowledge of the darkness that shadows this world.

Her delicate health will not permit a move, nor would I wish her burdened by further strain.

I must therefore implore you to cease your inquiries and to refrain from contacting us again.

I trust this will be the end of the matter.

Yours faithfully,

Thomas Barrett

The ink had smudged near the end, and Isabella could almost see her father’s hand trembling as he’d signed his name.

The hint of a thumbprint ghosted the margin.

Her throat tightened. Whatever her father had been protecting her from, it had been enough to rattle him, enough to make him refuse Rhys Caradoc, a man who clearly did not accept refusal lightly.

And yet, in this at least, it seemed Mr. Caradoc had not lied. Papa had claimed her health would not allow him to accept the position.

She reached for another letter, this one shorter, more desperate, its ink uneven as though written in haste.

Sir,

You must cease this at once. You have no understanding of what it is you ask, and if you persist, you risk unleashing something neither of us can hope to control.

I will not grant you access to her. You will not have her.

Do I make myself understood?

Thomas Barrett

Her hand fell to her lap, her pulse thrummed, her breathing uneven. You will not have her. The words clanged in her mind like hammer blows.

The meaning was clear, sharp as broken glass. It wasn’t her father’s skills or knowledge that Rhys Caradoc had wanted. It was her.

Papa had been afraid, not for himself, but for her.

A draft threaded icy fingers under her collar. She tucked her chin and held still until the shiver passed, then she sank down onto the chair, confusion and dismay rolling through her. But layered beneath those emotions was something else, something raw and angry.

What did Rhys Caradoc want with her, and why had it frightened Papa so? Did it have something to do with Mr. Caradoc’s time at St. Jude’s, or the reason he had been treated there?

But then why had Papa claimed she was unwell?

The instinct to flee, to run from this room, this house, rose sharp and hot.

She surged to her feet once more, a thousand thoughts whirling, colliding. Answers. She needed answers, and the man who held them wore a mask of civility.

As if her thoughts had conjured him, the deep timbre of Mr. Caradoc’s voice resonated from the doorway, wrapping around her, silk and velvet. “Miss Barrett.”

Isabella froze, her grip tightening on the letter in her hand.

Rhys Caradoc stood framed in the doorway, impeccably dressed, coat buttoned, cravat secured, waistcoat crisp, one hand braced against the carved wood. He looked every inch the gentleman he was supposed to be.

“Forgive me,” he said after a brief pause, his voice soft and low. “For my inappropriate lack of attire last night.”

She blinked, startled by his apology. “You needn’t?—”

“I must,” he interrupted gently. “It was unforgivably improper.”

His words brought the image of their encounter to the forefront of her thoughts.

The hard planes of his naked chest and shoulders, painted silver in the moonlight.

The trail of dark hair bisecting the ridges of his abdomen, disappearing into the waistband of his breeches.

The way his hair had fallen loose around his face, framing those sharp cheekbones and that mouth…

severe, full, sensual. She had wanted to press her mouth against his throat, feel the thud of his pulse beneath her lips, taste his skin beneath her tongue.

Heat washed her cheeks. Something about Rhys Caradoc made her think things, want things, she had never wanted before.

As if something in her expression betrayed her inner secrets, his attention sharpened, his gaze flicking to her lips then back to her eyes.

The air between them seemed to crackle, charged and electric.

For one raw, unguarded moment, his expression was not that of a gentleman, but of… something else. Something hungry.

Isabella wet her lips, snared in his silver gaze. Heat coiled low in her belly, her pulse fluttery and uneven. It was inappropriate, even indecent, and yet she couldn’t stop herself.

His gaze pinned her, and she was certain, absolutely certain, that he knew what she felt.

She hated that he knew. Hated that she wanted him to.