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Bridget let out a sharp breath. A sound that carried shock, fury, and wild exhilaration. “We were right,” she said, her eyes blazing. “We bloody well—” She struck the desk with her open palm, her energy sparking into motion. “He left a trail, and we found it. We did.”

Her voice rose with conviction, and Grenville turned toward her, staring not at the parchment now, but at her.

It wasn’t just the Order. It wasn’t just danger. It was the way she stood before him, fierce and unyielding, her voice still ringing in his ears. It was the way she believed . The way she knew .

She was the fire that made the storm make sense. And suddenly, Grenville didn’t want sense at all. He wanted her.

The Order. The threat. The choice Alastair had made and what it had cost him. But also, Bridget.

Her voice. Her fire. Her belief in this moment. In him .

Grenville’s control, so carefully kept, broke . Not violently. Not wildly. But with absolute clarity .

He reached for her, one hand catching her waist, the other rising to her cheek.

His lips captured hers in a kiss. It was fierce and breath-stealing, born of too many held-back thoughts and the pounding rush of truth finally seen.

Her breath caught, then melted into his, her fingers gripping the front of his coat.

When they broke apart, just long enough for air, Grenville saw her, truly saw her. Flushed. Her green eyes were wide, flickering from surprise to something deeper. Certain. She reached for him, fingers fisting his coat, and kissed him back.

This time it was slower. Richer. A question asked and answered without a word.

When they finally parted again, the silence that followed was no longer heavy. It vibrated with something new. Something neither of them had dared name until now.

The room hadn’t changed. But everything else had.

Bridget drew in a shaky breath, and Grenville watched her chest rise, the color still high in her cheeks. Her fingers had curled slightly at her sides, as if part of her wasn’t ready to let go.

Neither was he.

His thoughts reeled, but one truth shone through like firelight. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Not yet. Not now. But holding back had become impossible .

The heat of her lingered on his lips, and behind his ribs, something kicked to life, something too unruly to name. Not just desire. Not just relief. But recognition . As if something in him had been waiting for this, for her, without realizing it until that very moment.

She stood before him, flushed, breath unsteady, and utterly unafraid. And Grenville felt… undone. Not weakened. Not distracted. Just… honest, in a way he hadn’t been in years.

He opened his mouth, searching for the words that might make sense of what they’d just done. But there were none.

“I didn’t plan—” he started. Then stopped. His voice wasn’t steady enough.

Bridget’s lips curved into the barest smile, soft and knowing. “I know.”

The silence that followed held no regret. But he recognized it was something new, something fragile, just born .

Without thinking, he reached for her hand. Not to pull her close again. Just… to feel her warmth, the proof that she was real, and so was their kiss.

Bridget didn’t flinch. She didn’t step away. Her fingers curved around his, not tightly, not possessively, but deliberately. As if anchoring them both.

It lasted only a second. Then the moment shifted, and the room came back into focus with the books, the torn pages, and the truth still waiting in the shadows.

But Grenville would remember that second. The way her hand felt in his. The fire behind her eyes. The kiss that had stopped time.

*

Mrs. Bainbridge walked briskly alongside Townsend, their steps echoing softly against the polished floors. The air in the corridor was cool, the scent of aged wood and wax lingering from the morning’s tidying. She kept her voice low as she glanced up at her companion.

“Barrington wants us to speak to Dr. Manning and have him come here immediately,” she murmured, urgency tightening her tone.

Townsend gave a crisp nod. The esteemed physician was known not only for his medical expertise but for his unflinching manner when dealing with matters of an unsettling nature. He would know what to make of the situation.

“I’ll speak to Judge Scofield,” Townsend added. “He, too, must be informed.”

Mrs. Bainbridge agreed, though a chill of apprehension crept into her spine. A death under mysterious circumstances, especially that of a respected gentleman, was no small matter. How swiftly would the law intervene?

As they disappeared down the corridor on their errand, the manor remained charged with uncertainty.

In the quiet of the drawing room, hushed voices and subdued conversation wove through the area, the guests restless but unwilling to break the fragile calm.

Near the mantel, Davenport and Tresham stood locked in discussion, their low voices a murmur of speculation. Their brows were drawn, their expressions grave, piecing together the morning’s grim discovery.

Across the room, Blackwood kept himself occupied with the Sommer Sentinel , though his occasional scoff at the thinly written columns betrayed his disdain. “Not quite The London Gazette ,” he had grumbled earlier, “but I suppose it will suffice.”

A few feet away, Miss Hathaway and Miss Gray exchanged a fleeting glance, subtle but telling. They had not spoken much, yet their eyes carried an understanding, a quiet acknowledgement of the morning’s turn.

By the window, Lady Worthington sat with the poise of a woman unaffected by such grim affairs.

Her embroidery hoop rested in her hands, the rhythmic whisper of her needle piercing the fabric the only consistent sound in the room.

The sapphire on the top of her bodkin case caught the fading light, a glint of steel against her measured composure.

No one spoke loudly. No one dared shatter the stillness.

The manor had settled into an uneasy calm, each guest lost in their own thoughts, the gravity of the morning lingering like a storm on the horizon.