Carcel stared at the spreading, dark stain. It looked like an inkblot. It looked like guilt.
Rowan stared at him. "Good God, man," he said, truly alarmed now. He signaled a footman, his voice sharp. "Clean this up. And bring the Duke... a cup of tea and water. He is clearly not himself."
Carcel didn't speak. He couldn't. His throat was tight. He was frozen. She's coming. She's coming down. He felt a desperate, primal, and utterly cowardly urge to flee. He wanted to run from this table, from this house, to get on his horse and ride until his lungs burned and the memory of pale blue silk and lavender soap was scoured from his mind. He could not face her. He could not.
Just as the footman was dabbing at the spilled coffee, Edith appeared in the doorway.
Carcel's head snapped up. His muscles were rigid, his entire body a knot of agonizing suspense. She's not coming. She's ill. She's...
