"Did the trench hold?" Richard asked.
"It did," Josephine replied, tracing a leather spine. "The runoff is diverting toward the east paddock. Your foundation is safe."
"Good."
Richard flexed his hands, wincing involuntarily as a blister pulled taut. The movement caught her eye. Josephine stopped scanning. She set her candle down and walked to his desk, her brow furrowing. Without asking permission, she firmly caught his right wrist, turning his palm upward into the lamplight.
"You are an idiot," Josephine stated flatly, staring at the torn, weeping skin.
"I was digging a ditch, Miss Miller. Blisters are an occupational hazard."
"You are a duke who hasn't done manual labor since Spain," she corrected. Her thumb brushed lightly against his wrist. The contrast of her cool skin against his feverish pulse sent a violent jolt up his arm. "You should have worn gloves."
She released him, walking quickly to a mahogany cabinet near the fireplace where Bates kept a minor apothecary kit. Josephine returned with a jar of pale yellow ointment and clean linen.
"Give me your hands."
Richard rested his forearms on the desk. Josephine pulled up a wooden chair, sitting closer than propriety allowed. She dipped two fingers into the ointment, working it into his torn palms. The salve was cold, but her hands were warm; she moved with efficient grace.
"You should not be down here," Richard said softly, his voice dropping an octave. "It is highly improper."
"I survived Cheapside, Your Grace," Josephine said, not looking up. She began wrapping the linen tightly. "I am not terribly concerned about polite society's definition of propriety."
"They would ruin you."
"They cannot ruin what they do not acknowledge," she countered, securing a small knot. She reached for his left hand. "To the ton, I am entirely invisible."
"You are not invisible to me."
The words hung in the air, heavy and blunt. Josephine's hands stalled. She kept her gaze fixed on his left palm, her jaw tightening. The silence stretched, vibrating with a suffocating tension. The steady drumming of rain seemed to amplify.
"Do not say things you do not mean, sir," Josephine whispered. She resumed spreading the ointment, though her touch was unsteady.
"I have never meant anything more," Richard replied, leaning forward. He could see the faint pulse at the base of her throat. "For 2 years, I was a ghost haunting my own house. You walked in, insulted my rugs, organized a rebellion, and dragged me back to the land of the living."
Josephine finally looked up. Her stormy gray eyes were wide, caught between fierce intelligence and terrifying vulnerability. "I am your employee," she said, her voice shaking slightly. She didn't pull her hands away. "You are a duke. This is adrenaline. It is not real. When the sun comes up, you will remember your title, and I will remember my place."
"My title means nothing," Richard rasped, his restraint snapping. He turned his hands over, gently catching her fingers in his bandaged palms. "I do not care about my title, Josephine."
Her breath hitched at her Christian name. She stared at him, the wall she had spent a lifetime building visibly cracking. For one blinding, suspended second, she leaned into him. The distance evaporated. Richard felt the warmth of her breath against his jaw.
A heavy, deliberate cough echoed from the doorway.
Josephine snatched her hands back as if burned, scrambling to her feet. Bates stood on the threshold, holding a silver tray with a single glass of water. His face was a masterpiece of aristocratic neutrality, staring entirely at a spot on the wall above Richard's head.
"I beg your pardon, Your Grace," Bates said, his voice completely devoid of judgment. "I noticed the light. I brought fresh water."
"Put it on the table, Bates," Richard managed to say, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm.
Josephine grabbed her candlestick, her cheeks stained a furious, humiliated red. "The bandages should stay on until morning, Your Grace," she said, her voice tight and professional, stripped of its previous warmth.
She walked briskly past Bates, fleeing into the dark corridor. Richard watched her go, a profound, sickening sense of loss washing over him. He looked down at his bandaged hands—the lingering warmth of her touch the only proof he hadn't imagined it. The walls were up again, and he knew with terrifying certainty that breaking them down a second time would require an absolute war.
Panic smelled like burning wax and damp linen. Richard knew this smell; it was etched into his marrow, forever tied to the darkest, most agonizing hours of his life. Two years ago, it had been Eleanora. Tonight, it was Harriet.
"Your Grace!"
The knock on his bedroom door had come at 3:00 in the morning. Bates had not waited for permission to enter. The butler's usually impeccable composure was fractured, his tie undone, his eyes wide in the gloom of the corridor.