Chapter 39

Was my father the reason you intended to visit our estate?

Elwin sidestepped the latter query entirely, pivoting directly to the question that had haunted him since their last tea party. Had his father, whose final moments he had been forbidden to witness, lived a good life in that far-off place?

Elwin’s voice trembled at the finish, his blue eyes wavering under the amber glow of the oil lamp. Leon regarded him with a quiet, solemn pity. When he spoke, his words were measured, chosen with deliberate sincerity.

“Count Ravenwell lived in Savar without ever losing his passion for discovery,” Leon murmured. “He went so far as to redesign the excavation machinery, drastically reducing the laborers’ hours. And when a local worker was grievously injured, your father personally took charge of the man’s recovery and provided for his family.”

Elwin remained silent.

“He was an honorable man, my lord. I am deeply sorry for your loss.”

Since the telegram had arrived, Elwin had received condolences from dozens of well-meaning acquaintances, but none had felt genuine until now. To keep from weeping, Elwin hastily averted his face. He did not need to cry, nor was this the place for it. He was simply grateful that this trivial parlor game had granted him the chance to ask.

When his turn came again, Elwin resolved to ask the one question that truly mattered: Mr. Leon, who are you?

But Leon had saved his own sharpest inquiry for the end. Once Elwin steadied his breathing, Leon leaned in and delivered his final blow.

“Tell me, Sir Elwin—what is it you truly wish to become? A countess, or the count?”

Elwin stiffened, staring back at him. The playful amusement had vanished from Leon’s face, replaced by an unsettling, calm certainty. He clearly saw through the superficial games; he knew Elwin had no real desire to marry Dwight Finch. But to suggest he could become the count?

“Omegas cannot inherit titles,” Elwin countered, stating the absolute law of the land.

Leon merely offered a languid shrug. “That is not entirely accurate. Precedents exist—the Grand Duke of Northumbria, Count Redding of Montford, and Duke Hartwell of Rosemond.”

“Those were royals, and Duke Hartwell is nothing more than a fairy tale.”

“According to recent scholarship, Duke Hartwell may very well have been a historical reality,” Leon countered smoothly.

“I read that treatise as well—it was a highly speculative hypothesis!” Elwin caught himself, realizing he was letting Leon derail the conversation. “Regardless, it is impossible. I cannot become the count.”

“I did not ask what was possible, my lord,” Leon corrected gently. “I asked what you desired. Tell me your true wish.”

Elwin’s expression darkened. A wish. He knew the succession laws were unjust. It was infuriating that a distant, stranger relative could simply sweep in and claim his birthright while he, because of his secondary gender, was barred from higher education, prestigious careers, and a life of his own making. But dwelling on such unfairness only brought misery, so Elwin had learned to bury his desires deep beneath the ash.

Yet, the mere thought of ruling Ravenwell as its rightful count fanned a dormant ember in his chest. This was his home; these were his people. If anyone deserved to lead them—

No. I must not think of it.

Elwin quickly locked the feeling away. He could not bring himself to lie and say he wanted to be a countess, but declaring his desire to be the count was too dangerous.

“I cannot answer,” Elwin whispered.

Leon’s lips curved into a knowing, triumphant smile. By refusing to choose, Elwin had revealed everything. Leon now knew Elwin had no intention of marrying Dwight.

“What a pity,” Leon murmured, his voice dropping to a low, sultry register. “And here I thought we were playing on a gentleman’s honor. Surely you remember how fiercely I fought to protect your honor during our night in the locked room?”

Elwin flushed, the memory of that night rushing back with vivid clarity. Through the damp scent of the greenhouse roses, Leon’s personal fragrance—a heady blend of sweet fruit and warm cinnamon—began to envelope him.

“You… you have not spoken of that night until now,” Elwin stammered.

“Yet it has not left my thoughts for a single hour. Has it left yours, Sir Elwin?”

Elwin’s heart hammered against his ribs. He knew the game was technically over, but he had already lost his defenses.

“I…”

Leon’s gaze drifted down to Elwin’s trembling, parted lips. Slowly, deliberately, Leon reached out and cupped Elwin’s cheek. The movement was slow enough to escape, yet Elwin found himself entirely paralyzed.

“Think of it, my lord,” Leon whispered, his breath mingling with Elwin’s. “And think of me. Much more deeply than you do now. You understand what I want, do you not?”

“I do not,” Elwin lied breathlessly, his vision filled with nothing but the man before him.

“You do. And for this brief moment, your honor belongs to me.” Leon murmured, “Forgive my impudence,” and leaned down to seal the distance between them.

In that cool, fragrant air, the warmth of Leon’s lips sent a sharp shockwave through Elwin’s entire body. The kiss was remarkably soft, yet it ignited a sweet, terrifying fire that rushed to his very fingertips. When Leon finally pulled back, looking as though he meant to feast on him again, Elwin gasped and bolted from his seat.

“I must leave!”

Elwin fled the greenhouse, his legs heavy yet his head spinning in the clouds. By the time he slipped back into the bustling banquet hall, the party was still in full swing, though a tense whispering had broken out in one corner.

Suddenly, Ms. Selena burst from the crowd of gossiping noblewomen, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Sir Elwin!” she cried, clutching his sleeve. “Please, I want to go home immediately.”

Before Elwin could puzzle out how to handle the sudden departure, Leon materialized behind him, entirely composed.

“I shall return later with Sir Dwight,” Leon instructed smoothly, signaling a footman. “You should bid Mr. Frederick farewell and take the carriage, my lord.”

Elwin nodded frantically, his ears burning with the memory of their kiss. He found Mr. Frederick preening among a group of local elites. When Elwin approached, the short, stout man sneered and led him to a secluded corridor.

“Mr. Frederick, I am taking my leave first with Ms. Selena,” Elwin announced.

Frederick’s face twisted in disappointment. “Leaving so soon? Ah, I suppose that cheaply altered coat of yours is finally coming apart at the seams. Run along, then.”

Ordinarily, Elwin would have endured the slight. But the maids had poured their hearts into tailoring this suit, and Elwin no longer had any reason to play nice. His plan to marry Dwight was dead; he was free.

“Since you are offering fashion counsel, Mr. Frederick, let me return the favor,” Elwin said, his voice dripping with polite ice. “Is your coat not a bit too snug? Your buttons look ready to burst. I suggest you have them reinforced—and perhaps reduce your sugar intake for the sake of your health.”

Frederick gaped, his face mottling with silent fury. “Why, you—”

“Good evening. I doubt we shall meet again,” Elwin cut him off, turning on his heel with a profound, exhilarating sense of liberation.

During the carriage ride back, Selena remained slumped in her seat, refusing to speak of whatever humiliation she had suffered. Elwin did not push. He felt a shared exhaustion, a mutual understanding that some wounds needed time to heal.

When they finally reached the quiet sanctuary of the Ravenwell estate, Elwin brushed off Toby’s frantic questions.

“We will speak tomorrow, Toby. Tonight, I must rest.”

For the first time in his meticulously planned life, Elwin decided to leave tomorrow’s troubles to the coming day.

After all, the sun would rise regardless.

***