∞∞∞

“Lemon ice?” Victoria proffered the treat as Jilly clamored into the carriage and dropped into her seat.
“Thank you, Victoria, but no.” The words came out steadily enough, but her heart was thundering in her chest as if she’d run a mile. Every bit of her was unsettled—she feared if she tried to eat the sweet that Victoria had offered, she might very well cast up her accounts on the floor of the carriage. She hadn’t felt like this since—
She had never felt like this. This was madness.
She started as the carriage lurched into motion, baffled by the extent of her panic. With one simple touch, the duke had cracked the icy barrier she had built around herself, and she was terrified—terrified that he had seen past her pitiful camouflage, terrified that somehow he could sense how easy it had been to break through her meager defenses. It wasn’t fair; it wasn’t right. She had spent so long erecting that careful barrier, chasing people away with carefully-chosen words designed to deflect but not wound.
She had never wanted to hurt someone else as she had been hurt, but she had been firm. No one before had succeeded in even thinning her ice. He had shattered it.
He could so easily shatter her.
She shuddered, shaken.
“Would you care for your shawl, my lady?” Victoria’s voice was bewildered; the day was warm, sunny. She would not understand that her mistress’ shiver had been provoked by fear rather than a chill.
“No,” she said, “I’m fine. We’re nearly home.” Her voice sounded raspy, throaty. She didn’t understand it at all, didn’t understand how he could fluster her so easily, cast her so off-balance. She had been surprised by Adrian’s interest, but it had been comfortable and pleasant. He had never elicited such an extreme reaction, never unsettled her, never made her nervous or anxious.
The duke’s attentions were the very opposite of comfortable and pleasant. He elicited feelings that ought to have been shameful. That were shameful, she was certain. If anyone ever suspected what sort of thoughts had been going through her mind—
“My lady, you look a bit flushed. Shall I open the window?” Victoria canted her head to the side, her brows drawn in utter confusion. Jilly was tempted to drop her head into her hands and groan. From shivering to feverish in mere minutes—what must she look like?
“No, thank you,” she heard herself mutter, just as the carriage pulled to a stop before Kittridge House. Jilly scrambled out of the carriage even before the coachman could leap down to assist her, wanting only to flee up to her room and spend the rest of the afternoon hiding from the world.
Instead she stumbled into an ambush. Both Aunt Marcheline and Eleanora were in the foyer awaiting her return. For once, Aunt Marcheline’s face was etched with compassion rather than exasperation. Something was wrong—something was dreadfully wrong.
“What?” she asked, drawing up short. “What is it? My goodness, you look as though someone had died.”
The two other women exchanged looks, and Eleanora pursed her lips into a flat line as if working up to speak some unpleasant truth.
“Is it…is it David?” She felt her shoulders drawing tight and tense, bracing herself for the worst.
“No! Oh, no, Jilly, it’s not that.” Eleanora took a step forward, reached out to take Jilly’s gloved hands in hers. Her dark eyes were sympathetic, brimming with a sort of vicarious pain.
“Tell me. Please, just tell me.” There was nothing so bad as the waiting.
“He’s back,” Eleanora blurted out. “Lord Kirkland. He’s back in London, Jilly.”