Page 82 of A Troublesome Circumstance

He smiled faintly. “Then shall we?”

She slipped her hand from beneath his. “I am ready.”

“I’m not.”

She cocked her head. “What is wrong?”

Before he could talk himself out of it—before logic or propriety intervened—he leaned in and brushed his lips gently against her cheek.

He felt her breath catch, warm against his skin.

Jude straightened. “Now I am ready.”

Her eyes widened, luminous. A flush rose beautifully across her cheeks, delicate and utterly enchanting.

He shouldn’t have kissed her. It was improper. Risky. Reckless.

But he didn’t regret it.

Not one bit.

Josephine lay in bed, the darkness of her chamber wrapped around her like a cloak. Her fingers drifted again to her cheek—the place where Jude had kissed her. She should have chided him for his familiarity.

But she hadn’t.

And worse… far worse… she had liked it.

Her toes curled beneath the sheets at the memory: his warm breath, the gentleness of his lips, the quiet certainty in his eyes that had undone her without permission. How was she supposed to resist that?

Dinner had been pleasant enough. The games afterward had been a welcome distraction. But once she had retired to her chamber, fatigue should have overtaken her. Instead, the moon cast silver shadows across her room while she lay wide awake, replaying moments she had no business replaying.

Then she heard it.

A muffled shout—low, sharp, unmistakably angry.

Josephine sat up, her heart thudding. She waited, straining her ears.

Silence.

Perhaps I imagined it. She lay back slowly, drawing the covers to her chin. She stared up at her canopy, willing her mind to still.

Then she heard her name.

Clear this time. Urgent.

She threw back the covers and swung her legs over the bed. “What in the world…?”

Grabbing her wrapper, she tied it tightly around her waist and hurried to the open window. The night air brushed her skin with a chill. From here, she could just make out her brother’s study across the courtyard. The window was cracked open. Alexander sat at his desk—rigid, tense. Someone else stood before him, a man half-concealed by the angle, but she would have known that broad back and stiff posture anywhere.

Mr. Broderick.

Her blood ran cold.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she turned from the window and fled her room. Her bare feet slapped softly against the cold floorboards as she descended the stairs. Every instinct screamed that she should return to bed, ring for a maid, do something sensible. But this—whatever was happening—concerned her. She felt it in her bones.

At the bottom of the staircase, she saw the study door slightly ajar.

Josephine pressed her back to the wall and edged closer. Just enough to peer in.