Page 18 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

He opened and closed several drawers until he found a fork, which he presented to her pragmatically. “It’s getting cold.”

Gingerly, she took the fork from him. But she wouldn’t say thank you. Instead, she ate slowly. The egg had a golden, slightly runny yolk, as she usually liked it, and she dipped the corners of her toasted bread into it before nibbling in appreciation. Her tea was bracingly strong, a little over-steeped, and could use some honey, but she drank it anyway.

Silence fell, and she looked up to see him watching her intently.

“This is good,” she said, and he exhaled.

“It’s not toasted bread and cheese,” he noted.

“That’s a treat I usually reserve for teatime. Olive was being kind.”

He said nothing, then, “You did well. How you sent her away.”

“There wasn’t much choice in that matter.” She took a bite of toasted bread.

“You helped us.”

“I helped Olive.” Clara pushed her plate away. “She had to be kept safe. From you. I owe her that much, looking after me all this time.”

They stared at each other across the table. His gaze flicked down her, and she recalled that she still wore her flimsy nightclothes and hadn’t donned the protective layer of his coat. In the light of day, the shape of her breasts was even more evident. She crossed her arms over her chest, hunching in on herself.

“Even for people living alone,” he said softly, “they keep at least a cookmaid. But not you.”

“No,” she said flatly.

“It’s an ample house, and it’s falling down around you.” As he spoke, he poured another mug of tea. The vessel looked like a child’s cup in his large hand. He took a sip and grimaced. “Could cut timber with that. I’m not used to such fine stuff. We have to steep our tea for a quarter of an hour to get a drop of flavor from it.”

“There’s a shop in Cheltenham I send to for my tea. It’s rather dear, but I suppose in that, I’m spoilt.”

“Hell, had I the funds, I’d pay for quality brew. And you didn’t answer my question.”

“You didn’t ask a question.”

“Why d’you have only one servant, and she comes only twice a week?”

She stood from the table and gathered up her plate and mug, setting them in the sink. Later, she would go out back and pump the water needed to clean everything.

He watched her all the while, as if conscious that she was stalling. It wasn’t as though she owed him any explanation. She could snap that it was none of his affair, and he’d have to accept that. She’d unburden herself to those she trusted, those who were close to her.

Only…

Clara had no one.

“I left London rather…in disgrace.”

Desmond’s eyebrows rose. “A scandal?”

At that, her lips curved wryly. “Somewhat the opposite.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Well,” she said with an attempt at a laugh, “no one followed me. Certainly not my husband.” Seeing that Desmond still looked perplexed, she continued. “Arthur sent me here, to rusticate. He remained in London. For a year, I was here more or less on my own. I think he came out to stay, perhaps once in the span of twelve months, and then, not for long.”

Desmond’s jaw tightened. “There’s no fucking reason for a husband to abandon his wife like that.”

Though the coarse language startled her, she warmed slightly to hear his outrage on her behalf. “Arthur felt there was a reason. He⁠—”

She stopped herself. For all that she longed to confess everything to someone, to Desmond, some things were not to be spoken of.