Page 30 of Atone, Adonis

“No,” she said. Not unkindly but in no tone that could be argued with. She’d seen his eyes flick backward into the interior of the house.

Fred was here somewhere.

“Fred!” she called, her voice ringing through the vast hall as she made her way further into the house. “Fred!”

“Whatever is that racket?” Fred appeared from the shadows of the corridor—sleeves rolled, hair tousled, dimples in full effect—and stopped short at the sight of her, his throat working as he swallowed.

“Julianna? What happened?” He looked around wildly. “Where’s Thomas? Did he—?”

“He needs the doctor. And somewhere warmer than Farrow Cottage. I can’t—” She inhaled a breath and tried again. “Fred, he’s not going to—”

Her words broke on a sob. The tears she’d been fighting finally spilled out. She turned away from him, pressing her hand against her mouth to regain her composure. She hated this. Hated that she’d come, hated that she needed him, hated most of all her urge to go to him and bury her face in his chest.

She shook her head. She had to convince him to go with her back to Farrow Cottage. She had to—

But suddenly, she was wrapped in warmth, as if he’d understood what she needed before she’d spoken the words. Fred had taken her in his arms and was holding her tightly against himself. His shirt was warm, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek. For one long, ridiculous moment she clung to him, drawing comfort she couldn’t quite help but take.

She let herself breathe him in. The relief of his embrace settled into her bones until she very nearly reached a finger up to press it into the hollow those infernal dimples made in his cheeks.

“Jules,” he murmured, low and rough. “It will be alright, dearheart.”

Jules. It was what he used to call her. Before. The sound of it struck something loose inside her. Before was gone. They only had after now. The sad, awful aftermath of Fred’s choices.

With a gasp she wrenched herself free. Fred’s arms fell away from her at once and he turned away quickly, so she could not see his face. She stood there shaking, furious with herself for noticing him much less needing him. And for missing the warmth she’d just shunned into disappearance.

“Gilbert,” Fred snapped at the butler, whose eyes had gone wide as saucers, “send at once for the doctor. Do not return without him. And for God’s sake, man, show the Countess properly to her rooms. Do not leave her shivering in the anteroom like a scullery girl.”

He seized his overcoat, swung it about his shoulders, and left.

Fred had held her for only a moment. A heartbeat, really. Yet the feel of her in his arms lingered on his skin like a brand. He hadn’t realized—hadn’t meant to realize—how much he’d wanted that closeness until she was there, soft and trembling against his chest. The scent of her hair like pine and snow, the brush of it against his jaw, the heat of her cheek against his chest…

He had wanted, Christ help him, to keep her there. To stop the trembling. To shield her from the cold and the storm and whatever else might cause her harm.

And then she’d pulled away.

That should have steadied him, but it didn’t. It only reminded him why she’d come and made him feel like the monster she’d not so long ago accused him of being. She wasn’t at Sedgewick Manor for comfort. Certainly not from him. She was there for Thomas. Because her brother was sick enough to make her swallow her pride and wade through a snowstorm to ask him, of all people, for help.

And he’d used that moment of vulnerability to touch her. Like a fucking heathen.

It was her tears that had undone him. Made him forget himself and break his promise to Thomas. Christ, that promise was one of his only tethers to another human being in this world and he couldn’t even keep that sacred. The realization unsettled him more than the storm howling at his windows all evening had done.

He heard Thomas’s coughing before he reached Farrow Cottage, the sound carrying on the wind. He lengthened his stride, boots crunching through the snow, and burst inside without knocking. One look at the nurse’s face was enough: Thomas Farrow might not last the night.

“My lord,” she began, but he was already past her, taking the stairs two at a time until he reached the sickbed.

Thomas was far too light when Fred gathered him up, nothing but bones wrapped in blankets damp from fever-sweat. He was barely awake, even with the jostling movement.

“You—” His words were hard to make out but Fred heard them well enough. “You did this.”

Fred thought he meant he’d made Thomas ill but then he saw him pointing his finger at The Poisoned Quill crumpled at his bedside. The one that had been so cruel to Julianna and had called Thomas an invalid.

But then another ragged cough tore from him, wet and awful, drawing his attention back from the vile scandal rag. Fred clenched his jaw. He’d made a mistake leaving them here after the wedding. Another mistake in a lifetime too full of them.

Mrs. Sykes hurried behind, thrusting a hat onto Thomas’s head and gloves onto his hands as Fred carried him toward the door. Snow lashed his face as he stepped outside, but he bent his head, holding Thomas close against him, steadying his pace through the drifts.

His legs burned, his chest ached from the effort, but he kept moving. The nurse stumbled beside him with a small cry, and Fred shifted Thomas higher in his arms, gritting his teeth against the wind, to help her.

“Go back,” he said to her, once she was steady on her feet. “Come to Sedgewick Manor once it’s cleared.”