Page 33 of Atone, Adonis

His breath mingled with hers, so close she could feel it warm against her skin. “Fred,” she said and heard the way his name came out in a breathy whisper.

He answered with a groan from deep in the back of his throat and a shudder that ran through his body. For one long, long heartbeat, he looked as if he might give in. Like he might lean closer and give her this thing she didn’t want to want from him.

But then he pulled back and his hands fell away, his expression wrecked. She swallowed hard when Fred rose unsteadily, running a hand through his hair. His jaw worked but no words came out. Finally, he managed to say, “We can’t,” in a thick, rough voice.

The rejection cut sharper than it should have. Shame and anger rushed up into her chest. ‘We can’t’ should be her line, not his.

“Go, then.” Her voice broke. “Run away as you always do.”

He reached for her shoulder, but she jerked backward.

“Don’t touch me,” she snarled before she quickly buried her face in her hands.

She heard him sigh and then his footsteps echoed against the floor. The door creaked open and then shut again. And Fred was gone.

He left. He always left.

And Julianna was always alone.

This was better, she tried to tell herself. Frederick Sedgewick ruined everything he touched. Including her, apparently. How had she fallen apart so thoroughly that she’d invited him to touch her? She pressed her fist to her mouth to keep another sob from escaping.

When she heard the latch and creak of the door opening again a few moments later, she groaned. She didn’t want to look up and find herself face to face with some parlor maid or the butler. She couldn’t face having to politely brush away offers of tea or scones or whatever it was servants provided for crying Countesses. She just wanted to be left alone with her sadness and her embarrassment and her grief.

She lifted her head to dismiss whomever had entered, but the words died on her tongue. Fred was standing in the doorway. He’d come back and she didn’t care to think too deeply about her reaction to that.

He stood there, waiting, a folded bundle in his hands. “Julianna.” He took one step forward. “Jules, I’m sorry.”

He took another step, so that the firelight caught the melted snow still in his hair. The little droplets gleamed like cut crystals in his locks. His stupid dimples were showing.

“Take this,” he said and held the bundle out to her: a night rail, soft and dry, and a heavy wool blanket.

“No.”

“You’re shivering. You need to change.”

She squeezed her eyes shut again. It was too much. This night, the storm, her marriage, him. All too much.

“Jules, look at me.” She opened her eyes at the command. Any tentativeness that he’d shown earlier was gone. “I need you to take off that dress, dearheart. And put this on. Can you do that?”

She stared at him, speechless, but she nodded. Julianna Farrow, who had never once in her life given up control of anything, handed over her comfort and well-being to…to her husband.

“Good. That’s good.” He reached out to deliver the bundle to her and then, when her hands were full, he briefly caressed her arm. One, last, lingering touch before he turned around and faced the wall, adding, “I won’t look.”

Julianna breathed in, trying to clear her head. He was right, of course. She was still in her wet dress; she hadn’t thought to bring anything else with her. She glanced down at the night rail in her hands. God knows who it had belonged to. She was afraid to ask; she remembered his reputation well enough.

She lifted it to her nose and gently sniffed. It was clean, if a little musty. A far sight better than her own wet, bedraggled clothes. She sighed and hauled herself to her feet. She’d wear the night rail.

She stripped out of the sodden dress as quickly as she could and into the dry linen, wrapping herself in the blanket when she was done. “I’m finished,” she said finally. “You may turn back around.”

He turned, wearing an expression she’d never seen on his face before. He looked thoroughly shaken.

“Fred? Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he croaked. “I’ll..I’ll just go and—”

“No,” she said for the second time that night. “Stay with me. I don’t want to be alone.”

Even if the only person in the world to keep her company was Fred, he was better than the empty room and the dark tendrils of grief encircling her heart.