Page 51 of Nikolay

That was worse.

Chapter 9

Nikolay

By dusk the estate had gone dim in that old, aristocratic way I had always loved—light lowered not because darkness demanded it but because the house believed illumination should be earned. I had dressed with more care than the occasion warranted, then spent the walk to the dining room instructing myself not to behave like a man awaiting judgment.

I had ordered the breakfast that morning before reason could interfere. Not publicly. Not through any grand pronouncement. Quietly, with the chef, after remembering with humiliating precision the exact expression Maddie had made weeks earlier at Obsidian when cream cheese French toast and strawberries had been set before a late staff meal. She had taken one bite and gone still, eyes half-closing as if simple pleasure had struck her somewhere sacred. I had remembered that stillness far more vividly than any decent man should have.

I reached the doorway just as Tilden, all perfect posture and snowy cuffs, leaned slightly toward Maddie where she sat at the long table and said in his careful, deferential cadence, “His Highness Prince Nikolay requested this morning that the chef prepare this breakfast specifically for you, Miss Baucaum.”

I nearly stopped walking.

Tilden had served this house long enough to make discretion look hereditary. Under ordinary circumstances, he would sooner have swallowed silver than embarrass a member of the family. Which meant he likely believed he was being helpful. The realization did not improve matters.

Maddie’s gaze lifted over the steward’s shoulder and met mine in the doorway.

For one excruciating beat, I considered retreating like a coward and trying the scene again in another century.

Instead, I schooled my face into calm, entered as though nothing at all had gone amiss, and said, “Good evening.”

A platter of cream cheese French toast rested between us on a warmed silver stand, each thick slice layered and dusted, the strawberries on top ripe and glistening, their juices beginning to blush against the cream and powdered sugar. Beside it sat the white pastry box tied with simple twine, cheerful in a way that looked almost irreverent against the estate’s inherited solemnity. The logo on the side—Buttercream and Blessings—was unmistakable.

Maddie’s eyes went straight to it.

Of course, they did.

Her chin lifted slightly, and something in her face changed—recognition first, then caution, then the beginnings of amusement. She wore a soft cream sweater tonight instead of her club blacks; the color deepening the warmth in her skin and making her whiskey-colored eyes look even richer in the candlelight. Her chestnut hair fell loose over one shoulder in thick waves. She looked less defended than she had at Obsidian, though not by much. There remained in her posture that faint readiness I had taught her to keep around me.

Tilden, satisfied apparently that he had discharged both duty and revelation, withdrew with a bow precise enough to belong in another century.

I moved to the chair opposite Maddie and sat.

“Your steward,” she said, voice even, “is real subtle.”

I exhaled through my nose. “He usually is.”

“Mm.”

The pastry box remained between us like evidence. I reached for it first because inaction had become impossible. With deliberate casualness, I untied the twine and opened the lid.

Inside, the pastries sat in neat rows beneath wax paper: lemon-iced crescents, sugared twists, strawberry hand pies glazed so brightly they looked lacquered, small round cakes dusted in fine sugar.

“I had heard the bakery had a reputation,” I said. “I wanted to try them myself.”

Maddie looked at me for one suspended second.

Then her mouth curved.

Not the polite little smile she used on patrons. Not the barbed one she gave me when she wanted to draw blood. A real smile. Soft, sudden, helplessly bright. It transformed her face so completely that I felt it as a physical event.

“Sure you did,” she said.

Before I could devise any better falsehood, she reached across, pulled the box toward her, and took a lemon pastry without ceremony. The ease of it loosened something in my chest that had been clenched for days.

“That one’s the right choice,” she said after her first bite, closing her eyes briefly in shameless appreciation. “If you’re going to lie, at least lie while bringing excellent pastry.”

“I stand corrected.”