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“We’ll have to find another way,” the driver called over the rain. “There was a fork a few miles back.”

“I know.” Thorn ground his teeth. “At least I know where we’ll be staying tonight.”

“Where do you wish me to stop for the night, my lord?”

Thorn gazed into the distance, oblivious to the rain beating against his face. “Wakefield Manor.”

* * *

The closer they got to Wakefield, the more restless Lydia became.

She fidgeted in her seat, picking at her fingertips, unable to keep still. Her stomach churned—not from the motion of the carriage this time, but from the memories clawing their way back.

Sweat dampened her palms. Her pulse thumped wildly against her ribs.

Thorn sat beside her, motionless as stone, his strong arm resting along the back of the seat. His brow was furrowed, his entire presence emanating quiet authority and unshakable control.

Lydia hated seeing him like this. Men who emanated power so effortlessly had always unsettled her—perhaps ever since her time as a maid at Wakefield Manor.

But she’d never felt that way about Thorn.

To her, he had always been the boy she loved.

Now, though… he felt different. Perhaps because he didn’t want to be here anymore than she did. Or perhaps because, in this house, he had to be strong. Had to be commanding. He was the viscount. Soon, he would be a marquess.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, Thorn swung down first and turned to help her.

She took his hand but nearly stumbled as her knees wobbled beneath her. He quickly caught her against his side, a furrow between his brows.

“I’m fine,” she said, forcing a smile that likely looked more like a grimace.

He didn’t argue, just nodded and slipped an arm around her waist, guiding her up the stairs toward the entrance.

Then, the door to the house opened.

Mr. Bramwell, the old butler, stood framed in the flickering candlelight. His gaze landed on Lydia, sharp and assessing, his expression unreadable—but there was something in his eyes. Recognition? Disapproval.

Suddenly, memories of this place crashed over her like a wave, drowning the present. She was no longer the confident, capable thief who walked beside Thorn as his equal. No, she was a maid once more—small, invisible, insignificant.

Thorn’s firm touch at her back grounded her, pulling her from the tide of memories. Her vision cleared as he guided her past the butler’s cold, assessing gaze.

“Welcome home, my lord,” Bramwell intoned. His gaze flickered to Lydia. “Miss.”

“Don’t just stand there,” Thorn barked. “Have the maids prepare my suite and order a bath.”

Lydia flinched. His voice was sharp. Unapologetic. Commanding.

Who was this man? She barely recognized him like this.

“And for the lady?” Bramwell asked, his tone perfectly neutral—but Lydia sensed the disapproving hint behind it.

“She will be staying with me.”

Lydia flinched. Thorn was bold and open about their relations. The household gossip would be unbearable. Soon, it would spread far and wide that Lord Thornton had brought a woman into his home, a woman who was not his wife, and shared his bedchamber with her.

Her chest tightened. Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Everything around her blurred, the edges of her vision closing in. Why was it getting darker?

A ringing filled her ears.