Court of Flowers (Sutherland Book 1)

XXIV | Stormy Concession

His gaze was intense under his bowler hat that was dripping with rainwater. The rain raged on and the thunder rumbled above them, illuminating the dark clouds.

Sasha's mouth was slightly parted in disbelief and her brows fused in confusion.

Finally, he moved, taking a step through the doorway and into the tiny hall. His footprints darkened the carpet. Sasha lay stupefied by the door as he shook off his coat and hung it on the rack behind him. His bowler hat followed.

Sasha blinked, trying to make herself believe that she was not seeing an apparition.

West raked his fingers through his damp hair and finally went still, looking at her. His white long shirt was slightly damp with parts clinging to his chest and shoulders. He pulled at his cravat. Why was he taking off his cravat? Surely, he was not intending to stay long? The cravat joined his coat.

"Why are you here, West?" Sasha asked, finding her voice.

He went to the open door and closed it, the sound distinct, almost unnerving. He turned the lock and faced her. "Willoghby may come back."

"What?"

Whirling around, he walked down the hall and into the parlor. Sasha jumped to her feet and followed, the frown on her face deeper. "That is preposterous." She saw him pick up the book she had been reading, leafed through the pages, snapped it close, and threw it on the settee. He walked to the window and looked out. "My report against Willoghby must have reached Belcourt by now," she lied. "He should be facing the consequences of his actions soon."

West turned to face her. His gaze cruised her entire form, from head to foot and back up to her eyes. Then he blinked. "Do you have tea? Can you offer some?"

Sasha blinked, lost for words. She looked around her as if someone else was there to help her. "I will... I will brew some for you."

He did not follow her when she went to the kitchen to make the tea. She did not find it necessary to wake any of the servants for the task because she needed the time to clear the confusion and think.

Why was he here?

They had parted merely hours ago. What could have happened?

Willoghby? Was he that concerned?

Sasha was biting down on one nail when the kettle whistled. She jumped in alarm.

A few minutes later, she was back in the parlor with a tray of fresh tea and some biscuits.

He was standing in front of the window, looking out, his hands in his pockets. At the sound of the tray being laid on the table, he closed the curtains and turned.

He watched as she poured him a cup. His hands brushed against hers as he received it. Sasha went to the fireplace to poke the fire, but then she realized she had left the fire iron in the hall. She fetched it with hurried steps, came back to the parlor, and proceeded with her task.

The silence between them was unnerving, giving Sasha more time than necessary to come up with any possible reasons why he was here. Done with the fire, she turned and looked at him. He was still standing, his tea on the table.

"Why are you really here, West?"

Again, he just looked at her, his light blue eyes almost searching, yet also a veiled expression of intent.

Sasha found herself holding her breath as he took in a lungful of air. Raking his fingers through brown waves, he exhaled long and slow.

Finally, he bent down on the table, his hand planted on a piece of paper that she never realized was there. He slid it across the wooden surface toward her before he straightened.