First message
I had settled into the chambers prepared for Adaline and I, everything arranged with quiet, deliberate precision. It was fitting. She was fitting. I did not love her—not in the way lesser men seemed to require—but I respected her. She was safe. Predictable. Brilliant in her own right, a physician whose name carried weight through her family’s hospitals, the most esteemed in England. My work in banking thrived on stability, on calculated decisions, and aligning myself with her family ensured both influence and permanence. It was not romantic. It was correct.
And yet, something in it felt… untouched.
The estate itself reflected order, every detail curated to maintain reputation. It suited Adaline. It suited me.
But not her.
I found her in the garden, crouched low, skirts gathered without care as her hands moved through the soil, selecting herbs with a focus that bordered on indifference to her surroundings. No maid attended her. No hesitation marked her movements. It was improper. Unusual.
I paused longer than necessary, watching.
She did not belong to the stillness of the house. She disrupted it.
Your petticoat will get dirty, I called out, voice even, though my interest was no longer casual.
She did not startle. Did not rush to correct herself.
And I found, to my quiet disapproval, that intrigued me more than it should.