THE RAIN BEGAN IN hesitant drops, soft against the glass. Inside the carriage, the air was close, heavy with the scent of damp velvet and the faint lingering trace of his cologne.
Clara sat opposite Adrian, her gaze fixed on the window though she saw very little of the outside. The trees blurred in the darkness, their branches bending under the weight of the rain. Her breath clouded faintly upon the glass as she leaned nearer, trying to hide her restlessness in the shifting shadow of her reflection.
Neither of them spoke. Only the rhythmic rattle of the wheels and the steady patter of the rain filled the silence. She folded her gloved hands upon her lap, tracing the seams of the worn leather with her thumb — a small motion to occupy herself, to conceal the thoughts running unbidden through her mind.
The warmth of the orphanage — the laughter of the children — now seemed so far away. The carriage felt foreign and awkward all at once. Each sound, each motion seemed sharper in the silence between them.
A faint shiver ran through her shoulders before she could stop it. She drew the shawl closer, but it did little against the cold.
Adrian turned slightly. "Are you cold?"
The question startled her. His voice, warm and steady, broke through her reverie, and for a moment, she could not find her voice. He had noticed.
"I—" she began, then paused. The polite thing would be to deny it, to spare him the trouble. But she was too cold to pretend. "A little," she murmured, her eyes falling to her hands.
He said nothing at first. Then, with quiet grace, he shrugged off his coat and extended it toward her. "Here," he said gently. "Cover up before you catch a chill."
She hesitated — just long enough to feel foolish for doing so — then took it with a faint flush. "Thank you," she whispered, her fingers brushing his as she accepted it. The coat was still warm, faintly carrying his scent. She drew it around herself, the heaviness of it both comforting and unnervingly intimate.
He smiled faintly — the kind of smile that softened his usual composure — and said, "We'll be at the manor soon."
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and turned back to the rain. It fell harder now, the sky deepening into a restless gray. It would be a long, rough ride, she thought — and perhaps that was why the silence between them felt heavier.
Suddenly, a sharp jolt threw her forward, and she gasped. The carriage rattled violently, the wheels shrieking against the stones. Adrian's hand shot out, steadying her before she struck the opposite seat. The touch was brief — firm, protective.
When the carriage came to a halt, the sound of the rain seemed deafening.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, his brow creased.
She shook her head, though her heart still raced. "No… I'm all right."
His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer — as if to make sure — before he turned toward the window. "Blake!" he called, pushing open the small hatch. "What's the matter?"
There was a pause — only the drumming rain — then the door opened. A gust of cold air rushed in, making her clutch his coat tighter about her shoulders.
Butler Blake stood there, soaked through. "We seem to have lost a wheel, Your Grace."
Adrian frowned. "Lost a wheel?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
He exhaled softly through his nose, then looked at Clara. "Stay here. I'll see to it."
She nodded quickly, her heart still unsettled. Of course she had no wish to step out into that storm. She watched him climb down, tall and composed even in the rain. When the door shut behind him, she found herself peering through the fogged glass despite herself.
The men spoke beneath the rain. She could see the gleam of the broken wheel and the pale faces of the coachmen bowing before Adrian's calm but impatient questioning.
"How long will it take?" she heard him ask over the rain.
"A few hours, Your Grace — perhaps the night," came the uneasy reply.
"But we cannot remain here the whole night," Adrian said, his voice low but edged with concern. "It's far too cold — and unsafe."
The coachman lowered his head. "Forgive me, Your Grace. It was my incompetence—"
Adrian cut him off with a dismissive wave. "It's not your fault."
Blake's voice followed, worried and muffled. "What shall we do, Your Grace? It's quite late."
There was a moment of silence — then Adrian's tone, quiet but firm: "We must find shelter. An inn, perhaps. Lady Evelina cannot remain in this cold."
At his words, Clara's breath caught faintly. He spoke her name with a kind of care she had not expected and her heart skipped.
When he returned to the carriage, she sat up quickly, pretending to have been merely waiting, not eavesdropping. He entered, drenched now, his hair darkened by the rain. He kept his distance, careful not to drip upon her, which somehow made his courtesy all the more felt.
"Evelina," he said softly, "it seems we've lost a wheel. We'll have to stay the night at an inn."
She bit her lip. "I understand."
But she did not truly. The thought of sharing a room with him for the night sent a strange flutter through her chest. They were husband and wife, yes, but the truth of that bond still felt… temporary.
Before long, Blake returned, announcing that he had found a small inn down the road. "It's a fair distance, Your Grace," he warned. "We'll have to take the horses."
Adrian sighed. "Very well." He turned toward her again, his expression softening. "Are you ready? We must get you somewhere warm."
She nodded, gathering courage she did not quite feel. "Yes. I'm ready."
He descended first, the rain striking him full in the face, then offered his hand to her. She placed her gloved fingers in his palm, and he guided her down with care. The instant the rain touched her, she gasped — the cold was biting, the wind sharp.
"Come," he said, his voice close to her ear as he led her toward the horses. "Hold tight."
With his help, she mounted the chestnut mare. The rain poured harder now, beating against his coat around her shoulders. Adrian mounted behind her, his arm lightly circling her waist as he gathered the reins.
The horse stirred beneath them, and as they set off into the night, she could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against her back—loud, beating. Somehow this made her breath hitch.
They were so close.