He bowed. “Of course, my lady.”
As soon as the door closed, Elizabeth sat down, her cheeks still warm. She had no idea how Alasdair would respond. She didn’t even know if it was wise to send it.
But she knew this: shewantedhim to see it.
To see her.
And in this moment, that was all that mattered.
Late afternoon had wrapped the study in amber light, and for once, Seth wasn’t trying to escape into the streets, or into the arms of someone waiting in shadows. Instead, he sat lounging in a wingback chair, brandy glass in hand, watching Alasdair with narrowed eyes.
“What’s with you?” he finally asked, swirling the amber liquid. “You sit. Then you stand. You pace. Then you sit again. You’ve done it four times now, by my count.”
“I’m not pacin’,” Alasdair muttered, though he didn’t sound convinced. “Do ye see me pacin’?”
“I see a man unraveling and trying very hard not to admit it.”
Before Alasdair could retort, a quiet knock interrupted the moment. Both men turned to the door in sync, as though bracing for an explosion rather than an errand.
A servant entered, walking with practiced discretion. “For you, Your Grace,” he said, holding out a slim, large envelope.
Alasdair’s brow furrowed. “Thank you, Andrew,” he murmured, taking it with one hand while the other unconsciously clenched into a fist.
He didn’t open it immediately. He turned it over first, noticing the fine cream paper and the feminine, careful scrawl of the address. The wax seal, too, was delicate, pressed with precision. His thumb hovered over it for a moment before breaking it open.
Seth leaned back, watching like a hawk sensing something juicy. “That’s quite the grand delivery. What is it this time? Another letter from the Widow of Ellis? You do remember she sent you her garter last spring?”
Alasdair ignored him. His breath caught as he pulled out what lay inside.
A folded note and beneath it, a sketch.
His heart gave a violent thud.
The paper rustled softly as he unfolded the drawing. It was him.Him.
Drawn with such vivid detail it was like looking into a mirror, but also warmer, softer, touched by something more intimate. He was seated, head tilted slightly, a macaron paused betweenhis fingers near his mouth. His expression was unguarded. Relaxed.
Even…fond.
Seth stood up with an audible exhale, walking over to peer over his shoulder.
“Good Lord,” he whispered, stunned. “Lady Elizabeth drew you?”
Alasdair didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His voice had gone somewhere unreachable.
Seth chuckled, but there was awe in it. “Eating sweets, no less. Well, if the ton thought you a brute, they’ll now see you as positively scandalous. The Duke of Redmoor caught mid-bite. Smiling like a man in love.”
“It’s not for public eyes,” Alasdair said, his voice low and reverent, almost a growl.
He touched the edge of the paper like it might burn him.
Seth whistled. “She’s bloody good. That’s not a hobby, my friend, that’s a gift.”
Alasdair ran a hand through his hair and leaned back, his gaze locked on the sketch like it might vanish if he blinked.
“Aye, it is… me. But seen through her eyes. She made me—” He stopped, jaw working.
“She made you human?” Seth offered gently.