She was not conventionally beautiful. But she was so very… present.
The dining room itself seemed altered by her.
Alive.
That was the problem.
This house had been his refuge, shrouded, from the neglected guest chambers to this very room. Within these walls, his will was obeyed. The patterns of his day to day existence ensured the closest thing to peace that he would ever know.
She did not fit the pattern.
Therefore, he could not allow it.
He could not allowher.
Julian cut another bite of tart. Before he could raise it to his mouth, a dark shape slid along the floor.
“Sable,” he warned.
The cat ignored him.
With deliberate grace, she leapt into Miss Belle’s lap and curled there, purring as though she had claimed a throne. Miss Belle startled, then laughed softly, her hand lowering without hesitation to scratch behind the cat’s ears.
Julian scowled. “Down, Sable.”
Miss Belle’s hand stilled. “No. She’s sweet. I love animals.”
Mrs. Wetherby, gathering plates with brisk efficiency, snorted. “Sweet, is she? That cat’s a demon. Took a piece out of me this morning.” She held out her hand, scratches still livid against her skin.
Miss Belle winced. “I wouldn’t assume she meant harm,” she said gently. “Animals react when they’re frightened.”
Sable’s lamp-bright eyes slid closed as Miss Belle resumed stroking her sleek head, fingers gentle but firm. “Perhaps you startled her. Or she thought you were playing. She only needs a little patience.”
“Or a muzzle,” Mrs. Wetherby muttered.
Julian’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Sable’s teeth and claws serve their purpose. Keeps the mice out of the kitchen.”
“Lucky for her,” his housekeeper returned, without heat.
At Miss Belle's feet, Angus settled with a sigh, chin resting against her slipper. Sable lay heavy and content in her lap, as though she had always belonged there.
Traitors. Both of them.
He did not like how easily she fit here. How readily his creatures yielded to her touch.
How the house—his sanctuary—responded to her presence as though it had been waiting.
Her brightness was an intrusion of false promise.
For a split second, his hand twitched to overturn the table. To clear the room. To restore his blessed silence.
Julian shoved back from the table instead, the chair legs shrieking across the floor.
For a heartbeat, he nearly spoke—nearly ordered her to leave at once—but Mrs. Wetherby was right. He could not send her back into the dark.
“Mrs. Wetherby will show you to your room,” he said, the words dragged from him like teeth.
Then he left. Damn near fled.