The palace chamber was quiet in a way that felt almost violent, as though the very air had been stunned into submission. Heavy velvet curtains were half-drawn against the late-morning sun, letting only thin blades of light cut across the marble floor.
The scent of spent candles lingered, mingling with the faint, acrid trace of smoke that still rose from the wicks Aiden had extinguished only minutes earlier. The big sofa behind him was a battlefield of rumpled silk and discarded robes, yet he stood before the tall mirror adjusting the fall of his cravat with the calm precision of a man preparing for a minor social call.
Sabrina, Duchess of Merlin, sat on the edge of a chaise longue, her red hair loosened from its pins and falling in exhausted waves over one shoulder. Her gown, once impeccable, hung askew, the laces at her back half-undone from hurried fingers that had sought comfort rather than passion.
