Chapter 20

Twenty

V ictor walked swiftly, eager to retreat to the familiar solitude of his study where he could order his thoughts. But the echo of quick footsteps behind him made him pause. Instinctively, he slowed his stride, glancing over his shoulder.

Christina was following him, her red hair catching the last of the afternoon light, her green eyes bright and filled with something he couldn't quite place. For a moment, Victor's heart gave an unexpected lurch. He expected her to reprimand him, to question his abrupt departure from the garden and the children. He braced himself for her words, for the inevitable conversation that would prick at the walls he'd carefully built around himself.

But when she reached him, her voice was soft, almost… grateful.

"Victor," she said, her tone gentle, "I wanted to thank you."

Victor blinked, his surprise momentarily rendering him silent. "Thank me?" he repeated, incredulity slipping into his voice. He wasn't sure what he had done to deserve her thanks.

Christina smiled, the warmth of it surprising him. "What you did in the garden—it meant so much to the girls. They'll remember this day for a long time." She paused, her gaze steady on him. "You've given them a piece of their father today. That is no small thing."

He shifted, discomforted by the sincerity in her words. "It was… nothing," he muttered, trying to shrug off the weight of her gratitude. It had only been a simple game, after all. Something she had orchestrated.

But then her hand came to rest on his arm, the light touch sending a current through him. She was close now, too close for him to ignore the way her presence affected him. Her gaze softened as she spoke again, her voice earnest.

"You've done well, Victor."

Her words struck him deeper than they should have. Done well. When was the last time anyone had told him that? The tightness in his chest intensified, and he found it difficult to meet her gaze. He merely nodded, unable to speak as a maelstrom of unfamiliar emotions swirled inside him.

Without another word, he turned and continued down the hall, the pressure building with each step. By the time he reached his study, his heart was racing, and he could scarcely think clearly.

Once inside, Victor closed the door behind him and moved to his desk. He sat heavily in the leather chair, leaning back and releasing a long sigh. The familiar surroundings of the room—the dark wood paneling, the shelves lined with books, the papers scattered across his desk—should have brought him comfort. But tonight, they did not.

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to make sense of the tumult inside him. It wasn't just Christina, though she had certainly unsettled him. It was the children as well—their laughter, their smiles, the way they had looked at him with such joy and expectation.

Victor had spent so long at a distance, guarding himself from emotions he had no time for. But today, he had let his guard down, and in doing so, he had glimpsed something he hadn't realized he missed: a connection with his daughters.

And then there was Christina. The way she had looked at him, the way her hand had felt on his arm—it was as though she saw through the facade he worked so hard to maintain. And yet, instead of challenging him, she had thanked him. Praised him.

Victor leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk as he buried his face in his hands. He didn't recognize these feelings swirling inside him—this strange, disquieting mixture of warmth, confusion, and something else. Something that unsettled him far more than he cared to admit.

For now, all he could do was sit in the quiet of his study, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar emotions Christina—and his children—had stirred within him.

As Christina entered, her eyes were immediately drawn to Victor. He sat alone, the newspaper unfolded before him, a cup of coffee in hand. His posture was as composed and stately as ever, but there was an ease to his bearing that she had not expected, as though he were at peace with the quiet of the morning.

Her heart gave a sudden, inexplicable leap. It was not the first time she had seen him in such a state of calm, but something about the stillness of the moment, the quiet intimacy of the scene, unsettled her in a way she had not anticipated.

Victor's eyes lifted as she crossed the threshold, and to her astonishment, a faint smile—almost imperceptible—curved his lips. She nearly faltered in her step. A smile? From him ? It was a rare occurrence, and she could not help but feel a flutter of surprise and something else she dared not name. His expression softened, and though his smile did not quite reach his eyes, there was a glint there, something playful and enigmatic that left her momentarily speechless.

"Good morning, Christina," he said, his voice low and measured, as he rose to his feet.

Before she could form a coherent reply, Victor moved toward her with deliberate grace. He took her hand in his, the warmth of his touch unmistakable, and with a deep bow, he lifted her hand to his lips. The kiss he bestowed upon her knuckles was soft, lingering just long enough to send a ripple of warmth coursing through her. His lips, though barely brushing her skin, left a mark far deeper than any touch should.

Her pulse quickened, a flush rising unbidden to her cheeks. When he straightened, his eyes held hers, and in their depths, she saw something she could not quite name. It mirrored the sudden rush of heat that filled her—intense, unspoken, and entirely disconcerting.

"Good morning," she finally managed, her voice softer than she intended.

Victor said nothing for a moment, his gaze unwavering as though he could read every thought that passed through her mind. He then gestured toward the seat nearest him, pulling out the chair with a gentlemanly flourish. She sat, her heart still fluttering with the remnants of that lingering kiss, while Victor returned to his place at the head of the table.

"How is your shoulder this morning?" he inquired, his tone gentle but observant, as though he had been thinking on the matter for some time.

Startled by the unexpected question, Christina blinked, her hand instinctively reaching for the pale blue lace shawl draped over her shoulders. She hesitated only a moment before lowering it, revealing the fading bruise along her collarbone. "It is healing quite well, thank you," she replied, attempting to keep her tone light, though the intensity of his attention sent her heart into a flurry.

Victor leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he examined the bruise. The closeness between them heightened her awareness of every movement, every breath. She could feel the heat of his body, the weight of his gaze upon her skin. Every part of her seemed to lean toward him, drawn to the quiet strength and restraint that he embodied.

"Yes," he murmured, his voice low as his eyes lingered on the fading mark. "It is healing well."

There was something in the way he spoke, a softness that belied the usual austerity in his manner. The subtle intimacy of the moment sent a rush of warmth through her, unsettling in its quiet intensity.

Christina drew in a slow breath and reached for the teapot, needing the distraction of the simple task. Her hand trembled slightly as she poured herself a cup of tea, then placed a delicate portion of eggs and a brioche on her plate. She forced her thoughts to settle, but his presence, so near and yet so composed, made it difficult to regain her usual composure.

As she raised the teacup to her lips, Victor's voice cut through the quiet once more. "Would you care to go riding with me this afternoon?"

The question was so unexpected that her hand faltered, nearly spilling the tea. She glanced up at him, her eyes wide with surprise. "Riding?" she echoed, her voice betraying her confusion. "Why the sudden invitation?"

The words had left her lips before she could stop them, and she quickly averted her gaze, embarrassed by her own directness.

Victor arched one dark brow, his expression unreadable but faintly amused. "You are my wife, Christina," he said, his tone even, though there was a hint of something more beneath his words. "And yet, I feel I know so little about you."

Christina stared at him, momentarily taken aback. Know little about me? She could hardly believe her ears. Of all things, she had not expected him to admit such a thing so plainly. She shook her head lightly, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Little about me?" she repeated, her voice touched with amusement. "Surely you jest, Victor. You know quite enough about my hellish ways, do you not?"

To her astonishment, Victor chuckled—a low, rich sound that seemed to reverberate in the quiet room. The sudden warmth in his eyes, the slight relaxation of his features, made him appear almost a different man—more approachable, more human. And undeniably, more handsome.

Christina's breath caught in her throat as she gazed at him, her heart fluttering at the sight of him so unguarded.

"I do," he admitted, his smile lingering. "But it seems the children know a side of you that I do not. A side I should very much like to become acquainted with."

His words struck her unexpectedly, and her heart swelled with an emotion she could not quite name. The children adored her, that much she knew. But to hear Victor acknowledge it, to see the weight of that realization in his gaze, was something entirely new.

For a moment, she said nothing, lost in the warmth of his admission. Then, with a playful light in her eye, she met his gaze. "Very well, Victor," she said, her tone light though her heart raced. "I shall accept your invitation, on one condition."

He raised a brow again, intrigued. "And what is that, pray tell?"

Her smile deepened. "That you allow me to know you as well."

For a moment, there was silence between them, the air thick with unspoken tension. Victor's dark eyes remained fixed on hers, and she could see the weight of her words sinking into him. It felt as though they stood on the precipice of something significant, something neither of them had quite expected.

At length, he nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. "Very well," he said softly, his voice steady but holding something deeper, something raw. "I shall allow it."