The morning sun slipped through the slats of the window blinds, casting golden bars across the inn's chamber walls. Marcella blinked, momentarily dazed by the warmth and the odd stillness of a room not hers.
A strange calm sat in the air, wrapped in the scent of herbs and leather and something that smelled like Berith.
Her hand reached instinctively to her side, seeking warmth, only to meet smooth, cool sheets. The oversized bed was empty save for her.
Marcella frowned, sitting up as strands of silver hair tumbled down her bare shoulders. Then she noticed it.
The expensive-looking rug beside the bed.
Crumpled and a pillow—neatly fluffed but unmistakably used.
Marcella exhaled, her lips curling into a quiet, amused line.
So the infamous Duke Berith Montclair, feared across the continent and infamous for his callous indifference… had slept on the floor.
Like a gentleman.
Unbelievable.
