The manor had grown quiet by evening, as if even the ancestral ghosts were smart enough to give them a break. Outside, the sky bled warm amber into dusk, the kind of luxury hour that softened marble and made the walls of old money seem less suffocating. Inside, Lucas was soaking in a clawfoot tub the size of a diplomatic negotiation table, eyes half-lidded, head resting on a folded towel, and every muscle in his body singing a hymn to stillness.
The water steamed faintly around him, infused with something expensive and faintly floral, probably one of Cressida's terrifyingly elegant "gifts for relaxation," which smelled like crushed ambition and lavender.
Across the adjoining marble room, through the slightly fogged glass, the soft sound of a running shower played like background music. Trevor was in there, humming something off-key and classical with the stubborn confidence of someone who thought he could sing.
Lucas didn't open his eyes when the door creaked.
