Page 97 of Boiling Point
She poured the tea, and its strong, earthy scent rose with the steam—sharp and clean, no hint of fruit or flowers. Proper tea. I kept my hands still in my lap.
She turned her attention back to me. “You’ll be in Lady Amelia, Miss Clark. Avery will show you up shortly.”
Lady Amelia? Was that…a room? A person? A ghost? Cal didn’t even blink. Apparently, the rooms had names. Of course they did.
“Luncheon is at one,” she continued. “That should give you time to freshen up and change after your journey. Milk and sugar?”
“Um…yes, both please.”
She prepared the cup with unhurried composure, then passed it to me on a delicate saucer.
“Still milk only, Callum?”
“Yes, Mother.”
She handed him his cup and returned the pot to its place—a soft clink of porcelain, then silence.
“And you’ll be in your old room, of course,” she added, eyes fixed on her tea. “Everything is just as you left it.”
Cal nodded once. “You got my note about Gabrielle’s dietary preferences?”
A flicker—too brief to be warmth, but close—passed over her features. “Yes, of course,” she said. “I’ve spoken with Chef. Everything’s taken care of.”
She returned to her tea, as if remembering hadn’t cost her a thing. But beside me, Cal’s posture eased, just slightly, like the smallest weight had lifted.
Lady Branleigh set her cup down with a faint click. “Well,” she said, rising in one graceful motion. “We’ll get properly acquainted over luncheon.”
Cal stood at once.
I started to rise too, but Cal brushed my hand, just enough to keep me seated. A private signal in a house full of rules I didn’t know.
Lady Branleigh didn’t appear to notice. Or perhaps she did and chose silence. She merely inclined her head. “I’m sure you’ll want a moment to settle in. I’ll see you at one.”
She moved toward the door, crisp and unhurried.
Avery reappeared at the threshold as if summoned by scent. “Miss Clark?”
“I’ll take it from here, Avery,” Cal said, offering me his hand. “I do remember my way around.”
The butler’s eyebrow lifted—just enough to suggestthat’s not how we do things here, but not enough to challenge it. “Very good, sir.”
Cal led me up the main staircase, his hand resting lightly at the small of my back. The banister was dark wood, polished to a satin sheen, and the runner beneath our feet was so thick it muffled every step. Brass stair rods held the runner in place, and the intricate iron balustrade—painted white and gold—curled like filigree along the curve of the stairs. More portraits adorned the walls—landscapes, stiff-backed ancestors, the occasional hound—each one perfectly lit by the soft glow of antique sconces. It was beautiful, yes—but curated. Composed. Like walking through a museum someone still lived in.
“I’ve never seen a house like this,” I said softly.
“You get used to it.”
“But you haven’t.”
That earned me a faint smile. “Not quite.”
He stopped in front of a tall oak door and turned the engraved brass handle. The room beyond was large, light, and crisply elegant—muted blue wallpaper, ivory trim, a tall window framed by floor-length drapes. The bed was massive—carved mahogany with a pale quilted coverlet—its wood gleaming in the morning light.
I stepped inside slowly—absorbing.
“Separate rooms?” I asked, glancing back at him.
Cal leaned against the doorframe—casual, but eyes sharp. “From what you’ve told me of your Aunt Suzy, she’s fairly traditional. Would she put us in the same bedroom?”
