It was the kitchen that did it.

Three days into her stay and they had fallen into a rhythm that neither of them had proposed — him arriving at the side door at seven, coffee in the kitchen, the day's work discussed over the mugs, then whatever the estate needed. She had started to understand the shape of Ashford, the way it breathed, the specific personality of each room and each corner of the grounds.

She had also started to understand the shape of him.

The way he moved through the estate — purposeful, unhurried, completely at home. The way he talked about the place — precise, but underneath the...