Moonlit Guilt

The Vance Estate lay like a slumbering beast in the dark of night. The sound of a soup bowl shattering in the courtyard startled the young master, Adrian Vance, just out of the bath. The stain of hot soup still dampened his collar, and though the burn smarted against his skin, it was nothing next to the glint of intrigue in his eyes. The girl kneeling on the ground in disgrace was Margot Sinclair—at school, the stunningly aloof beauty cradled by the gaze of every boy; back at the estate, his personal maid, trembling over something as small as breaking his teacup. He deliberately held back his temper, tossed out a single line—"Come to my room tonight"—and turned away, leaving her there on her knees on the gravel path, her fingers clenched so tight around the hem of her uniform skirt that her knuckles had gone bone-white. Now she stood just outside his bedroom door, the corridor wall lamp stretching her shadow long—