The Tension That Remains

Quiet does not settle in once the lips part. Noise rushes in, loud and uninvited.

A sound built from heartbeats that echo too hard, glances stretched past their limit, memories crashing down without warning. His flavor stays present, fingers remembered in my hair, the pressure of his body pinning me near the shelf - something unseen now lives inside, vibrating low and constant.

Out past the stables one morning, he stands where light cuts sharp across stone, moving slow beside a restless animal. His shirt sticks to skin pulled tight by motion, every shift lit clear before the sun climbs higher. My eyes find him there, though I pretend they do not. Inside, we sit across long stretches of polished wood, silence piling between us like dust after rain. He watches without speaking, just watching - the kind that settles behind ribs and stays. Manners hold our edges smooth, even while something unnamed presses up against them from below.

Nowhere else does the pressure sit except right here. Inside my chest, something hums without rest. From neck down to gut, it pulls like a cord about to snap. He said those words - called everything wrong - and anger burns behind my ribs because of that. But worse than rage is the fear crawling up when I think he wasn’t lying. Even with all this pain stuck in my bones, one truth won’t let go: remembering how it felt still holds me completely.

Every now then Beatrice shows up, steady as rain. This friend of mine, sharp-tongued yet close, keeps me grounded somehow. Her visits almost daily feel like quiet anchors. A small thing arrives each time - sometimes lavender wax, sometimes lines on paper meant to soothe. The air between us hums with what we don’t say. Instead of questions, she gives stillness, a presence that listens without pressing.

“It’s the pressure, my dear,” she says one afternoon, pouring tea in my sunlit sitting room. Her voice is a balm. “Living under such scrutiny, with a man like him… it would strain anyone. You must feel so alone in it.”

Yes, I say softly, pulled into admitting it. True enough. Right here, surrounded by people inside these protected walls, alone hits hardest.

“He is a fortress,” she sighs, stirring her tea. “And sometimes, those inside a fortress feel the walls more than those outside.” She reaches over and pats my hand. Her touch is cool, deliberate. “Remember what I told you. His heart is a tomb. Do not mistake a moment’s warmth for a thaw. It is only a trick of the light on stone.”

Poison fits her speech well. That seed of doubt grew right after she spoke Lillian's name. When Noah looks at me, unsure and far away, Beatrice echoes in my head. Just a flicker across rock - could that be what the kiss meant? One slip. Could it be longing for someone long gone? Or just a crack in that famous composure - fleeting, unguarded?

Something inside me tears straight down the middle. This pull toward him hits like hunger, deep and wordless. Thoughts twist - Beatrice’s voice lingers, his cold shoulder burns - all warning me not to trust it. Yet my skin remembers warmth I can’t name.

This shaky condition I carry shows up at the Lytton musicale. Though quieter than grand events, it sparkles just the same. Wrapped in silver-grey silk, I feel like raw nerves barely held together. At my side, Noah moves without sound - solid, watchful, always there. Frozen air fills the gap when we step inside. Not once have we brushed against each other since that night in the study.

There she is. That's Vivian Sumall.

A flash of green cuts through the room - tall, rigid, like shattered bottle glass standing upright. Those eyes lock on me first, pale blue and still as ice. Only then do they shift to Noah, where something hard and sour catches fire. The shape of her fits what I was told: someone hungry for him, seeing me as nothing but a thief in their old tale. Quiet years have fed that bitterness, and today it shows its teeth.

Slipping away from her, I drift toward women chatting about next week's flute piece. Yet Vivian follows like she knows exactly where I'll step. By the time I reach the stone column close to drinks, she appears right there - just a little too close. We bump gently. Her hand rises fast, catching on the thin chain threaded through my shoulder strap.

“Oh, my dear! What a mess I’ve made,” she says, her tone dripping with pretend worry.

A tear slices through, sudden and raw.

A noise so small, yet it roars in my ears like gunfire. My gown's strap splits without warning, the front yanking to one side, slipping toward my elbow. Sudden chill rushes over my bare skin, touching the edge of my undergarment. Stiff with shock, fingers digging into cloth, heart hammering against ribs. All eyes might be here - no way to tell - but shame burns anyway, hot and sharp.

Quiet spreads through the group. Some look our way, others smirk, a few watch like they’re waiting for something.

A twist of Vivian’s lips says more than words. Her voice lifts, sharp but smooth, carrying every syllable on purpose. She does not care who hears. Delicacy comes up - fabrics, yes, but also standing too close to power. The comparison hangs without needing proof

The sting hits right away. She's in too deep now, this newcomer falling apart - threads snapping loose.

A flush burns across my face. Sharp tears rise - humiliation, helpless. Once again, I wear that dark wedding dress, exposed like an offering. Thought stops. My body locks in place. There, clutching fabric at my chest, hoping the ground opens up.

A hush fell across the room. Stillness crept in through the cracks.

A shape appears beside me - huge, cold. No glance required. His nearness presses against my skin.

Noah.

His eyes stay fixed on Vivian Sumall. Not once does he turn my way. A sudden chill fills the air. Every whisper stops - like someone cut the sound.

"Lady Sumall," he says. Not loud - just clear, so still it slices the air. Each word carries cold weight. "That move lacked precision."

Vivian’s smile falters. “A mere accident, Your Grace. These things happen.”

“Do they?” He takes one slow, deliberate step toward her. He doesn’t raise a hand, but she flinches as if he had. “I have observed that ‘accidents’ of this nature tend to happen around those who harbor… unfulfilled ambitions. And petty grievances.”

A shiver runs down her spine as the light fades from her cheeks. Excuse me? she says, voice barely above a whisper

“You are pardoned nothing,” Noah states, his tone conversational, yet every word is a nail in her social coffin. “You have damaged my companion’s gown. You have caused her distress. In my house, such an insult would be met with expulsion.” He pauses, letting the threat hang. “Consider the Lyttons’ home an extension of my… displeasure.”

He turns his head, just slightly, to address the room, his voice carrying effortlessly. “Miss Rimestone’s compassion and character are worth more than the entirety of some lineages’ accumulated grace. A lesson in quality over mere… display.”

A sharp silence cuts through the room. Not one loud word left his mouth. Yet each cold phrase lands like a blade. She stands there - exposed, stripped bare by syllables. Graceless, he says. Hungry for power. Unworthy of attention. His words do not shield me gently. They erase her completely. Everyone watches. No applause. Just wreckage.

That moment, he looks at me. Since the kiss, this is the first time our eyes lock like that. Coldness vanished - now there’s something sharp, watchful, holding me still. He says nothing while sliding off the stiff coat. Right there, with everyone quiet and staring, he places it on my shoulders.

A thick coat of wool wraps around me, soaked in his smell - wood, winter, that sharp note of Noah himself. It hides the broken fabric of my dress, pulls tight like a wall against everything else. For just a second, his palms press into my shoulders, steady, certain. No words. Just weight. A promise without speaking.

He holds out his elbow toward me. Time to move? That’s what it seems like

I give a small nod, my throat too tight for words, holding tight to his coat. Ahead of us, people step back without a sound, making space. Silence falls like dust between each footstep. No one looks up when he passes.

Turning past the door, I check behind me one last time. Alone she stays, Vivian Sumall, surrounded by open space like an island no one visits. Her expression holds broken dignity, eyes lit with raw, endless anger. What burns in that stare aimed at my back goes beyond envy now.

This promise stands firm.

Through quiet revenge, Noah brought more than envy into motion.

A foe now seeks his downfall.