Whispers of Desire at Cliveden House - 3

Chapter Three - Unspoken Tension.

The next morning, the mist settled over the Parterre to the south of Cliveden House, lying low across the gardens like a veil that refused to lift. From my place at the breakfast table, I watched it drift between the sculpted hedges and stone urns of the gardens.

I lingered longer than necessary, waiting, anticipating the moment Magda would enter the French Renaissance dining room.
Just the thought of seeing her again sent a quiet pulse of warmth through me.

But the minutes passed, slow and deliberate.
No Magda.
No Max.

When the coffee carafe ran empty, I reluctantly rose to leave.

They appeared in the doorway at that moment. I hazarded the opportunity to sit down again, but instead made my move to the door.

Max entered first, dressed in a light-grey suit. Magda followed a half-step behind, wrapped in a thick white knitted polo-neck, washed Levi jeans and knee-high boots. The simplicity of her attire only heightened her beauty.

She saw me before he did.

Her smile flickered, sudden, bright, then quickly reined in, extinguished almost before it fully formed.

Max surveyed the room with the self-satisfied air of a man certain his arrival improved any space he walked into. Seeing me striding towards him, he turned towards Magda, his hand found the small of her back, pressing too firmly, urging her forward with a force she disguised by stepping quickly to reduce the pressure.

“Morning,” he announced, his tone closer to that of a man addressing staff than greeting a fellow guest.

“Good morning,” I replied, careful to keep my voice flat, unremarkable.

Magda’s polite smile was decorous, tight at the corners, until I stepped aside to let them pass. Then it changed.
Her eyes met mine, holding there for a moment, a silent echo of last night.
A reminder neither of us had forgotten.

Max saw his chosen table, and leaving Magda behind, he strode ahead, claiming the last table near the tall windows, snapping his fingers lightly to summon a member of staff.

Magda followed with measured steps, stopping for a second just in front of me.

“Sleep well?” she murmured, her voice barely above breath, meant for me alone.

I nodded. “And you?”

Her hesitation said everything before her words did.
A truth flickered across her face, unguarded, before she smoothed it away.

“Not really.”

“Magda,” Max called, tapping the table twice with two terse fingers. “Over here.”

She swallowed and gave me a quiet smile, small, fragile, but unmistakably real, then glided past me, her manicured nails tracing my forearm sparking lightning rods through me. Her hand slipped away unnoticed, except to me. Chanel perfume drifted past me in her wake.

I turned to see Magda stride purposefully over to the table, as if a renewed zest for life had infused her. She slipped into the seat opposite him with a composed grace that felt practiced. Max launched immediately into talk of a supplier, his tone clipped and authoritative. She nodded when required, her focus dutifully on him, until it wasn’t.

Her shoulders suddenly fell forwards and her gaze drifted to the gardens.
Then, deliberately, back to me, with a snip of a smile.

I should have left.

Instead, I lingered in the doorway turning towards the dining room. Miguel, the restaurant manager, approached, offering a polite greeting, and I asked him a cursory question, anything to justify staying where I stood.

From where I angled myself, I could see Magda.
Her face tilted toward Max.
Her eyes fixed on me.

Then I heard Max’s voice rise, an irritated hiss masked beneath civility. Something about a booking error, a mix-up he blamed on her. His tone was low, controlled, yet sharp enough to bruise.

Magda bowed her head slightly and absorbed it the way someone does when resisting would cost more than it would save.

A surge of anger tightened in my chest.
I tried to breathe it away.

She was not mine to protect.
This was not my fight.
And yet …

As I finally turned toward the corridor, I caught movement from the corner of my eye.
Magda.

She had looked up the moment I moved. Her posture recomposed, perfected for the man sitting across from her, but her eyes followed me with a longing plea she couldn’t speak aloud.

They stayed on me until the doorway took me out of her view.

Outside, the cold morning air struck hard, clearing the fog in my head but not the weight in my chest. I walked toward the corner of the Parterre, needing distance, needing breath, needing clarity.

But one truth followed me with every step.

Last night had not been imagined.
This morning had not loosened its hold.

If anything, it had tightened the link between us, quiet, invisible, and impossibly strong.

Chapter Four coming soon ...

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