Nicola's sleep was undisturbed and deep after her time with Jason into the early hours of dawn, and she did not rouse until well after noon.

When she did, however, the flush of desire that began rushing through her at the memories of her time with him the night before were quickly replaced with trepidation and terror.

How did one even go about confessing one's love? That is what she was doing after all, since she was about to reveal to him that it was she who was the owner of those letters.

The uncertainty of how he would react was almost too much to withstand and she decided that the worst possible thing he could do was reveal his pity for her, for a silly, naïve girl who was besotted with a man vastly more experienced and unattainable than her. What other outcome could there be? That he loved her in return? It was laughable. He liked her, maybe. Wanted her, definitely. But love?

As she readied her attire for the day, she began to brace herself and prepare for what she would do in the face of his possible rejection. Nicola would bid farewell to Northwick, at least for a little while for she couldn't entirely abandon Blanche and Kathleen, but enough time would pass and perhaps she and Jason could return to normal, and she wouldn't feel so hopelessly awkward and broken around him. She wondered briefly about Kathleen, her surprisingly calm reaction at her sneaking from Jason's wing last night.

Clara assisted with her hair, taming it into some form of passable coiffure, and then she climbed into a demure white gown with yellow blossoms embroidered prettily into the fabric of her bodice. Before she went down to the dining room to take lunch, Nicola thought briefly to check on Blanche after the previous evening, but when she tried the other girl's door it was barred and there was no answer from within. It was normal for Blanche to lay about in bed longer than normal, especially if they returned particularly late from an event, so Nicola hardly felt compelled to disturb her further and continued downstairs.

The house was eerily silent as she moved through it, and even her lunch was taken alone. Now that was an odd occurrence- normally there was always a Blackwood somewhere eating something or stirring up a problem. Jason had also told her he would see her for lunch, but it was possible that she herself had overslept and missed him, so she would need to approach him while he was somewhere else in the house, in all likelihood his study.

Since there was no distraction and her lunch finished relatively quickly, Nicola was forced to face her confrontation with Jason sooner than she was ready for it. Then again, who would be ready for something like this?

The main rooms in the house were devoid of human activity, confirming that he would be in his study or his private chambers. She opted to check his study first and her search proved fruitful.

Jason was leaning over correspondence at his desk, sunlight streaming over him like a gilded cage from the windowpanes behind him. It wasn't a particularly well-kempt room, she realised as she surveyed the books strewn in piles near the desk, parchments of correspondence deposited on every available surface there was, but it was an impressive chamber. Dark mahogany shelves flanked either wall beside the desk, stacked with tomes that he had not yet extracted and failed to return, and a grand stone hearth broke the centre of those shelves to one side, above it a huge painting of the late Maquis of Northwick- Thomas Blackwood.

"Nicola."

She had been admiring the painting, momentarily distracted with her head turned away from him, but met his gaze at his warm acknowledgement. Her heart stumbled as she took him in, as normal, and he rose to his feet, coming around the desk to meet her. He had foregone a coat today and his dark blue waistcoat hung open over his shirt, his dark trousers hugging his abdomen and thighs in a way that drew her eyes, vividly remembering how he had knelt between her legs the night before-

"I need to talk to you," she said abruptly, shaking herself mentally. She absolutely could not distract herself with wayward fantasies, not now.

"Indeed." He folded his arms and considered her with a fond smile, resting his hip against the edge of his desk. "What would you like to talk about?"

The way he was looking at her, the softness in his eyes as he scaled them over her form, the secretive tilt to his lips, all served to make her decidedly hot and wretched at once. She dug her fists into her thighs to ease her tension. "A-about the letters," she said tentatively. "I-"

His expression darkened. "I don't wish to discuss those anymore, Nicki."

"You don't understand," she told him, stepping towards him, but she stopped herself and braced her shoulders.

Jason shook his head. "It doesn't matter anymore, you needn't-"

"It was me," she blurted.

The room settled into staggering silence.

"I wrote them," Nicola explained in a small voice, into the silence that was worse than anything he could have possibly said in that moment. Her heart began to beat a hard staccato, painful in its rhythm. "They are mine, every last one. It is my box... that you found."

He was frowning, perplexed, and his hands dropped to his sides, and his eyes were hard and discerning as they met her gaze. "Nicki-"

Oh, God, it was there in his tone as he said her name, the aching edge of pity, of sympathy even, and she couldn't abide it, knowing full well what came next. She held up her hands, placatingly, and forced a smile on her face even though her lips trembled. "It's fine," she told him, calmer than she felt. "Really, you do not have to worry about anything. I do not expect-"

"Nicki-"

Three things happened then in quick succession that forced both of them to divert their concentration to the happenings spiralling in the Northwick household.

Blanche slammed into the study, flouncing her skirts dramatically, her entrance unannounced but heralded by a metaphorical black storm cloud hovering over her crown. Her face was flushed, her hair wild and fluffing from her coiffure as if she had been raking her fingers through it consistently for the past few hours, and her silver eyes sparked with indignity and rage. She stomped over to Jason and punched him in the arm. "I demand you call him out!" she shouted, stomping her foot. Jason glared down at her, rubbing his arm. "Call him out or I'll... or I'll do it myself!"

"Who?" Jason demanded, glowering.

"Your stupid, insufferable henchman!" Blanche wailed, throwing her hands up in the air before crossing them over her breasts. "Nathaniel!"

Jason's scowl blackened but before he could retort or make a comment to that revelation, Lady Blackwood sauntered into the room, her nose tipped as she scanned the contents of a parchment held in her hands. "Wilhelmina has chosen to react, at last," she said, distracted as she came to stand before them. Then she glanced up and her eyes widened at the group assembled in Jason's study. "Oh, hello dears. Good that you are here. Your grandmother shall arrive tomorrow and be staying with us for a week."

"What?" This from Jason, who was now rubbing his temples. Nicola began to back away, overwhelmed, conflicted for her friend's sake, for Wilhelmina's correspondence, for her confession that still lingered in the air, open and exposed, as if her flesh were about to be flayed alive. She couldn't expect it take precedence over his family's problems, and the way he had said her name, as if there was a poignant ache of regret in his voice... he did not need to say anything more for her worst fears to be confirmed.

And if that didn't cause her to turn and run from the study, the next person who entered became the catalyst that spurred her complete retreat. Diana Blackwood marched into the study then, her travelling coat still buttoned closed, her normally flawlessly composed dark hair streaming down her back, and tears were running down her cheeks.

"I want a divorce," she said, and the entire study descended into shocked silence.