I could tell him the truth.
She closed her eyes and indulged that idea, just for a moment.
I could tell him what I saw.
But the truth came back too vividly. The empty storeroom. The shouting. The spatter of spittle on the floor. The blood—thick, dark, and spreading. Victor’s hands around another man’s throat. The memory of those same hands closing around her own, not hard enough to crush, just hard enough to remind her he could.
“Best keep quiet about this, eh?” he’d said. “You’re a sensible girl, Miss Camden. Or may I call you Maggie? Your father said your mother did. Maggie. What a pleasant name.”
She shivered and opened her eyes. The duke was watching her, his brow faintly creased.
“If you’re cold,” he said gently, “we can go inside.”
She shook her head. “I am not cold.”
She couldn’t tell him, of course not. Telling him would make him complicit—bound up in her guilt. Once he knew the truth, he would have only two choices: to turn her in, or to protect her and draw Victor’s wrath upon himself.
Maggie knew, with painful clarity, that she could do neither to him.
“You seem preoccupied,” he said after a moment, his gaze still lingering on her.
It would be sensible—proper—to make some polite reply and excuse herself at once. No good had ever come of a governess alone with her handsome employer. At best, one might expect a broken heart and perhaps a broken promise. Maggie did not care to imagine the worst.
And yet she didn’t move.
“We should go inside,” she said at last, her voice mechanical. “Itiscold.”
She turned halfway, uncertain whether she meant to go—or stay. It didn’t matter. Her eyes met his, and the breath caught in her throat. She froze, lips parted, heart hammering.
He looked down at her, brows drawn together in some unreadable confusion, his finely cut features shadowed in the lamplight.
I am falling in love with you.
The thought came quietly, with the heavy inevitability of a cannonball rolling over a paper floor—soft at first, and then ruinous.
“There is something you are not telling me,” he said, voice low. “I would like you to know, Maggie, that you can trust me.”
I wish I could.
“Thank you, your Grace,” she whispered, the words slipping out on a breath.
“I want to help you,” he continued. “My reputation may be a harsh one, but I care deeply for my niece. And I… I care for you, too.”
What was that supposed to mean? Did he care for her as he did for Crawford, or Mrs Thornton, or the rest of his household who spoke so fondly of him?
Maggie longed to ask—to demand answers—but no sound would come.
Neil lifted his hand, hesitantly, gaze flickering across her face as though he expected her to pull back at any moment.
She was sure, quite sure, that he meant to brush his knuckles across the curve of her cheek. She could feel the warmth of his hand, a hair’s breadth from her skin.
And then he exhaled, and the hand landed, warm and friendly, on her shoulder.
“I will help you, if I can,” he said firmly, his gaze locked onto hers.
Maggie’s insides tangled themselves into knots. She could not breathe, could not move, could not look away.
Is this love?she wondered.This helpless, terrible confusion?
