He fought the urge to smile. “If you observe from here, you may continue.”
“But it’s too far,” she whispered.
“And yet perfectly safe.”
She sighed with the tragic disappointment of an eight-year-old whose father thwarted every attempt at adventure, then shuffled half a step forward, just enough to satisfy her but not enough to give him palpitations.
Snow crunched under their boots as they moved deeper into the festival. Lanterns swung overhead, music spilled from every direction, and laughter curled through the cold air like bright ribbons.
Tessa inhaled sharply at nearly every sight: the gingerbread stall, the colored ribbons, the children skating in the tent, and the musicians stamping their feet to keep warm.
Wilhelm truly tried to appear like a simple man calmly escorting his daughter. But every time someone looked at her for a beat too long, every time eyes lingered on the pale scars that curved across her cheek, a familiar heat tightened in his chest.
Mrs. Hayward noticed it, too. She muttered, “Ignore them, Your Grace. Villagers stare at anything unfamiliar.”
“Ignore them?” Wilhelm’s voice was low, hard. “They are gawking at my child.”
“Aye, and the same gawkers will shrivel if you look at them,” she whispered. “Do you not see how they avoid your eye tonight?”
He had seen it from the moment they arrived, the way people stepped aside whenever he moved, the way their glances slipped away the instant he met them.
He did not care about their discomfort. What clawed at him was the way they looked atTessa. The pity, the whispers, the way some could not stop staring…
When two women near a pastry stall let their gazes linger on his daughter’s face with open, silent judgment, something cold settled through him. He turned his head just enough for them to meet his eyes, and the look he sent them was sharp enough to make both flinch and pivot away at once.
Tessa frowned, small brows knitting, but she did not comment. She rarely did anymore. Instead, she tugged at his sleeve.
“Papa, can we go to the tent? Please? I want to see the skaters,” she pleaded.
He swallowed. “We are merely observing.”
Tessa beamed. “I cannot observe anything from here. Let’s observe over there.”
Mrs. Hayward coughed, probably to hide a laugh. “Your Grace, she means no harm?—”
“I know what she means,” Wilhelm muttered.
They walked toward the enormous tent erected over the frozen pond, its fabric fluttering gently with each breeze. The glow from its interior painted the snow with gold, and the chatter of skaters echoed warmly.
“Stay beside me,” Wilhelm reminded Tessa quietly.
“I always stay beside you.”
Mrs. Hayward snorted. “Except when the governess turns her back for two seconds, or?—”
“Speaking of governesses,” Wilhelm said as his lips twitched, “Mrs. Hayward, did the last one sayanythingbefore she left?”
The elderly woman’s sigh was long and tired. “She said she feared your daughter would become too… attached.”
Wilhelm clenched his jaw tightly. “Attached? To a governess meant to care for her?”
“You know what she meant,” Mrs. Hayward murmured, her gaze softening on Tessa. “Lady Tessa is spirited. Loving. And most women do not want to love a child who carries scars others assume are misfortune, or bad luck, or divine punishment. Superstition is ugly.”
“It is not superstition,” Wilhelm bit out. “It is cruelty.”
Mrs. Hayward patted his arm. “We shall find someone who doesn’t flinch, then. It cannot be impossible.”
He did not answer, because the task, indeed,feltimpossible.
