She lowered her chin, exhaling shakily as she let herself return the embrace. One arm circled the girl’s back, the other brushed gently over her curls. The scent of winter clung to the child’s hair, cold and sweet, reminding Madeline of nights by her father’s hearth, of simpler years before loss had carved itself into her life.
Jonah’s affection had always been warm, familiar, shaped by laughter and conversation, by choice. This was different. The little girl clung to her without hesitation, without expectation, as though Madeline was simply meant to be there.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the small body pressed against her fill the silence between them.
This feeling…
The innocent, wholehearted trust of a child, who had not yet learned to guard herself, despite the world’s cruelty. Something she had once given freely and had not expected to feel again.
Her throat constricted painfully. She held the girl a moment longer, letting the warmth anchor her against the world pressing in on all sides.
“Thank you,” the child whispered.
Madeline swallowed. “Of course.”
A voice sliced through the air, deep and brusque. “Theresa.”
Madeline turned, and her entire body jolted.
A tall and broad man approached them. His shoulders were squared beneath a dark coat that clung to his powerful frame. Snow melted in droplets along the fabric, catching faint light. His hair, more silver than black, framed his face with striking lines, strong cheekbones, and a jaw made for authority. But it was his eyes that arrested her completely: blue, piercing, intense enough that her breath stuttered.
He looked like a myth carved into winter air, like a man who had never needed to ask for obedience because the world instinctively offered it to him.
The child, Theresa, lit up. “Papa!”
Madeline’s mouth parted in surprise. The intensity present in this man’s demeanor made sudden sense.
Theresa was his daughter.
He closed the distance with long, urgent strides. His gaze darted first to his daughter, sweeping quickly for injury.
“Are you hurt?” he asked the young girl.
“No,” Theresa said quickly. “She caught me.”
His brows furrowed, and when he seemed satisfied that Theresa was unharmed, he turned his full attention to Madeline.
Madeline felt the heat climb her throat, though she forced her voice to be steady. “She simply lost her balance for a moment.”
The man’s brows snapped together. “Were you skating?” he demanded of Theresa, his tone crisp enough to make the child flinch.
Theresa shook her head at once. “No,” she whispered, eyes wide.
“Were you about to?” His gaze narrowed, stern and unyielding.
“Possibly…” she admitted, her shoulders curling inward as though bracing for reprimand.
For a moment, he studied her in silence. Then his expression softened, just enough to be seen. He reached out, drawing her briefly against him, one hand settling at the back of her head.
“Mind your footing next time,” he murmured, the rebuke gentler than his tone had been before.
Only then did he lift his head and turn. “Who are you?” he asked, voice low, gravelly, commanding.
Madeline straightened automatically. “I… Miss Watton,” she lowered her voice. “I simply helped your daughter when she slipped, sir.”
The man’s jaw flexed, while a kind-faced older woman hurried to join them.
“Your Grace,” she said breathlessly, “’Thank heavens you found her. I?—”
