Your Grace.Madeline’s breath faltered.He’s a Duke.
A very tall, very intimidating, very arrestingly handsome Duke.
He nodded curtly to the woman, then returned his gaze to Madeline. He looked at her as if trying to determine if she represented danger or salvation, or something in between. The weight of that scrutiny made heat pool low in her stomach, entirely unwelcome and entirely impossible to ignore.
“Miss Watton.” He repeated the name slowly, as though tasting the shape of it, letting it linger on his tongue while his gaze remained fixed on her face. “I am Wilhelm Arden, Duke of Kirkford,” he added after a measured pause, his voice low and controlled. “Are you a governess?”
Madeline blinked. “Pardon?”
“You handled her as if you were accustomed to children.” His tone held no accusation, only assessment. “Are you a governess?”
“Not quite,” she murmured, wishing her cheeks would not warm, though the effort was futile. “I am a tutor. I teach languages, reading, arithmetic… and occasionally music.”
The man’s gaze settled on her with unnerving intensity, the same blue eyes that little Theresa had, but the Duke’s were steady, assessing. Immediately, Madeline felt as if he were trying to read her like a tome. As he studied her, Madeline’s attention drifted past his shoulder, her eyes moving briefly over the interior of the tent—the entrance flap, the nearby figures, the space beyond.
No sign of Hale.
She forced herself back to the moment as the Duke spoke again.
“And you work here, in the village, Miss Watton?” he asked, his voice noticeably lower.
Madeline swallowed, painfully aware of how close he stood, and of how he did not look away. “For the past few months, yes.”
His eyes flicked over her face slowly, as though committing each feature to memory. She felt her pulse skip, then race, even as her own gaze was drawn helplessly back to his.
For a moment, Madeline simply stared back at him, and the noise of the tent faded, until there was only the faint crackle of ice beneath the skaters and the warmth climbing her neck.
She felt the full force of that attention, like cold fingers trailing along warm skin. Yet beneath the chill, something curious swirled, that made her pulse trip.
He turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Hayward, take Theresa to the carriage. I will follow shortly.”
“No,” Theresa blurted, clinging to his coat. “Papa, I want to stay. I’m not cold.”
The Duke lowered his voice. “We are leaving.”
“But—”
“That is enough, Theresa.”
The girl shrank a little, hurt flickering across her features, and Madeline’s heart twisted for her.
Mrs. Hayward stepped forward and said gently, “Come, sweetheart.”
Theresa hesitated, then allowed herself to be led away, though she cast one last look over her shoulder at Madeline.
By only taking a few steps, they disappeared into the crowd. Madeline tracked their progress. When she locked eyes with a man who gave her a quirky smile, she suddenly remembered that anyone could be lurking amongst the villagers this evening. Her pulse accelerated but with a quick glance, Madeline confirmed that Hale still hadn’t reached the tent.
Then, with a sense of urgency inducing her to speak her mind whilst she still had the chance, Madeline turned to the Duke and said in a gently reproachful manner, “You were much too harsh with her, Your Grace.”
His head snapped toward her, surprise glinting in his eyes. “Harsh?”
“She was frightened,” Madeline murmured. “She needed reassurance, not reprimand.”
His brows drew together slowly. “And you believe you know what she needed?”
“I know children,” she replied softly. “I’ve taught them for years. They respond to gentleness and to feeling understood.”
He stared at her as though she had spoken words he had long forgotten existed. The rigid lines of his jaw eased faintly.
