Wilhelm handed the carousel back to her, and she turned it eagerly, frowning when the music failed to begin.
Madeline was already lowering herself to the floor beside her, skirts gathered with practiced care, her expression soft with quiet delight as she took Tessa’s small hands and guided her fingers to the mechanism.
“Slowly,” she said, patient and calm. “Like this. If you rush it, the music won’t last.”
As she spoke, Wilhelm noticed the way her attention fractured. Her gaze lifted once, briefly, toward the street behind them before returning to Tessa. A moment later, it flicked again, scanning faces with a quickness that did not belong to ease. She smiled when the tune finally began, but the smile did not linger. It appeared, did its duty, and vanished.
Wilhelm watched them from where he stood, the sight striking him with unexpected force. She was present with Tessa, but she was not at rest. And for reasons he could not understand, Wilhelm felt certain the flowers had done nothing to change that.
“There,” Madeline said, smiling. “You see? It just needs care.”
Wilhelm paid without comment, slipping the carousel back into Tessa’s hands. The child hugged it to her chest, solemn now, as though she had been entrusted with something precious.
They stepped back into the street together. A little farther on, the smell of roasted chestnuts drifted toward them, rich and smoky. Tessa slowed, her nose lifting.
“Papa,” she said hopefully.
He did not hesitate. “Three cones,” he said to the vendor, then paused, glancing at Madeline. “For each of us.”
She looked at him then, surprised. “That’s hardly necessary.”
“I want my own cone,” he replied simply, and held her gaze until she inclined her head in quiet acceptance.
They stood together as the vendor scooped the chestnuts into paper, the steam curling into the cold air. Wilhelm handed the cone to Tessa first, watching as she fumbled eagerly, then reached for Madeline without thinking.
“Careful,” she said, smiling despite herself as their fingers brushed. “They’re hot.”
“Notthathot,” Tessa said helpfully, blowing on her own chestnut with exaggerated seriousness.
Madeline laughed, startled, and the sound settled somewhere low and dangerous in Wilhelm’s chest.
They walked as they ate, the rhythm of it grounding. Tessa chattered between bites, stopping every few steps to wind the carousel and listen, her smile unguarded.
Wilhelm found himself slowing unconsciously to match their pace, listening more than speaking, watching the way Madeline angled her body slightly toward Tessa, the way her attention never truly left the child even when she spoke to him.
For a few hours, the Duke and the governess disappeared, replaced by a man and a woman who simply enjoyed the sound of a child’s laughter.
But the world always found a way back in.
“Your Grace? Is that truly you?” The voice was melodious, cultured, and entirely too familiar. Wilhelm straightened, his protective mask sliding back into place as a woman in a stunning emerald silk pelisse approached them.
Lady Catherine.
She was one of the three women Henry had suggested—the one who had been kindest to Tessa at the ball, and possessed a quiet, steady dignity that Wilhelm had respected.
“Lady Catherine,” Wilhelm said, bowing slightly. “A surprise to find you in town so late in the week.”
“I had errands to attend to,” she replied, her smile genuine as her gaze moved to Tessa. She didn’t flinch at the child’s scars; instead, she stepped forward and offered a small, graceful curtsy. “And how is the young mistress of Kirkford today? You danced quite beautifully the other evening.”
Tessa beamed, her chest puffing out. “I have a carousel, Lady Catherine. It plays music.”
“How lovely,” Catherine said softly. She looked up at Wilhelm, her expression open and intelligent. “You look well, Your Grace. The city air seems to suit you.”
Wilhelm went through the motions of polite conversation. He noted the way Catherine moved, the way she spoke with an easy, unpretentious grace. She was perfect. She was a lady. She was exactly the kind of woman who should sit at the head of his table and guide his daughter into society.
And yet, as he spoke to her, his mind was busy performing a brutal, involuntary comparison.
Catherine’s voice was like music, but it didn’t have the slight, husky catch that Madeline’s did when she was excited. Catherine’s eyes were a clear, steady brown, but they didn’t hold the fire or the hidden depths of Madeline’s gaze. When Catherine smiled, it was pleasant; when Madeline smiled, it felt like the sun coming out after a long winter. He looked at Catherine and felt… respect. He looked at Madeline, standing two paces behind him with her hood pulled low, and felt a hunger so deep it was a physical pain.
