Imogen sat at the heavy oak table, her nib scratching rhythmically against parchment. She was drafting a botany quiz for the morning, but the truth was, she was hiding.
The house was too quiet, her thoughts too loud, and the memory of Ambrose’s translucent shirt at the lake still burned behind her eyelids. She knew sleep was far from her.
Suddenly, the floorboards in the corridor groaned. She knew that sound as much as she knew her own heartbeat. A shadow fell across her papers.
Imogen looked up, her heart pounding against her ribs. The Duke of Welton stood in the doorway. He had clearly just returned from his engagement, yet his heavy greatcoat andformal tailcoat were gone. He had even discarded his waistcoat and cravat. His white linen shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair.
He looked undone, raw, and dangerously beautiful.
She could hardly breathe at the sight and took a handkerchief from her pocket to dab at her temples.
He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. The casual posture did nothing to diminish his intensity, his shoulders impossibly broad, as he loomed over her.
“You ought to rest, Miss Lewis,” he said, his voice low in the stillness of the room. “There is no virtue in overtaxing yourself. The boys will not be undone by a pause in their studies. And you need not deny yourself a little ease.”
Imogen felt a flush creep up her neck. She looked down at her ink-stained fingers, busying herself with a stack of papers. “I am only finishing the plan for tomorrow, Your Grace. I like to be prepared. It… it keeps my mind occupied.”
’The Duke’s lip twitched, not quite a smile, but a sign that he had clocked her deflection. It set her blood on fire. He stepped fully into the room, his presence suddenly making the space feel small.
“Was the tutor your father hired so insistent on such diligence?”
“He believed in the value of a disciplined mind,” Imogen replied vaguely, her pulse thrumming as he took another step nearer.
The Duke walked closer still, his gaze sweeping over her. She knew it was not as a master looks at a servant, but as a man looks at a mystery he is desperate to solve.
“You are wasted as a governess,” he remarked softly.
“Wasted?” Imogen stiffened, her spine turning to iron. “I assure you, I find the work honorable, Your Grace. It is a far cry from sweeping floors and picking up crumbs. If you find my performance lacking?—”
“No,” he interrupted, his voice sharp. He stepped to the edge of the table, setting his hands onto it and leaning toward her. “I meant… That you are remarkable.”
“Oh,” she said breathlessly, shocked at the word.
Remarkable.
“I phrased it poorly, and for that, I apologize. I meant that a woman of your intellect and… spirit… deserves a world far wider than a schoolroom.”
The apology, the breadth of his words, caught her off guard. She looked up, trapped by the gravity of his cerulean eyes, the hulk of his strong body.
The air between them felt thick, charged with the same electricity she’d felt in the park when he saved her.
Saved me.
She broke the contact first, looking back at her papers with a trembling hand. “The boys are good children,” she whispered. “They just need consistency. I am happy to provide that for them; it gives me purpose. Meaning.”
“They fell into the least consistent hands in England when they came to me,” he murmured, a shadow crossing his face as the candlelight danced between them.
“You are doing better than you think, Your Grace,” Imogen said, her voice growing stronger. She looked at him again, wanting him to believe it. “They feel safe. They sleep through the night now. That matters more than any shipping lane or dinner party.”
“That’s why I am here,” he said as he absorbed her words, his expression darkening. “Have you ever lost sleep over feeling unsafe, Imogen?”
The question was a blade that sliced through all the lies and cut right to the heart of Imogen’s issues.
Imogen looked away, her voice barely audible. “I’ve not lost sleep here.”
“And before?” he pressed, his voice dropping an octave. “When you worked for the Presholms? And Marden before that, correct?”
Imogen turned back to her papers, her movements jerky as she began to gather them. “There is no point in dwelling on the past, Your Grace. It serves no one.”
