’The Duke’s expression darkened, a shutter falling over his handsome features. The shadows in the room seemed to lengthen as he rose to pour himself a glass of brandy.
“Their parents… died in a fire. A year ago, now.”
“Oh. Your Grace, I am so sorry… how terribly awful for such sweet, young lads to know such sadness. I only asked so I might know how to comfort them if they needed it.”
“There is to be no talk of the accident,” he snapped, voice tight. “It serves no purpose. I wish them to look ahead, not behind. To be made into capable men, and sensible ones.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she murmured, bowing her head and looking aimlessly into the amber liquid.
Silence stretched between them. The fire popped in the grate, but neither moved. She knew the Duke was staring at her, could feel his eyes tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheeks. She imagined for a moment that he wasn’t the Duke, and she wasn’t the maid—or the governess. That they were simply two people caught in a strange, magnetic tug. Imogen felt a heat that had nothing to do with the hearth. She couldn’t look away, trapped by the pull of his blue gaze.
The Duke cleared his throat sharply, breaking the spell. He stood and pulled the bell cord.
A moment later, a housekeeper appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “You rang for me, Your Grace?”
“Mrs. Higgins, this is Miss Imogen Lewis. She is the boys’ new governess,” he announced.
The old woman blinked, looking at Imogen’s dusty maid’s uniform. “The new governess, sir? How did you replace the last one so soon… if you don’t mind my asking, Your Grace,” she recovered with a sleepy smile.
“There will be time for questions tomorrow,” the Duke said firmly. “As for tonight, set her up in the rooms adjacent to the nursery. And have one of the footmen go to Presholm House immediately to retrieve her things.”
“Presholm House? I don’t understand… The house next door?”
“Yes. If they give him any trouble, tell Lord and Lady Presholm I am prepared to send my man of business and pursue legal action.”
“Go with her, Miss Lewis,” Ambrose said, his voice softer now. “The boys will expect a lesson in the morning.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured.
As she followed the housekeeper out, she felt his eyes on her back, a warm blanket she wasn’t quite sure what to make of.
She was only a single townhouse away from the Presholms, who had tormented her endlessly, yet the distance felt like a border crossing into a foreign empire.
Her new quarters were a departure from the cramped, drafty closet she had occupied at Presholm House. She took a deep breath as she sat on the bed, the air still and smelling of beeswax and French lavender.
The bed was an island of heavy jacquard fabric, its intricate weave of gold and cream thread feeling rough beneath herfingertips. On the walls, gilt-framed oil paintings depicted somber landscapes. Even the ceiling was an unfamiliar landscape of plaster molding, casting jagged, deep shadows that shifted in the moonlight that streamed in through her large windows.
The silence of the room wasn’t peaceful, though it should have been. It was a ringing stillness that pressed against her ears, keeping sleep at bay as her mind struggled to bridge the gap between her old life and what was to come.
She knew there would be no grace period for adjustment.
Dawn came quickly, and along with it would come the twins. Imogen understood already that the boys were forces of nature: brilliant, demanding, and utterly relentless. They would leave her with no choice but to find her footing or be swept away.
Imogen dressed quickly and made her way downstairs, carried in the air like a ghost by the scent of warm food. In all the rush, she did not sup the previous night.
She found the Duke in the breakfast room, a space of soaring windows and polished mahogany that seemed far too large for a single occupant. He didn’t look up from his correspondence as she entered, merely gesturing with a ringed hand toward a sideboard of several silver warming dishes.
“The boys have already eaten,” he said, his voice clipped and dry as the toast he was eating. “They lack the patience for formal mornings. You will find them in the schoolroom. I suggest you fortify yourself. They have been waiting for a new audience since sunrise.”
There was no invitation to sit, no polite inquiry into how she slept or how she was settling. Imogen glanced sidelong at the breakfast spread while her stomach gave an aggravated rumble.
Hmm… I suppose I will just grab whatever is at hand.
She plucked a slice of toast from the holder and promptly chomped on a bit of crust. It took effort to swallow the morsel, but she dared not delay or disturb the Duke by sitting and taking the time to spread marmalade. Instead, she chewed another bite, then hurried toward the east wing and into the schoolroom.
“We don’t do Latin on Tuesdays,” Arthur declared, standing atop a mahogany chair with his arms crossed. “On Tuesdays, we practice our aim! PEW! PEW! PEW!”
He punctuated this by launching a wadded-up piece of parchment toward the fireplace. It missed, bouncing off a bust of Homer. Philip sat at the table, picking at the fraying hem of his sleeve, watching Imogen with wide, wary eyes, and shaking his head in protest.
