He looked as though he had slept poorly. Shadows lay beneath his grey eyes, and his jaw was set with a tension that suggested he had been clenching it for some time. His coat was perfectly tailored and his cravat immaculately tied, yet he wore his elegance like armour rather than ornament, as protection against something he had no wish to confront.
“Miss Collard,” he said, his voice carefully even. “I trust the morning went well?”
“Very well, my lord. The children were attentive and cooperative.”
Something flickered across his expression, surprise perhaps, or disbelief. “All three of them?”
“All three. Though I should add that Miss Rosie’s cooperation consisted chiefly of not eating the chalk, which I consider a notable success for a child of five.”
That earned her something very nearly resembling a smile. “You set modest standards.”
“I find that modest standards, reliably met, lead to more progress than lofty ones that are never attained. The children need to feel capable, my lord. Small victories remind them that effort yields results.”
Lord Greystone was silent for a moment, his gaze moving about the schoolroom, taking in the shelves of books, the globein the corner, the small chairs gathered around the table where his nieces and nephew had sat that morning.
“My brother used to sit in this room,” he said quietly. “When we were boys. He was always the better student. More patient. More willing to apply himself.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “I preferred the outdoors. Running about, mischief, anything to avoid a lesson. Our tutors despaired of me.”
Serena, uncertain how to receive this unexpected confidence, remained silent.
“Edward, my brother,” he continued, as though compelled by the memory. “He would cover for me. When I missed a lesson or failed to complete an exercise, he made excuses. Told the tutor I had been unwell, or that my work had been misplaced, or some other convenient invention.” A brief, bitter smile crossed his face. “I never thanked him properly for it. I took it for granted, assumed he would always be there, as one does when one is young and foolish.”
“My lord,” Serena began.
“I beg your pardon.” He shook his head slightly, as though banishing unwelcome thoughts. “I do not know why I am telling you this. It is hardly relevant to… to anything.”
“On the contrary,” Serena said gently. “It tells me a great deal about the children’s father. About the sort of man he was, and the sort of home they knew.” She hesitated, then added carefully, “It also tells me something about you.”
His eyes met hers, wary and guarded. “And what is that?”
“That you loved your brother dearly. And that you miss him.”
His expression closed at once, as though a shutter had been drawn. “My feelings are not the subject of this discussion, Miss Collard.”
“No, my lord. But they shape the household in which these children live. If you are grieving—and you are, quite plainly—then that grief touches everything here. The children feel it, even if they cannot name it.” She took a steadying breath. “I am not asking you to confide in me. I am only observing that healing rarely occurs in isolation. If you wish the children to recover, you must allow yourself the same.”
The silence that followed was heavy. Lord Greystone regarded her with an expression that hovered between offence and something else, something she could not quite decipher, but which caused her pulse to quicken.
“You overstep, Miss Collard,” he said at last, his voice taut.
“Yes,” Serena replied calmly. “I do. It is, I’m afraid, an unfortunate habit of mine.”
For a tense moment, she was certain he would dismiss her at once. She had gone too far, spoken too freely, forgotten her place.
But then, quite unexpectedly, he laughed.
It was a brief sound, startled from him against his will, and it altered his countenance entirely. For an instant, sheglimpsed the man he must once have been, quick-witted, open, unburdened by loss.
“You are not what I expected,” he said, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
“I seldom am, my lord. I have been told it is among my less endearing qualities.”
“On the contrary.” He shook his head, still faintly incredulous. “It may be precisely what this household requires.” He glanced towards the door, then back again. “The children take their luncheon at noon?”
“Yes, my lord. In the small dining room.”
He nodded slowly, as though settling a question within himself. “I shall join them today, if that is agreeable.”
Serena blinked. “You wish to dine with the children?”
