“It feels so.”
“Then perhaps,” she said gently, “we might work to change how things feel. Together.”
His expression shifted. “Together?”
“If you are agreeable. I find I am more effective when I am not working alone.”
He studied her for a moment longer, then nodded. “Together, then.” And the word carried a weight that felt very like a promise.
They returned to the house in silence, Lord Greystone carrying Samuel, Serena walking beside them.
She ought not to be feeling as she did. Ought not to be allowing such treacherous hopes to take root. She ought to remember her rule, the one that was meant to keep her safe.
But as she watched Lord Greystone carry the child into the house, as she saw the way his arms tightened around the boy’s small body, she knew that the rule had already been broken.
She had already begun to care. About the children. About this house. About the man who had tried so hard to close himself off from the world and was now, slowly, painfully, beginning to open again.
And she did not know if she had the strength to close her heart in defence.
***
The nursery was quiet when they arrived. Ella was in her room reading, Mrs McConnor informed them, and Rosie had been put to bed early after an afternoon of unusually energetic play.
“I will take him to his room,” Lord Greystone said, and Serena nodded, stepping aside to allow him to pass.
She watched him carry Samuel down the corridor, and something in her chest tightened at the sight. At the care with which he manoeuvred through the doorway, at the gentleness with which he laid the boy upon his bed.
She ought to leave. She ought to return to her own room and make use of the remaining hours to prepare the next day’s lessons. She had no business lingering in the corridor, observing a moment not meant for her.
Yet her feet would not move.
Lord Greystone emerged a few moments later, drawing the door nearly closed behind him. He paused when he saw her still there, his expression unreadable.
“He is settled,” he said quietly. “Still asleep.”
“That is good. He needed the rest.”
They stood facing one another in the narrow corridor, neither inclined to move, the air between them weighted with unspoken things.
“Miss Collard.” His voice was low, hesitant. “I wish to—that is, I ought—”
“Yes, my lord?”
He took a breath, seeming to steel himself. “I have not been... I have not treated you as I ought. When you first arrived, I expected you to fail. I expected you to be like all the others—tofind the children too difficult, the household too strange, and to leave as quickly as possible.” He paused. “I was mistaken.”
“You were protecting yourself,” Serena said quietly. “And the children. It is often easier to expect disappointment than to hope for something better.”
“That is a generous interpretation.”
“It is an accurate one.” She held his gaze steadily. “I am well acquainted with self-protection, my lord. I have practised it myself for many years.”
Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of recognition. “Is that why you spoke as you did to Rosie? I heard you that first night. You told her you would stay as long as she needed you. Not forever. Just... for now.”
A faint warmth rose to Serena’s cheeks. She had not realised he had overheard.
“It is not easy,” she said slowly, “to care for those one is not meant to keep. Children grow. Positions end. Governesses move on. I have learned that distance is… safer. It makes the parting less painful when it comes.”
“And does it work?” he asked quietly. “This keeping of distance?”
