“I say nothing of the sort,” Serena replied. “I merely observe that your uncle has certain expectations regarding suitable behaviour for young ladies, and that defying them would create complications neither of us wishes to untangle.” She set aside her embroidery and met Ella’s gaze. “I would also observe that your uncle is presently engaged with estate matters and is unlikely to appear in the garden before teatime.”
Ella’s eyes widened. “Miss Collard. Are you suggesting—”
“I am suggesting nothing at all,” Serena said, picking up her embroidery once more with an air of perfect innocence. “I am merely remarking upon your uncle’s habits. What use you make of that information is entirely your own concern.”
For a moment, Ella could only stare at her. Then a grin spread across her face, bright and mischievous and wholly childlike.
“You are not like other governesses,” she said.
“So I have been told,” Serena replied. “Seldom as a compliment.”
“I mean it as one.” Ella hesitated, then added more quietly, “I am glad you came here, Miss Collard. Even if I did not behave as though I were, at first.”
Something warm stirred in Serena’s chest, something she immediately suppressed. Warmth was dangerous. Attachment was foolish. She had rules, after all, even if they were becoming increasingly difficult to uphold.
“I am glad I came too, Miss Ella,” she said. “Now run and climb your tree before I remember that I am meant to be a responsible adult and put a stop to the whole affair.”
Ella was gone before Serena had finished speaking, her steps pounding down the corridor with all the elegance of a small elephant. Serena listened to her go, smiling despite herself.
She had been at Greystone Hall a fortnight now, and in that time something had shifted. The children were still wounded, that was certain, and perhaps always would be, but the sharpest edges of their grief had begun to soften. Ella smiled more readily. Samuel had begun to speak in full sentences rather than single words. And Rosie no longer asked for her mother every night, though Marianne was still clasped with unwavering devotion.
It was progress. Small and fragile, but progress nonetheless.
And if Serena found herself thinking rather more often than was prudent of the master of the house—of the way his brow furrowed when he was deep in thought, of the unexpected warmth in his voice when he spoke to Rosie, of the keen intelligence that lay behind those guarded grey eyes—that was merely the result of proximity. It meant nothing. It could mean nothing.
She was a governess. He was a marquess. The distance between them was measured not in rooms or corridors, but in centuries of custom and expectation, and no amount of… whatever this feeling was… could hope to bridge it.
Serena pushed her needle into the embroidery with more force than strictly necessary and resolved, for the hundredth time that week, to put Lord Greystone from her thoughts entirely.
The resolution endured for approximately ten minutes.
That was when she heard his voice in the corridor.
***
Lord Greystone, as it turned out, did not remain occupied with estate business until teatime.
Serena was now helping Rosie practise her letters, when his voice drifted through the half-open door—low, clipped, and distinctly displeased.
“What do you mean, she is in the garden? She is meant to be at her lessons.”
Mrs McConnor’s reply was too muffled to be made out, though Serena could readily imagine the housekeeper’s expression: that long-suffering patience she reserved for the Stone family in moments of exasperation.
“And Miss Collard?” Lord Greystone demanded. “Where is she?”
Serena’s stomach tightened. She set aside Rosie’s slate and smoothed her skirts, schooling her features into an expression of calm competence.
“Remain here, my dear,” she said gently. “Practise your M’s while I speak with your uncle.”
“M is for Marianne,” Rosie announced cheerfully, already absorbed in her task.
Serena stepped into the corridor just as Lord Greystone rounded the corner, his expression decidedly thunderous. He was dressed for riding—boots polished to a fine shine, coat fitted close across his shoulders, cravat tied with the effortless precision of a man long accustomed to the attentions of an excellent valet. His dark hair was slightly dishevelled, as though he had been running his hands through it, and there was a tension in his jaw that spoke of barely contained frustration.
He looked, Serena thought with unwanted awareness, rather magnificent when angry.
She immediately scolded herself for the observation.
“Miss Collard,” he said tightly. “I have just been informed that my niece is presently perched at the top of the oak tree in the garden, apparently with your approval.”
