She pressed her palms briefly to her face, drew a steadying breath, and returned to Rosie.
If her attention wandered somewhat for the remainder of the afternoon, that was merely the consequence of a disrupted routine.
It had nothing at all to do with Lord Greystone.
Nothing whatsoever.
Chapter Eight
The library at Greystone Hall had become Serena’s sanctuary.
She had discovered it during her first week at the estate, wandering the corridors in a rare hour of solitude. She had opened a heavy oak door, expecting another unused parlour or perhaps a storage room, and instead found herself standing in what could only be described as a tribute to the written word.
The room was two stories tall, with shelves reaching from floor to ceiling on every wall. A rolling ladder provided access to the upper reaches, and a gallery ran around the perimeter, offering a second level of exploration for those brave enough to climb. The furniture was old but well-maintained—deep leather chairs positioned near the windows, a massive desk in one corner, and a chaise longue upholstered in faded green velvet that looked as though it had been designed specifically for the purpose of lying down with a good book and forgetting that the world existed.
Serena had fallen in love with the room instantly.
She had returned most evenings since, after the children were in bed and her duties were complete. Lord Greystone, she had learned, made little use of the library himself, preferring his study and its ledgers and correspondence, and so the room had become hers almost entirely. It was her refuge, the one place in the house where she could set aside the composed mask of the governess and simply exist.
This evening, she had chosen a volume of poetry. Byron, whose brooding verses seemed particularly suited to her unsettled thoughts. Curled into her favourite chair by the window, with rain streaking the glass and the fire murmuring softly in the grate, she ought to have been content.
Instead, she found herself unable to attend to the page.
Her eyes kept drifting from the page, her thoughts wandering to places they had no business going. The corridor that afternoon. The intensity of Lord Greystone’s gaze. The sound of her name on his tongue.
She told herself firmly that she was indulging nonsense. He had spoken to her as an employer speaks to an employee, nothing more. If she had imagined something else, that was a failing of her own discipline rather than any fault of his.
She turned the page with more force than necessary and resolved to give Byron her full attention.
She had scarcely settled into a particularly sombre stanza when a sound reached her from among the shelves. A faint rustling, cautious and furtive, as though someone were striving very hard not to be noticed.
Serena set aside her book and rose. The sound came again, from the far corner of the library, near the shelves that housed, if her memory served her, the less suitable volumes of the Greystone collection.
She made her way between the shelves, her steps silent upon the thick carpet. Another rustle followed, and then a small, startled sound that could only be—
“Miss Ella.”
The girl turned sharply, colour flooding her face, her hands moving too late to conceal the book she held. Serena caught the title before it vanished behind her back.
The Sins of Lady Sinclair.
Oh dear.
“Miss Collard,” Ella exclaimed, her voice pitched far higher than usual. “I was just— I mean— I was looking for—”
“You were looking for something to read,” Serena said calmly, schooling her expression into mild interest. “Which is a perfectly reasonable activity in a library.”
Ella’s colour deepened. “Yes. Exactly. I was merely browsing.”
“And what, precisely, were you browsing?”
“Nothing. Just a book.”
“May I see it?”
“I would rather you did not.”
Serena considered the moment. Authority would be easy. Trust, far less so, and far more valuable.
