More dangerous.
“My lord,” Serena said, managing steadiness by force of habit. “I did not realise you were present.”
“So it would seem.” He straightened and moved a step closer. “I came in search of a book and found myself detained by something rather more instructive.”
Her colour rose. “How long have you been listening?”
“Long enough.” His gaze held hers. “Long enough to hear you speak to my niece with honesty rather than alarm. Long enough to hear you tell her that respect is not optional, and that true feeling is not a thing of haste.”
He paused, then added, more quietly, “Long enough to hear you say that you do not shout.”
Serena found herself momentarily without speech.
“I ought to have announced myself,” he continued. “It was discourteous not to do so. Yet I found I did not wish to interrupt.”
“Why?”
The word escaped her before she could consider it.
He regarded her for a moment. “Because I wished to see how you would proceed.” His expression darkened slightly. “The former governesses would have responded very differently.”
“They would,” Serena agreed softly.
“They would have been scandalised. They would have demanded punishment, restrictions, locked doors.” His mouth tightened. “They would have brought the matter to me as a failing to be corrected.”
“And would you have permitted it?”
He was silent, then shook his head. “I do not think so. But I might not have known how to prevent it. I might have done what I have done too often these past years.” He broke off, rubbing a hand across his brow. “Withdrawn.”
Serena felt the shift then, not of attraction, but of understanding.
“You judge yourself too harshly, my lord.”
“Do I?” His laugh was brief and without mirth. “I have avoided much that required courage. That is not harshness. It is fact.”
“It is an incomplete one,” Serena said gently. “You have also borne responsibility that would have overwhelmed many. You have kept this household intact, provided for its people, and ensured the children’s welfare even while struggling with your own loss. That, too, deserves acknowledgement.”
He studied her with an expression that she could not interpret—surprise, perhaps, or confusion, or something else entirely.
“You are an unusual woman, Miss Collard.”
“So I am told,” she replied lightly. “Not always to my advantage.”
“I meant it as praise.”
She inclined her head, feeling heat rise unbidden to her cheeks.
“It grows late,” she said. “I ought to retire.”
“Yes.” He made no move to detain her. “But before you do—what you said to Ella, about feeling and trust and the necessity of time. Do you truly believe that?”
“I do,” Serena answered carefully. “Anything lasting requires patience. Without it, people mistake intensity for depth, and suffer for the error.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “I suspected as much.”
When she turned to go, she hesitated. “My lord—if what you overheard this evening seemed an overreach, I regret it.”
“You need not.” His voice was quieter now. “You treated her with dignity. I should like her to grow accustomed to that.”
