Serena met his gaze, something steadying within her.
“Good evening, my lord.”
“Good evening, Miss Collard.”
She left the library without looking back.
She did not see him remain where he was, long after the door had closed, nor the expression that crossed his face as he picked up the volume of Byron she had left behind on her chair, turned it over in his hands, and slipped it into his pocket before finally, reluctantly, making his way to his own chambers.
Some things, indeed, are best left unwitnessed.
Chapter Nine
Nathaniel Stone, Marquess of Greystone, had a problem.
The problem had arrived at his household a fortnight ago, wearing a sensible dress and an expression of calm competence. The problem had grey eyes that saw far too much and a sharp tongue that cut through his pretences like a blade through silk. The problem smelled faintly of lavender and had an irritating habit of being right about everything.
The problem’s name was Miss Serena Collard, and Nathaniel had no idea what to do about her.
He had attempted, in the two weeks since her arrival, to maintain an appropriate distance. She was his employee, after all. A governess he had engaged in a moment of desperation, nothing more. It was entirely improper to notice the way her hair caught the light when she turned her head, or the way her voice softened when she spoke to Rosie, or the flicker of amusement in her eyes when she said something deliberately designed to provoke him.
He was not supposed to notice these things. He was certainly not supposed to lie awake at night thinking about them.
And yet.
Nathaniel sat at his desk, staring at the estate ledgers without truly seeing them, and told himself that what he felt wasnothing more than gratitude. Miss Collard had accomplished in a matter of weeks what four previous governesses had failed to achieve in two years. She had reached his nieces and nephew. She had begun, gently and patiently, to draw them out of their grief. She had made them laugh, a sound Nathaniel had begun to fear the house had forgotten.
Of course he was grateful. Any guardian in his position would be.
But gratitude did not account for the quickening of his pulse when she entered a room. Gratitude did not explain the tightness in his chest when she met his gaze. Gratitude did not explain why he had spent the better part of the previous evening lingering in the shadows of his own library, listening to her speak with Ella, simply because he could not bring himself to walk away.
She saw things. Understood them. She looked upon the disarray of his household—the grieving children, the absent guardian, the unspoken sorrow—and instead of judgement or pity, she offered clarity. Order. Sense.
It was disconcerting. Unsettling. Entirely unwelcome.
And he could not stop thinking of it.
A knock at the study door broke his reverie.
“Enter,” he called, straightening and summoning an expression of attention he did not quite feel.
The door opened, and Miss Collard stepped inside.
Of course it was Miss Collard.
“My lord.” She curtsied, precise and professional. “Mrs McConnor said you wished to see me?”
Had he? Nathaniel searched his memory and recalled, vaguely, having sent such a message earlier. He had intended to discuss something—lessons, perhaps, or schedules, or some other suitably dull subject that had since been eclipsed by far more inconvenient thoughts.
“Yes,” he said, grasping at the first plausible excuse. “I wished to ask about Samuel. He seemed… different at breakfast this morning. Lighter, somehow.”
It was true. Samuel had smiled—only briefly, but unmistakably. And Ella had been less guarded, less vigilant.
“He is making progress,” Miss Collard replied. “He is beginning to trust that I will not vanish without explanation. That allows him to set aside some of his defences. It will take time, but the signs are promising.”
“And Ella?” Nathaniel hesitated. “After last night, I was concerned she might be unsettled.”
A flicker of surprise crossed Miss Collard’s face, quickly smoothed away.
