“Miss Ella is quite well. We had a useful conversation, and I believe she feels more at ease asking questions now.”
“Yes,” Nathaniel said quietly. “I thought as much.” He paused. “Miss Collard, I owe you an apology.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Whatever for, my lord?”
“For eavesdropping last night. It was ungentlemanly.” He met her gaze. “I ought to have made my presence known at once. I can offer no defence beyond admitting that I was… engaged by what I heard. Your manner of addressing the matter was not what I had anticipated.”
“And what had you anticipated, my lord?”
“I am not entirely certain.” Nathaniel found himself smiling slightly despite himself. “Something more conventional, perhaps. More... governmental.”
“‘Governessial’is not a word, my lord.”
“I am a marquess. I can invent words if I wish.”
There—the faintest flicker of amusement in her eyes, quickly suppressed. Nathaniel felt an absurd surge of triumph, as though he had won some sort of contest.
“If you say so, my lord.” Her voice was carefully neutral, but he thought he detected a hint of warmth beneath the professional composure. “Was there anything else you wished to discuss?”
There were a thousand things Nathaniel wished to discuss. He wished to ask her about her past, about the experiences that had given her such insight into grief and loss. He wished to knowwhat she thought about in the quiet hours of the evening, when she sat alone in his library with her books and her thoughts. He wished to understand how she had become the person she was—so competent, so contained, so utterly unlike anyone he had ever met.
Instead, he said: “No. That will be all, Miss Collard. Thank you for your time.”
She curtsied and turned to leave. Nathaniel watched her go, noting the way she moved—graceful but unpretentious, without the affected elegance of the society women he had known in his former life.
“Miss Collard.”
She paused at the door, turning back. “Yes, my lord?”
“The children have been asking about the village fair next week.” Nathaniel cleared his throat, unsure why he was suddenly nervous. “I thought perhaps we might all go together. As an outing of sorts.”
Something shifted in her expression—surprise, perhaps, or pleasure. “That sounds like a lovely idea, my lord. The children would enjoy it immensely.”
“And you, Miss Collard? Would you enjoy it?”
The question was too personal. He knew it even as the words left his mouth. A marquess did not ask his governess whether she would enjoy a village fair. A marquess issued instructions and expected them to be followed.
But Miss Collard did not seem offended. She simply looked at him with those clear grey eyes, and he could have sworn he saw something warm flickering in their depths.
“I believe I would, my lord,” she said quietly. “Thank you for the invitation.”
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
Nathaniel sat motionless for a long moment, staring at the closed door, feeling as though something significant had just happened without his quite understanding what.
Then he shook his head, returned his attention to his ledgers, and resolved—for the hundredth time that week—to stop thinking about Miss Serena Collard.
The resolution, like all its predecessors, proved remarkably short-lived.
***
The days that followed settled into a pattern that Serena found both comforting and dangerous.
Comforting, because the children were thriving. Ella had begun bringing her questions to Serena rather than seeking answers in forbidden novels—questions about everything from the proper mode of address for a duchess to the mechanics of how babies were made. Serena had answered the latter with as much frankness as she deemed appropriate, and Ella had declared the whole business“rather disgusting, though I suppose it clarifies a great many things.”Samuel was speakingmore, smiling occasionally, and had even laughed once—a startled, disbelieving sound that caused everyone in the room to pause in astonishment. And Rosie had begun calling her “Miss Serena” instead of “Miss Collard,” a small shift that felt oddly significant, as though some quiet boundary had been crossed.
Dangerous, because Lord Greystone seemed to be everywhere.
Where once he had confined himself to his study, emerging only when duty demanded it, he now appeared at unexpected moments throughout the day. He joined them at breakfast, asked the children about their lessons, and listened—truly listened—to their answers. He strolled through the garden during their afternoon walks, admiring Rosie’s carefully chosen flowers or examining the insects Samuel collected with such solemn pride. At times, he lingered in doorways, observing Serena at her work with an expression she could not quite decipher.
