And he kept looking at her.
Serena told herself she imagined it. He was merely attentive now, as a guardian ought to be. If his gaze rested on her more often than seemed strictly necessary, it was only because she was almost always with the children. If his voice softened when he addressed her, it was no more than the natural result of an increasingly cordial professional acquaintance.
There was nothing more to it.
There could be nothing more to it.
And yet.
When their eyes met across the breakfast table, Serena felt a flutter in her chest that had no place there. When his hand brushed hers as he passed her a book he thought she might enjoy, the warmth lingered far longer than it ought. When he laughed at something Ella said—a genuine, unguarded laugh—Serena felt her heart turn over in a way she did not care to examine.
This was not meant to happen. She had rules. She had walls. She had spent years constructing a careful armour against precisely this sort of entanglement.
But Lord Greystone—Nathaniel, she found herself thinking, though she would never dare say the name aloud—slipped past her defences without effort. He was grieving, uncertain, striving so earnestly to be better, and Serena wanted to help him. To see him heal. To watch him become the guardian his nieces and nephew deserved.
And somewhere along the way, wanting to help him had become perilously entwined with wantinghim, and Serena could not see where one ended and the other began.
She was sitting in the garden one afternoon, watching Rosie chase butterflies while Samuel sketched the oak tree that had caused such recent controversy, when a shadow fell across her book.
“Miss Collard. May I join you?”
Serena looked up. Lord Greystone stood before her, outlined by the afternoon sun. He had removed his coat—an unusual informality for him—and his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms stronger than she would have expected.
She looked away quickly, her cheeks warming.
“Of course, my lord.”
He took a seat beside her, leaving a scrupulously proper distance. Near enough that she caught the familiar scent of sandalwood and something darker beneath it, yet not so near as to invite comment.
“What are you reading?” he asked.
“Milton. Paradise Lost.”
“Ah. Light afternoon entertainment, then.”
Serena felt her lips twitch despite herself. “I find Milton’s exploration of free will and moral responsibility quite engaging, actually. Though I confess his fondness for prolonged descriptions of celestial warfare does try my patience.”
“I always found the devil the more interesting figure,” Lord Greystone said. “Far more vivid than all the virtuous angels combined.”
“That is rather Milton’s design,” Serena said. “To show how easily evil can captivate—how charm and rhetoric may seduce even when they lead to ruin.”
“And you find that compelling?” he asked. “The allure of destruction?”
She turned to him then. He was watching her intently, as though the answer mattered more than it ought.
“I find all of human nature compelling,” she said. “Including the darker impulses. Perhaps especially those. We do ourselves no favours by pretending temptation does not exist. Virtue is not effortless, my lord. It requires struggle.”
“And if resistance becomes impossible?”
Her pulse quickened. They were no longer speaking of Milton; of that she was certain.
“Then one must consider why,” she said carefully. “Whether the desire is truly forbidden, or merely inconvenient. Whether the rules one obeys still serve their purpose. Whether the cost of restraint is worth the price.”
He was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “You have a remarkable talent for complicating matters.”
“On the contrary,” Serena replied. “I merely recognise that matters which appear simple rarely are.”
He laughed softly. “You are the most exasperating woman I have ever met.”
