Fairfax rose and bowed—unnecessarily well, Nathaniel noted sourly.
“Miss Collard. I have heard a great deal about you. The village speaks of little else but the change you have brought to Greystone Hall.”
Her cheeks coloured faintly—that restrained, infuriating blush Nathaniel now had to watch another man provoke.
“The village is kind to exaggerate,” she said. “I have only done my duty.”
“From all accounts, you have done considerably more. My father was most impressed when he met you at church. He said you asked several perceptive questions regarding his sermon.”
“The Reverend Fairfax was generous. His reflections on the parable of the talents were particularly thought-provoking.”
“He would be pleased to hear it. Sermons are his passion—he labours over them for hours, hoping they may make some small difference.”
Nathaniel stood by the window, observing the exchange with what he could only describe as controlled restraint. They were, predictably, getting on. Miss Collard always did. But there was something in Fairfax’s manner—the slight forward inclination, the attentive gaze—that made Nathaniel’s temper fray.
“I wondered, Miss Collard,” Fairfax continued, “whether you might care to see the parish library. It is modest, but there areseveral volumes that might appeal to a mind of your evident curiosity. My father would be happy to lend them.”
Her expression brightened. “That is very generous, Mr Fairfax. I have been enjoying Lord Greystone’s library, but new reading is always welcome.”
“Then perhaps you might call at the vicarage some afternoon?” Fairfax said, his smile widening. “I could show you the collection myself, and my mother would be delighted to make your acquaintance.”
A perfectly respectable invitation. Entirely proper.
And intolerable.
“That sounds—” Miss Collard began.
“I’m afraid Miss Collard’s time is very fully engaged,” Nathaniel interjected, his tone firmer than intended.
Both turned to him in surprise.
“The children’s lessons require her close attention,” he continued. “I would not wish her to overtax herself with unnecessary engagements.”
“My lord,” Miss Collard began, puzzled, “I am quite certain I could manage—”
“They have grown particularly reliant upon your presence.” Nathaniel held her gaze, communicating what he couldnot articulate. “Their progress must not be jeopardised by distraction.”
A silence settled. Fairfax’s confidence faltered. Miss Collard’s expression became carefully neutral.
“Of course,” she said at last. “The children must come first.”
“Indeed.” Nathaniel turned to Fairfax. “I trust you understand, Mr Fairfax. My nieces and nephew are my foremost concern.”
“Entirely, my lord.” Fairfax rose, recognising dismissal with admirable grace. “Perhaps another time.”
“Perhaps.”
The word hung in the air, offering nothing.
Fairfax bowed and departed, leaving the room charged with unspoken tension.
Miss Collard broke it first. “My lord, may I speak plainly?”
“You always do.”
She inhaled, meeting his eyes with composed directness. “Was there a particular reason you discouraged Mr Fairfax’s invitation? Beyond your concern for the children, which I confess seemed rather pointed in the moment.”
Nathaniel’s jaw tightened. He knew what she was asking. But he could not answer honestly. He could not say what was burning in his chest.
