Because I cannot bear the thought of you spending time with another man. Because I am consumed with jealousy over a perfectly pleasant vicar’s son who has done nothing wrong except notice how extraordinary you are. Because I want to be the one who shows you libraries and finds excuses to spend time in your company.
“I thought him overly forward,” he said instead. “You have been here scarcely a month. There is no need for haste in forming social attachments.”
“Haste,” she repeated thoughtfully. “He invited me to visit a parish library in the company of his mother, my lord. It was hardly a proposal of marriage.”
The wordmarriagehit Nathaniel like a blow. He turned away, moving to the window so she would not see the effect her words had produced.
“Nevertheless,” he said, his voice tight. “I would prefer you to attend to your duties here rather than cultivating... outside attachments.”
Another silence. When Miss Collard spoke again, her voice was softer, more uncertain.
“My lord, have I done something to displease you? If my work has been unsatisfactory in some way—”
“On the contrary.” His voice came sharper than intended. “Your conduct has been exemplary.”
“Then what is the difficulty?”
Nathaniel closed his eyes, fighting for control. He could feel her gaze on his back, could sense her confusion and concern, and it took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to turn around and tell her the truth.
“There is none,” he said at last. “I spoke out of turn. You are, of course, free to accept whatever invitations you wish. I should not have interfered.”
He heard her take a breath, as though she were about to say something else. Then silence, followed by the rustle of fabric as she curtsied.
“Thank you, my lord. I shall return to the children now, if I may be excused.”
“Of course.”
She left.
Nathaniel remained at the window, gazing into the garden without truly seeing it.
He had managed that exceedingly ill. He had disclosed too much and explained too little; had been discourteous to a perfectly blameless young man and unduly authoritative toward a woman who merited neither censure nor control. In short, hehad behaved like a jealous fool—which, regrettably, he was—but that knowledge did nothing to excuse the conduct itself.
He must regain command of himself. He must remember that Miss Collard was his employee, not his possession; that she was entitled to accept the attentions of suitable gentlemen who might offer her a future he could not.
He must cease this absurd, ruinous attachment.
Yet even as the thought formed, he recognised its futility. He did care. He cared deeply—unwisely, hopelessly, and in defiance of every sensible consideration. And no measure of logic or self-reproach was likely to alter that truth.
***
The afternoon brought no relief from Nathaniel’s turbulent thoughts.
He attempted to work, but the figures in his ledgers blurred and swam, dissolving into images of Miss Collard laughing with Andrew Fairfax; Miss Collard calling at the vicarage; Miss Collard accepting the sort of respectable, sensible courtship a governess might reasonably hope for.
By three o’clock, he had abandoned all pretence of productivity and was pacing his study like a caged animal.
The letter continued to haunt him. Who had written to her? What news had it carried? Why had she blushed upon reading it, and why had she seemed so distracted afterwards?
And now there was Fairfax to consider as well. The vicar’s son, with his agreeable manners, his parish library, and his evident admiration. He would call again—Nathaniel was certain of it. He would contrive opportunities to visit, to engage Miss Collard in conversation, to demonstrate his suitability as a prospective husband.
And what could Nathaniel do to prevent it? Nothing. Precisely nothing. He had no claim upon Miss Collard and no right—none whatsoever—to interfere in her private affairs.
The injustice of it burned sharply in his chest.
A knock at the study door cut short his pacing.
“Enter,” he called, expecting the butler with some piece of household business.
