A marquess fetching cloths for his governess. Standing in her bedroom in the middle of the night, building fires and delivering hot water bottles and tea. Breaking every rule of propriety, every social convention, every expectation of his rank and position.
And feeling, for the first time in years, as though he were exactly where he was supposed to be.
He pushed away from the wall and went to find the linen closet.
***
The rest of the night passed in a strange, suspended state.
Nathaniel moved between Rosie’s room and Miss Collard’s door, keeping vigil over both, unable to rest despite the exhaustion that tugged at his bones. He brought Miss Collard the cloths he had found, leaving them discreetly outside her door with a soft knock. He refreshed the hot water in her bottle twice more, carrying it to the kitchen and back without complaint.
Each time he knocked on her door, she opened it a little wider. Each time, they exchanged a few words, their conversation growing more natural, less stilted.
At some point past midnight, she stopped calling him “my lord.”
“You should sleep,” she said, the fourth or fifth time he appeared at her door. “You look exhausted.”
“I am well.”
“You are lying. Your eyes are half-closed, and you nearly walked into the doorframe just now.”
“I am conserving energy by keeping my eyes at partial capacity.”
“That is not a thing.”
“I am a marquess. I can make it a thing.”
She laughed—that small, surprised laugh that made his chest warm—and for a moment, despite the storm and the pain and the impropriety of the situation, Nathaniel felt something very close to happiness.
“Go and sleep,” she said, more gently this time. “I am feeling much better. The tea helped, and the warmth, and...” She paused, as though uncertain how to complete the sentence. “All of it. Everything you’ve done. It helped.”
“You are certain you do not need anything else?”
“I am certain. And you have been more than kind. More than anyone could have expected.”
Nathaniel wanted to tell her that kindness had nothing to do with it. That he was not being kind—he was being selfish, really, because being near her, being useful to her, was one of the very few things that had felt meaningful in longer than he could remember.
But that was too much to say. Too much to reveal.
“I shall be in Rosie’s room if you need me,” he said instead. “Do not hesitate to call.”
“I won’t.” She paused, then added, so quietly he almost missed it: “Goodnight, Nathaniel.”
His breath caught.
She had never called him by his given name before; she had always maintained that careful, proper distance between them.
He knew he should correct her; he should remind her of the boundaries that existed between them, the propriety they were supposed to maintain.
Instead, he said: “Goodnight, Serena.”
Her name felt strange and wonderful on his tongue.
She smiled at him—a real smile, tired but warm—and closed the door.
Nathaniel stood in the corridor for a long moment, listening to the storm, feeling something shift and settle in his chest.
Serena.
