She was right—it was lovely. Everything washed clean, the air fresh and sweet, the flowers bowed under the weight of raindrops that sparkled like diamonds in the morning light.
“How are you faring?” he asked.
“Much better, thank you. The worst has passed.” She glanced at him, something uncertain in her expression. “I... I wanted to thank you. For last night. For everything you did.”
“It was nothing.”
“It was not nothing.” Her voice was quiet but firm. “It was the furthest thing from nothing. You sat with Rosie through the storm. You brought me tea and hot water bottles. You fetched...” She paused, a faint blush colouring her cheeks. “You fetched things that no gentleman should ever have to concern himself with. And you did it without complaint, without making me feel embarrassed or ashamed.”
“There is nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed about.”
“Perhaps not. But most men would not see it that way.” She met his eyes, and there was something vulnerable in her gaze—something he had rarely seen from capable, composed Serena Collard. “You are not like most men, my lord.”
“I begin to suspect that is a compliment.”
“It is.” She smiled, and it was like watching the sun break through clouds. “It most decidedly is.”
They stood there in the garden, the rain-wet world glistening around them, and Nathaniel felt something shift between them. Some barrier weakening. Some distance closing.
“Last night,” he said slowly, choosing his words with care, “I told you something. I said that your well-being mattered to me more than I could explain. Do you remember?”
“I remember.”
“I was not being entirely honest.” He took a breath, steadying himself. “The truth is, I can explain it. I simply was not ready to.”
Serena stared at him, waiting.
“You matter to me, Miss Collard. Not just your well-being, butyou. Who you are. What you think. How you see the world.” The words were coming faster now, tumbling out before he could summon caution. “I have spent weeks trying to deny it, trying to convince myself that what I feel is merely gratitude or admiration or professional respect. But it is more than that. I know it is more than that.”
“My lord—”
“Nathaniel. Please. You called me Nathaniel last night.”
“That was...” She looked away, her cheeks flushing. “That was a lapse. An intimacy I should not have taken.”
“It was not a lapse. It was honest. And I find I prefer honesty to propriety.” He took a step closer, not touching her, but near enough to feel the warmth of her. “Serena. I am not asking for anything. I am not making demands. I am simply telling you the truth, for you deserve to know it. For I am tired of pretending.”
Serena was silent for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.
“And what is the truth, Nathaniel?”
The sound of his name on her lips—deliberate this time, a conscious choice—made his heart stutter.
“The truth is that I think about you constantly. That I look for you in every room I enter. That when you smile, somethingin my chest feels lighter, and when you are in pain, I want to fix it more than I have ever wanted to fix anything.” He paused, gathering courage for the final confession. “The truth is that I am falling in love with you, and I do not know how to stop.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Even the birds seemed to have stilled, as though the whole world were holding its breath.
Serena’s face had gone pale, her grey eyes wide and unreadable. For a terrible moment, Nathaniel thought he had made a dreadful mistake—that he had misread everything, that she did not return his feelings, that he had just destroyed the fragile connection between them.
Then she said, very quietly: “You cannot love me.”
“And yet I do.”
“I am a governess. You are a marquess. The distance between us—”
“Is a matter of social convention, not natural law.” Nathaniel held her gaze, willing her to see his sincerity. “My brother married outside his rank. Everyone said it was a mistake, but it was the best decision he ever made. He was happy, Serena. Truly, completely happy. And I find I want that for myself. I want a partner, not a suitable match. I want someone who sees me as I am, not as my title suggests I should be.”
“You could have anyone. Any woman in England would—”
