The words were meant kindly, but they struck with unexpected force.Part of this family.If only it were that simple—if such a place could be claimed openly, without censure, without risk, without threatening everything they were trying to protect.
But it could not. Not now. Perhaps not ever.
“Thank you, Ella,” Serena said at last, because she could find no safer response. “That means more than you can know.”
***
The days leading up to the Cranes’ arrival passed in a blur of preparation.
Nathaniel threw himself into the work with a focus that bordered on obsession, overseeing every detail of the household’s readiness. He met with Mrs McConnor to review the state of the guest chambers. He consulted Morrison about the menu for the welcoming dinner. He walked through every room Elspeth might conceivably enter, noting anything that could invite criticism and ordering it amended.
The staff, sensing the gravity of the occasion, responded with admirable efficiency. Floors were polished until they gleamed. Windows were scrubbed until they sparkled. Every piece of silver in the house was brought out and burnished until it shone like glass.
And through it all, Nathaniel maintained a scrupulous distance from Serena.
It was torture. Absolute, exquisite torture.
He saw her every day—at meals, in the corridors, occasionally in the schoolroom when he checked on the children’s progress. But every interaction was carefully restrained, every exchange bounded by professional courtesy. He called herMiss Collard. She called himmy lord. The warmth that had characterised their recent exchanges was entirely absent, replaced by a formal politeness that felt like a mockery of everything they had shared.
He knew it was necessary. He knew it was right. But that did not make it hurt any less.
At night, alone in his chambers, Nathaniel allowed himself what he denied himself by day. The longing for her presence, for her voice, for the quiet certainty of her nearness. The fear of what the Cranes’ visit might yet bring. The terrible doubt of whether he was strong enough to shield his family from what threatened them.
And beneath it all lay the constant, unrelenting awareness that the woman he loved was somewhere in this house—thinking of him as he thought of her—separated by nothing more than propriety and fear.
He wondered if she slept. Wondered if she lay awake as he did, staring into the darkness, replaying every word they had spoken, mourning what they had been forced to set aside.
He hoped she was not suffering as he was.
He suspected she was.
Three days before the Cranes were due to arrive, Nathaniel found himself in the library late at night, sleep eluding him entirely. He had come there without quite deciding to—drawn by memory more than intention. By the image of Serena seated by the window, a book in her hands, the firelight catching in her hair.
She was not there now, of course. She was in her room, observing the distance they had agreed upon. Yet her presence lingered—in the books she had been reading, in the faint trace of lavender that still clung to the air.
He crossed to the chair she favoured and lowered himself into it, feeling faintly ridiculous, like a man paying homage to an empty shrine.
This was absurd. He was a marquess, a man of two-and-thirty, reduced to brooding over a chair because the woman he loved had once occupied it.
But the chair was comfortable. It smelled faintly of her. And for a moment—just a moment—he allowed himself the illusion that she was there with him. That they sat together in companionable silence. That the future held something other than scandal, vigilance, and impossible restraint.
He closed his eyes and imagined it.
A different world. One in which social station held no power. In which a governess might marry a marquess without consequence. In which love was not something to be concealed, but something to be claimed.
In that world, Serena was his wife. She sat beside him in this library each evening, disputing books and ideas, laughing softly at his dry remarks. She slept in his bed, woke in his arms, greeted each morning with a smile meant for no one else.
In that world, the children called herMother—not by blood, but by devotion. They were a family in truth, bound by affection rather than obligation.
In that world, Lady Crane’s disapproval meant nothing. Society’s whispers meant nothing. The only thing that mattered was that they were together—and happy.
It was a beautiful dream.
And it was not the world he inhabited.
He opened his eyes, dispelling the fantasy, and found that he was not alone.
Serena stood in the doorway.
