“Of what?”
“That you are elsewhere.”
“I am where I must be.”
“I do not dispute that.”
He met her gaze.
“She feels the absence,” Mrs. Hill said.
Absence did not mean indifference. He wanted to say it aloud. Instead, he simply nodded once and moved past her. In the corridor outside Margaret’s chamber, he paused.
The door was closed, but light glowed faintly beneath it. He raised his hand to knock, then lowered it.
Not yet, he told himself. Not until this was secure. He would finish what was necessary, then he would repair what distance had frayed.
For now, he turned away.
Nathaniel had not kept his distance because he felt nothing. He kept it because he felt too much.
It would have been simpler if Margaret had faltered in her role, if she had complained, if she had demanded attention or filled the house with visible dissatisfaction.
Instead, she moved through Ravensmere with quiet steadiness. He saw it even when he was not meant to. He saw the way the staff straightened when she entered a room, the way she paused to listen before issuing instruction.
One afternoon, returning earlier than expected, he stopped in the corridor outside the drawing room. Her voice drifted through the half-open door.
“We will not reduce their rations,” she was saying calmly. “If the harvest was thin, then we adjust the distribution. We can not punish them for weather.”
A tenant’s voice followed, hesitant.
“Your Grace, it is too generous.”
“It is sensible,” she replied. “Cold soil yields little.”
Nathaniel remained still. She had never been raised for this weight, yet she carried it perfectly. He stepped away before she could see him. It was easier to watch from a distance.
Later that evening, he observed her at dinner across the long table. Candlelight caught in her hair. She asked measured questions about accounts, about boundary repairs, about mill output.
“You have handled the west cottages efficiently,” he said at the close of the meal.
“Thank you,” she replied.
That was all. He excused himself before the silence deepened. In his study, he pressed his fingers against his eyes briefly. He was not indifferent. He was careful.
The more he saw her settle into the role of duchess with that unassuming grace, however, the more intolerable it became to imagine dragging scandal into her life.
One whisper about his sister. One careless connection between properties. One curious gentleman with too much time and not enough restraint.
Margaret would be drawn into it. He would not allow that, so he chose silence. If he kept the lines clean, if he preserved the appearance of practicality, then no one would look too closely.
A practical marriage invited little curiosity. A passionate one invited scrutiny. He stood at the window long after the candles burned low. Longing had no place there, he told himself.
He had been reckless once before, in smaller ways. He would not be reckless now when the stakes were greater.
Still, his thoughts betrayed him. He found himself recalling the way her brow furrowed when she studied accounts. The way her voice softened when speaking to the younger maids. The way she had stood in his study and asked him directly whether he was avoiding her.
One evening, passing her chamber, he heard faint movement inside– pages turning, perhaps. He paused outside the door without intending to.
