Chapter Eight #2
“I see no need,” Serena said. “Though I would suggest that you bring such questions to me in future.”
“I will.” Ella hesitated. “Miss Collard?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For not being like the others.”
Serena smiled lightly. “I do not shout.”
Ella smiled in return. “No. You do not.”
She slipped from the library, leaving Serena alone with the fire and the book in her hands.
The Sins of Lady Sinclair.
Serena shook her head, torn between amusement and resignation. Of all the volumes in this vast library, it was inevitable that Ella would discover the one most likely to give her the worst possible impression of relations between men and women.
***
Serena crossed to the far corner of the library, searching for the place where the book had presumably been concealed. She would return it to its shelf, and that would be the end of the matter.
She had just lifted her hand to slide the volume into place when a voice spoke from the shadows behind her.
“One forgets, perhaps, how much children are left to puzzle out on their own.”
Serena turned sharply, her heart giving an unwelcome leap.
Lord Greystone stood some distance away, leaning against one of the bookcases, his arms folded across his chest. He was still in his evening attire, though his coat had been discarded and his cravat hung loose at his throat.
In the subdued light of the library, with firelight and shadow softening the lines of his face, he appeared less formal than usual and more.
.. something else. Something darker. More compelling.
More dangerous.
“My lord,” Serena said, managing steadiness by force of habit. “I did not realise you were present.”
“So it would seem.” He straightened and moved a step closer. “I came in search of a book and found myself detained by something rather more instructive.”
Her colour rose. “How long have you been listening?”
“Long enough.” His gaze held hers. “Long enough to hear you speak to my niece with honesty rather than alarm. Long enough to hear you tell her that respect is not optional, and that true feeling is not a thing of haste.”
He paused, then added, more quietly, “Long enough to hear you say that you do not shout.”
Serena found herself momentarily without speech.
“I ought to have announced myself,” he continued. “It was discourteous not to do so. Yet I found I did not wish to interrupt.”
“Why?”
The word escaped her before she could consider it.
He regarded her for a moment. “Because I wished to see how you would proceed.” His expression darkened slightly. “The former governesses would have responded very differently.”
“They would,” Serena agreed softly.
“They would have been scandalised. They would have demanded punishment, restrictions, locked doors.” His mouth tightened. “They would have brought the matter to me as a failing to be corrected.”
“And would you have permitted it?”
He was silent, then shook his head. “I do not think so. But I might not have known how to prevent it. I might have done what I have done too often these past years.” He broke off, rubbing a hand across his brow. “Withdrawn.”
Serena felt the shift then, not of attraction, but of understanding.
“You judge yourself too harshly, my lord.”
“Do I?” His laugh was brief and without mirth. “I have avoided much that required courage. That is not harshness. It is fact.”
“It is an incomplete one,” Serena said gently. “You have also borne responsibility that would have overwhelmed many. You have kept this household intact, provided for its people, and ensured the children’s welfare even while struggling with your own loss. That, too, deserves acknowledgement.”
He studied her with an expression that she could not interpret—surprise, perhaps, or confusion, or something else entirely.
“You are an unusual woman, Miss Collard.”
“So I am told,” she replied lightly. “Not always to my advantage.”
“I meant it as praise.”
She inclined her head, feeling heat rise unbidden to her cheeks.
“It grows late,” she said. “I ought to retire.”
“Yes.” He made no move to detain her. “But before you do—what you said to Ella, about feeling and trust and the necessity of time. Do you truly believe that?”
“I do,” Serena answered carefully. “Anything lasting requires patience. Without it, people mistake intensity for depth, and suffer for the error.”
He nodded, thoughtful. “I suspected as much.”
When she turned to go, she hesitated. “My lord—if what you overheard this evening seemed an overreach, I regret it.”
“You need not.” His voice was quieter now. “You treated her with dignity. I should like her to grow accustomed to that.”
Serena met his gaze, something steadying within her.
“Good evening, my lord.”
“Good evening, Miss Collard.”
She left the library without looking back.
She did not see him remain where he was, long after the door had closed, nor the expression that crossed his face as he picked up the volume of Byron she had left behind on her chair, turned it over in his hands, and slipped it into his pocket before finally, reluctantly, making his way to his own chambers.
Some things, indeed, are best left unwitnessed.