Chapter Eleven
Nathaniel Stone, Marquess of Greystone, was not a man given to self-deception.
He had spent the greater part of his youth deceiving others—charming his way out of scrapes, talking himself into and out of various entanglements, presenting to the world a facade of careless ease that bore little resemblance to what lay beneath.
But with himself, he had always been honest. He had known precisely what he was: a second son with no clear purpose, a charming idler with no particular ambition, a man who drifted through life accepting its pleasures and avoiding anything that hinted at responsibility.
Then Edward had died, and Nathaniel had been required to become someone else entirely.
It had not been a comfortable transformation.
He had fumbled and failed and retreated from his own inadequacy, hiding in his study and his ledgers because those, at least, were problems he could master.
Numbers behaved predictably. Estate accounts did not look at him with grieving eyes, nor ask questions to which he had no answers.
Yet lately—within the three weeks since Miss Serena Collard’s arrival at Greystone Hall—he had found himself emerging from that self-imposed exile.
He took meals with the children now. He walked in the gardens.
He attended the village fair. He had even laughed, on occasion.
The walls he had constructed around himself were beginning to show fractures, and through those narrow breaks, light was creeping in.
It was profoundly inconvenient.
For with the light came other things. Sensations he had neither invited nor desired.
An awareness of Miss Collard that exceeded what was proper for an employer to feel toward his wards’ governess.
He noticed details—the inclination of her head when she considered a question, the quick warmth of her smile when Rosie said something earnest, the cool, thoughtful grey of her eyes when she spoke seriously.
He noticed far too much.
And he was beginning to suspect that this attention constituted a problem.
Nathaniel stood at the window of his study, observing the scene unfolding in the garden below.
Miss Collard sat with all three children, presiding over what appeared to be a lesson involving leaves and flowers.
Samuel bent over his sketchbook with a concentration Nathaniel had not witnessed in months.
Ella was speaking animatedly, her hands moving as she questioned and argued.
Rosie hovered close, solemnly presenting dandelions, each received with the same careful courtesy one might afford a valuable gift.
It was, objectively, a pleasing tableau—the sort of sight Nathaniel had once feared he would never see at Greystone Hall.
And Miss Collard stood at its centre, as she seemed to stand at the centre of everything now.
He watched her laugh at something Ella said—watched how her expression softened and brightened—and felt something tighten uncomfortably in his chest.
Absurd. He was a grown man, a marquess, a person of consequence. He had no business lingering at windows, indulging in foolish sentiment over a governess like some overwrought youth in a circulating library novel.
And yet, there he stood.
With a low sound of irritation, Nathaniel turned from the window and crossed to his desk. There was work to be done—correspondence to answer, accounts to examine, responsibilities demanding attention. He did not have the leisure to stand about indulging distraction.
And yet he had done little else for days.
The morning post lay in a neat stack upon the desk. He sorted through it methodically: a letter from his solicitor, an invitation he would decline, correspondence from a distant cousin—and then he paused.
The final envelope was addressed to Miss Serena Collard, care of Greystone Hall. The hand was unmistakably masculine—confident, educated. There was no return address, though the postmark was London.
Nathaniel studied the letter longer than was necessary.
It was none of his concern who corresponded with Miss Collard.
She was entitled to private letters, to acquaintances beyond this household, to a life that did not revolve around Greystone Hall.
That she should receive post from London was entirely unremarkable and certainly did not justify the unpleasant constriction now forming in his chest.
He set the letter aside—carefully, as though it might bite—and resolved to have it delivered with the rest of the household correspondence.
He did not speculate as to its author.
He did not imagine scenarios involving Miss Collard and unknown gentlemen in London.
And he certainly did not spend the next quarter-hour staring at the envelope instead of attending to his own letters, his thoughts straying into increasingly unwelcome conjecture.
A former employer, perhaps. That was the most sensible explanation. Miss Collard had served in other households; continued correspondence would be natural.
Or perhaps—a former suitor.
The thought arrived unbidden and unwelcome, lodging itself in Nathaniel’s mind like a splinter.
Miss Collard was four-and-twenty. She was handsome, intelligent, and possessed of a wit that cut through pretension with surgical precision.
It was inevitable that men would have noticed her. That some might have pursued her.
The idea was intolerable.
Nathaniel pushed back from his desk and stood abruptly, pacing to the window and back again. This was madness. He was jealous—actually jealous—of a letter. A letter he had not read, from a correspondent he could not identify, regarding matters that were absolutely none of his concern.
He needed to get hold of himself.
He needed to remember who he was, and who she was, and the strict boundaries that governed such distinctions.
He must cease thinking of Miss Serena Collard altogether.
A knock at the door interrupted him.
“Enter,” he said, perhaps more sharply than required.
His butler appeared. “My lord, Mr Andrew Fairfax has called. He wishes to speak with you on parish business.”
Fairfax—the vicar’s son, recently returned from Oxford. Nathaniel had met him once or twice: amiable, well-mannered, possessed of the easy confidence of a young man who had not yet been tested by life.
“Show him in,” Nathaniel said, grateful for the diversion.
Moments later, Fairfax entered. He was fair-haired, open-faced, and comfortably assured—neither arrogant nor diffident.
The sort of man who inspired confidence.
The sort of man, Nathaniel thought with sudden irritation, who would make an excellent husband for a sensible young woman seeking stability.
He dismissed the thought at once.
“Mr Fairfax,” he said, indicating a chair. “What brings you to Greystone Hall?”
“Thank you, my lord.” Fairfax settled into the offered chair with easy grace. “My father asked me to call regarding the harvest festival. As you know, the parish relies heavily on Greystone’s support for the event, and he wanted to confirm the arrangements.”
They spoke for several minutes of practicalities—the donation of goods, the use of the village green, the minor logistics such occasions required. It was necessary business, but uninspiring, and Nathaniel found his attention drifting despite himself.
His gaze strayed to the window, to the garden beyond, where Miss Collard was still engaged with the children. From this angle he could see her profile—the elegant line of her neck, the inclination of her head as she bent to examine whatever treasure Rosie now held aloft.
“—most grateful for your generosity, my lord.”
Nathaniel jerked his attention back to his visitor. “Of course. The parish may always depend on Greystone’s support.”
“Excellent.” Fairfax smiled, open and unguarded. “My father will be much obliged. He speaks highly of your family’s longstanding commitment to the community.”
“We do what we can.”
A pause followed—the natural conclusion of the call, the moment when Fairfax ought to take his leave and allow Nathaniel to return to his correspondence.
Instead, Fairfax’s attention followed the same path Nathaniel’s had taken moments before.
“I see your nieces and nephew are enjoying the fine weather,” he observed. “And is that—pray forgive me, I do not believe we have been introduced—the new governess of whom I have heard so much?”
Nathaniel’s jaw tightened. “Miss Collard. Yes.”
“The village has been quite abuzz with talk of her,” Fairfax continued, apparently oblivious to Nathaniel’s sudden tension. “They say she’s worked wonders with the children. That young Samuel has started speaking again, and that Miss Ella is quite transformed.”
“The village gossips about many things.”
“Indeed.” Fairfax laughed. “But in this instance, the reports seem favourable. My father met her at church last Sunday and was much impressed. He described her as a young woman of uncommon intelligence.”
Nathaniel made a noncommittal sound and trusted that it would suffice.
It did not.
“I confess I did not have the opportunity to speak with her myself,” Fairfax went on, his gaze still fixed on the garden. “She departed with the children before the usual exchanges. I had wondered—if it were not inconvenient—whether I might be introduced on some future occasion?”
The request was entirely proper. Entirely in keeping with the customs of the county, where new arrivals were expected to be welcomed and acknowledged.
And yet something dark and unreasonable tightened in Nathaniel’s chest.
“Miss Collard is engaged with the children’s instruction,” he replied, his tone carefully neutral. “I would not wish to interrupt.”
“Of course. Quite right.” Fairfax nodded readily. “Another time, then. One can hardly avoid acquaintance forever in a parish of this size.”
It was meant lightly, a harmless pleasantry. Yet Nathaniel heard in it something else—interest, intention, the unmistakable note of attention a young man pays when considering a woman he wishes to know better.