Chapter Seventeen
Serena stood at the window of the schoolroom, watching the children play in the garden below.
The grounds were strewn with the storm’s remnants—broken branches, scattered leaves, a handful of roof tiles that had come loose during the worst of the wind—but the gardeners were already at work, restoring order to the chaos.
Order. That was what she most needed to restore to her own thoughts, which had been in tumult since her conversation with Nathaniel in the garden the morning before.
I am falling in love with you, and I do not know how to stop.
The words echoed in her mind, as they had since he spoke them.
She had replayed the moment a hundred times, weighing every phrase, every pause, every look that had passed between them.
She had lain awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, trying to make sense of what had happened—and of what it might mean.
A marquess had declared his love for her. A marquess. For her—a governess with no family, no fortune, no connections of consequence.
It was the stuff of novels. The sort of romantic fancy that sensible women were meant to dismiss as dangerous folly, fit only to end in heartbreak or ruin.
And yet.
And yet he had said it. Had looked at her with those clear grey eyes, unguarded and sincere, and told her that she mattered to him—that he thought of her constantly, that he wanted her, not some suitable lady of his own rank, but her.
Serena pressed her forehead to the cool glass and allowed herself, just for a moment, to imagine it: herself as Lady Greystone, mistress of this house, guardian to the children she had come to love, wife to a man who saw her—truly saw her—in a way no one ever had before.
It was a beautiful dream. And a terrifying one.
For society would not approve. It would whisper and judge and condemn. A marquess marrying his governess was the stuff of scandal, the sort of mesalliance that ruined reputations and closed doors, that made life difficult for everyone involved.
She had told him she needed time—time to think, to understand, to weigh risk against reward. And he had given it to her. In the day since, he had been nothing but patient, restrained, respectful.
But time, Serena was beginning to realise, would not make the choice easier. The obstacles were real. The dangers were real. And no amount of reflection could change the essential improbability of their situation.
A governess did not marry a marquess.
Except sometimes, they did. Nathaniel himself had said as much—had spoken of his brother, who had chosen love over propriety and had been happy. Truly, completely happy, until tragedy intervened.
Was that not worth something? Was happiness not worth the risk of disapproval, of scandal, of whispered judgment in drawing rooms she would never be invited to enter?
Serena did not know. She truly did not.
What she did know was that she could not stand at this window any longer, indulging in dreams like a lovesick heroine in a novel. She had duties. Responsibilities. Three children who needed her attention, whatever might—or might not—be unfolding between their uncle and herself.
She turned from the window and set about preparing for the morning’s lessons, resolutely pushing thoughts of Nathaniel to the back of her mind.
They did not stay there, of course.
But she had to try.
***
Nathaniel was in his study when the butler arrived with the morning post.
He had been attempting to review the quarterly accounts—attempting being the operative word, as his thoughts repeatedly strayed to a certain grey-eyed governess and the conversation they had shared in the garden—and the interruption was almost welcome.
“The post, my lord,” Morrison said, laying a neat stack of letters upon the desk.
“Thank you, Morrison.”
When the butler withdrew, Nathaniel turned to the correspondence. Most of it was unremarkable: invitations he would decline, routine legal matters, a note from an old university acquaintance. He sorted through it methodically, setting aside what required attention.
Then his hand stilled.
The final letter bore a Bath postmark. The handwriting was feminine, precise—and achingly familiar. He had seen it before, years ago, on letters addressed to Edward.
Lady Elspeth Crane.
Edward’s sister-in-law. The woman who had wanted guardianship of the children and had been denied it by the terms of his brother’s will.
Nathaniel stared at the letter for a long moment, a cold sensation settling in his chest. Elspeth had not written to him since the funeral, when she had made her displeasure at the guardianship arrangements abundantly clear.
Her silence in the intervening two years had been a relief—a sign, he had assumed, that she had accepted the situation and moved on with her life.
Apparently, he had assumed wrong.
He broke the seal and unfolded the letter, his eyes scanning the elegant script.