Chapter 23
Nathaniel read the letter twice, then a third time, his jaw tightening with each pass.
Troubling reports. A household in disarray. A guardian retreated from his responsibilities.
The words were carefully chosen—polite on the surface, but laden with accusation beneath. Elspeth Crane was not coming to visit. She was coming to inspect. To judge. To gather evidence for... what?
He did not want to think about what.
But he knew, with a cold certainty that settled in his stomach like a stone, that this visit was not innocent.
Elspeth had never accepted his guardianship.
She had argued against it at the reading of the will, had written letters to Edward’s solicitor challenging the decision, had made it clear that she believed the children belonged with family—with her—rather than with a bachelor uncle who had shown no particular aptitude for childcare.
She had been overruled. The will had been clear, the legal situation unambiguous. But Elspeth was not the sort of woman who accepted defeat gracefully.
And now she was coming.
Nathaniel set the letter down and pressed his hands flat against the desk, willing himself to think clearly.
Thursday next. That gave him—he calculated quickly—five days to prepare.
Five days to ensure that the household was in perfect order, that the children were on their best behaviour, that every aspect of Greystone Hall reflected the competent, caring guardianship he had been trying so hard to provide.
Five days to conceal any sign of the feelings he had so recently confessed to his children’s governess.
The thought struck him like a blow.
Serena. Sweet mercy, Serena.
If Elspeth was seeking evidence of impropriety, of unfitness, of anything that might bolster a challenge to his guardianship, the situation with Serena was precisely the sort of ammunition she would seize upon.
A young and attractive governess. A bachelor guardian.
Late-night visits to her bedchamber during a storm.
Nothing had occurred. Nothing improper, nothing that crossed the strict bounds of propriety—at least not in any tangible sense.
But the feeling was there. The awareness.
The connection. And if Elspeth possessed eyes in her head, she would see it: the way Nathaniel looked at Serena, the way Serena looked back, the charged silence that seemed to gather whenever they shared a room.
She would see it—and she would use it.
Nathaniel pushed back from his desk and began to pace, his thoughts racing through contingencies and half-formed plans. He needed to warn Serena. Needed to explain the situation, the danger, the absolute necessity of unimpeachable propriety during the Cranes’ visit. Needed to—
No. That was not enough.
He needed to do more than warn her. He needed to distance himself from her entirely, at least for as long as the Cranes remained.
To treat her as nothing more than an employee.
To confine every interaction to the strictly professional.
To give Elspeth nothing—no glance, no tone, no moment—that might be twisted into suspicion.
The thought was unbearable. After everything that had passed between them—after his confession, her tears, the fragile hope that had begun, however tentatively, to take root—the prospect of retreating behind a wall of cold formality felt like a betrayal.
But what choice did he have?
The children. It always returned to the children. Ella, Samuel, Rosie—his responsibility, his to protect, his to keep safe. And if his feelings for Serena threatened their welfare, threatened his right to remain their guardian—
He could not risk it. He would not.
Even if it meant the sacrifice of the happiness they had only just begun to imagine.
***
Serena knew something was wrong the moment she saw Nathaniel’s face.
She had come to his study at his request, summoned by a brief note delivered by the butler. It stated only that he wished to speak with her on a matter of some urgency, and she had gone at once, her heart fluttering with a mixture of anticipation and unease.
The anticipation vanished the moment she crossed the threshold.
He stood by the window with his back to her, his posture rigid, every line of him drawn tight with tension.
He did not turn at her entrance, did not acknowledge her presence with so much as a glance.
The warmth that had marked their recent interactions—the softened looks, the quiet teasing, the subtle current that seemed always to pass between them—was wholly absent.
Something had changed. Something had gone terribly wrong.
“My lord?” She kept her voice composed, professional. “You wished to see me?”
He turned then, and she saw his face: the set of his jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes, the careful blankness he had assumed. This was not the man who had taken her hand in the garden and spoken of love. This was Lord Greystone—Marquess of Greystone—addressing an employee.
“Miss Collard. Thank you for coming.” His tone matched hers—measured, impersonal. “Please, be seated.”
Miss Collard. Not Serena. Not even the softened formality they had adopted gradually over the past weeks.
Serena sat, folding her hands in her lap to still their trembling. “What has happened?”
He crossed to his desk and took up a letter, extending it toward her. “This arrived in the morning post. I believe you should read it.”
She accepted it, her fingers brushing his briefly—and felt him withdraw at once.
That small, involuntary retreat told her more than any explanation could have. Whatever this letter contained, it had driven him back behind walls she had believed—had hoped—were finally lowering.
She read in silence, her heart sinking line by line.
Elspeth Crane. A visit. Troubling reports. Concerns for the children’s welfare.
When she finished, she looked up. Nathaniel was watching her closely, his expression unreadable.
“I see,” she said quietly. “This is... concerning.”
“‘Concerning’ scarcely does it justice.” He took the chair opposite her, sitting heavily. “Lady Crane—Elspeth—has been waiting for an opportunity like this for two years. She never reconciled herself to Edward’s will. She has always believed the children ought to be with family. With her.”
Serena’s stomach clenched. “What does she hope to find?”
“Neglect. Incompetence.” A pause. “Impropriety.”
The word settled heavily between them.
Serena understood at once. Understood the formality, the restraint, the deliberate distance.
“You are concerned about us,” she said softly. “About how our… understanding… might appear.”
Nathaniel was silent for a moment before answering, his voice roughened by effort.
“What I feel for you has not altered. Not in the least. What I said in the garden was no impulse—I meant every word. But the children must come first. They must.”
“I would never expect otherwise—”
“If Lady Crane perceives anything improper—anything that might be construed as distraction or misjudgement—she will seize upon it.” He leaned forward. “She could take them, Serena. With sufficient influence and the right arguments, she could succeed.”
The words struck her breathless.
Take them.
“No,” she whispered. “She cannot—the will—”
“Can be contested. Guardianship can be reassigned if a court is persuaded that the arrangement is unsound.” His voice hardened. “Elspeth has influence. Connections. She would not hesitate to use them.”
Serena absorbed this in silence, the enormity of it settling heavily upon her. Everything they had laboured toward—the children’s healing, the fragile stability of the household, the tentative hope she had barely allowed herself to acknowledge—was suddenly under threat.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked at last.
Nathaniel met her gaze, and she saw the strain beneath his composure.
“I need you to help me give her nothing. No cause for suspicion. No hint that anything exists between us beyond the ordinary relation of employer and governess.”
The words hurt, though she had anticipated them from the moment she entered the room.
“You want me to pretend nothing has passed between us.”
“I want you to help me protect the children,” he said, his voice breaking. “I know what I am asking of you. I know how cruel it is, given what I said to you. But I cannot lose them. I will not.”
She looked at him—at the fear he did not bother to conceal, the desperation of a man who had already lost too much—and she understood.
“I will do what is required,” she said quietly. “Their welfare must come before everything else.”
Something softened in his expression—relief, gratitude, regret, all intermingled.
“Thank you,” he said. “I wish—”
“I know.” She rose before either of them said more than could safely be borne. “When do they arrive?”
“Thursday next. Five days.”
Five days to restore distance. Five days to bury hope.
“I should return to the children,” she said.
“Yes. Of course.”
They stood facing one another—near enough to feel the space between them, too far to bridge it.
“Miss Collard.”
“Yes, my lord?”
He seemed on the brink of saying more—something personal, something honest—but the moment passed.
“Thank you,” he said instead. “For understanding.”
Serena nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and left the study without looking back.
She made it halfway down the corridor before the tears began to fall.
***
Nathaniel remained standing in his study for a long while after Serena left, staring at the door through which she had disappeared.
He had done the right thing. He knew he had done the right thing. The children’s welfare must come first—must always come first—and if that required the sacrifice of his own happiness, his own wishes, his own heart…
Then so be it.
But goodness, it hurt.
The look on her face when he asked her to maintain distance. The way her voice had gone careful and restrained, concealing the pain he knew she felt. The way she had agreed without protest, accepting the necessity of it all with a composure that only made him love her more.
She was remarkable. Extraordinary. And he had asked her to become, once more, nothing more than a governess—to veil what existed between them, to deny a feeling that had scarcely been allowed to breathe.
It was cruel. It was unjust. And it was unavoidable.
Nathaniel crossed to his desk and picked up Elspeth’s letter again, reading it now with colder eyes. The phrasing was polite, even cordial, but the threat lay plainly beneath the civility. This was no family visit. It was the opening move in a contest he had long feared and hoped never to face.
He needed to prepare. Needed to ensure that every aspect of the household was in perfect order, that every servant knew to be on their best behaviour, that every room Elspeth might inspect was clean and well-maintained and reflective of a prosperous, well-run estate.
And he needed to prepare the children.
That, he knew, would prove the most difficult task of all.
Ella, especially, would notice. She would observe the change in his manner toward Miss Collard, would demand explanations, would not be satisfied with vagueness or evasion. She was too perceptive, too intelligent, too determined to make sense of the adult world pressing in upon her.
What could he tell her? That her aunt and uncle were coming, and that they must all be on their best behaviour? It was true, as far as it went—but Ella would sense the omission. She would push. She always did.
He could not tell her the whole truth. Could not burden an eleven-year-old with the knowledge that her home, her security, her family might be imperilled. Could not tell her that the aunt who ought to love her was coming with the intention of taking her away.
Yet neither could he lie to her outright. Not after all they had endured. Not after the fragile trust they had built together.
Nathaniel lowered himself into his chair and covered his face with his hands.
Five days. Five days to prepare for a contest he was far from certain he could win.
And he would have to fight it alone.
No—not entirely alone. That was not true.
There was Mrs McConnor, who had served the family for decades and knew every hidden fault and strength of the house. There was Morrison, whose discretion was beyond question. There was a household whose loyalty had been earned through shared loss and slow rebuilding.
And there was Serena.
Even if he must not touch her, must not confide in her, must not allow his feelings to show—she was still there. Still choosing to stand with him. Still helping to protect the children, even at cost to herself.
That would have to suffice.
It must.