Chapter 7
“Remind me why we are returning to the house,” Henry asked as they crossed the front corridor, brushing snow from his shoulders with a dramatic sweep. “I could have sworn you promised me wine.”
Wilhelm didn’t slow. “You may drink after I check on my daughter.”
Henry scoffed. “You mean after you check on your new governess.”
Wilhelm shot him a warning look over his shoulder, but it only made Henry grin wider.
They rounded the final corner toward the music room. Even before Wilhelm reached the open doorway, he heard a soft, hesitant melody played with the uneven grace of someone learning. Tessa’s laugh chimed in the spaces between notes, warm and bright.
Wilhelm’s steps softened.
Henry peered in first, brows lifting. “Well,” he whispered, leaning just enough to see inside, “that’s rather charming.”
Wilhelm said nothing. He paused in the doorway, letting the scene settle around him.
Tessa sat perched on the pianoforte bench, legs swinging as she pressed the keys with earnest, over-serious concentration.
And beside her—their shoulders nearly brushing—sat Miss Watton.
She leaned toward the girl with effortless poise, her posture both delicate and attentive.
A few loose strands of cinnamon-brown hair had fallen across her cheek as she guided Tessa’s hand along the keys; her fingers moved with gentle confidence, coaxing rather than correcting.
Morning light streamed through the tall windows, softening her features, highlighting her skin in a way that made her seem almost part of the music itself.
The sight hit him with a quiet, unexpected force he hadn’t braced for as it was unsettling in its simplicity.
Before he could gather himself, Henry strode past him with the self-assured ease of someone who had never once been unwelcome anywhere. “Are we interrupting?”
Tessa’s head whipped around. “Uncle Henry!”
Miss Watton rose at once, her skirts whispering against the bench, her hands smoothing her gown in a movement that looked instinctive. Her posture lengthened, her spine finding a poised straightness, her chin lifting by the smallest degree.
Wilhelm caught the faint tightening at the corners of her mouth, the subtle shift that betrayed the sudden awareness of being observed.
Her eyes lifted to him for the briefest of moments. She spared him a single glance, quick and almost unwilling, yet it struck him with the force of something far more intentional. Heat followed in its wake, a slow and unmistakable thrum beneath his ribs that he couldn’t wish away.
Henry clapped a hand over his chest. “So,” he declared, stepping forward with an elegant half-bow, “you must be Miss Watton. I have heard so much about you. Allow me to introduce myself. Henry Welles, Marquess of Heathston.”
Madeline’s brows lifted, her lips parting with a soft, startled breath. She looked caught between amusement and embarrassment, her hands clasping lightly before her. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord. I certainly hope you’ve not heard anything bad.”
“Oh, on the contrary,” Henry said while giving her an amiable smile.
He reached for her hand. His fingers closed around hers, light and confident, and he lifted her knuckles to his lips with practiced grace.
Wilhelm saw Miss Watton gasp softly, as a rush of color bloomed across her cheeks, rising all the way to her ears. Her eyes widened in surprise, then darted shyly toward the floor.
Wilhelm’s jaw locked. Heat flared low in his chest, unreasonable yet persistent. He kept his stance perfectly still, but something inside him tightened in a way he had not felt in years. The sight of Madeline blushing under Henry’s touch scraped against every instinct he possessed.
Henry lingered only a moment before releasing her hand with theatrical reverence.
“Dear Tessa,” he announced, turning toward the girl with exaggerated distress, “come rescue me. Your governess has absolutely undone me.”
Tessa giggled and ran to catch his sleeve. “Uncle Henry, you are being very silly.”
“Silly,” Henry repeated gravely, placing a hand to his heart as he looked back at the ladies. “Miss Watton, it seems you inspire me to foolishness!”
Tessa laughed and ran to him, grabbing his hand. Henry winced dramatically as if the contact had injured him, sending her into another burst of giggles.
’Miss Watton’s blush deepened, her lashes lowering, her fingers curling slightly into her skirt as if she were unsure what to do with the sudden attention.
Tension built and bunched in Willhelm’s shoulders. The sound of Henry’s flirtation slid under his skin like a burr, and the blush on Madeline’s cheeks made his pulse grind painfully against his own restraint.
He stepped forward then, not abruptly, but with a decisive presence that made Henry’s brows lift in quiet amusement and Madeline to straighten at once. Her eyes flicked to him and she regarded him closely as if trying to decipher his next move.
Before the silence could tighten further, Henry crouched slightly and held out a hand toward Tessa.
“Come now,” he said kindly. “I would love to hear you play.”
Tessa hesitated only a moment before allowing herself to be led back to the pianoforte. Henry settled her on the bench with exaggerated care, murmuring something low that coaxed a small smile from her, and at last the child turned her attention to the keys.
But Wilhelm kept watching Madeline as she leaned lightly against the pianoforte, smoothing a stray curl behind her ear, her gaze soft as she watched Tessa play. The faintest smile touched her lips, one he doubted she realized she was wearing, and something in his chest tightened painfully.
Henry turned his head back toward Wilhelm, his expression faintly amused. “You did not tell me she looked like that.”
Wilhelm glared. “Those were facts that were better left unsaid.”
Henry only grinned wider and turned his attention back to the pianoforte just as Tessa struck the final notes of her piece. The music lingered a moment in the air before fading into silence.
Tessa slipped from the bench at once and, with great solemnity, swept into an exaggerated bow that sent her curls tumbling forward.
“Very impressive,” Henry said warmly, clapping once.
With a satisfied smile, Tessa darted toward Wilhelm’s side, clearly pleased with herself.
Then Henry, still humming faintly, turned back to Madeline, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Miss Watton, would you do us the honor of playing something?”
Madeline’s lashes fluttered in surprise. “Playing?”
“Yes, you,” Henry insisted, extending an inviting hand toward the gleaming pianoforte. “After going for a long ride, I long to hear a jaunty tune.”
Tessa bounced on her toes, curls bobbing. “She does! Papa, she plays better than anyone I’ve heard before!”
Miss Watton hesitated. He saw it clearly in the way her fingers curled lightly together, then loosened, her shoulders drawing in a fraction before she forced them straight. A delicate blush returned to her pallor and crept along the edge of her collar, softening the lines of her throat.
“It has been some time since I played for an audience,” she murmured.
Henry pressed a dramatic hand to his chest. “Then we are honored to receive such an exclusive performance.”
Tessa tugged eagerly at the fabric of ’Miss Watton’s sleeve. “Please? I want Papa to hear.”
The governess looked down at the little girl with tender surprise, her lips parting in a small, unguarded smile. Then her gaze lifted slowly, almost shyly, toward Wilhelm.
Their eyes met. There was a softness in hers as well as a searching quality that brushed against the edges of his composure. It felt as though she was asking for something, not permission exactly, but recognition that her playing mattered to him.
He wished to encourage her and inclined his head once. Her breath escaped in a quiet rush, the faintest tremor easing from her shoulders as she moved to the bench and sat.
Her skirts pooled gracefully around her, a dark, soft spill against the wood.
She smoothed the fabric over her knees with slow, careful strokes, her fingertips lingering as though grounding herself.
A loose strand of hair slipped from her coiffure and swept across her cheek; she brushed it back gently, unaware of how the small gesture tugged at his attention.
Her fingers hovered above the keys. She paused, inhaling deeply, her eyes lowering in concentration. The moment stretched, fragile as glass, the entire room waiting on her next breath.
And then, she started to play.
The first notes were soft as snowfall, tentative but deliberate. Then warmer, richer, unfurling into a melody that filled the room with a quiet, aching beauty. Each phrase rose and fell like breath, each shift of her hands revealing memory and skill, reverence and longing.
Her face softened as she played. Her brows loosened, mouth parting slightly with the effort of emotion rather than technique. She leaned into certain chords and lifted her chin at others, as though coaxing the music from a hidden place inside her.
Tessa watched with open awe.
Henry whispered, “Good God…”
Wilhelm said nothing. He couldn’t force a single word out. Something in him, something he had kept tightly held for years, shifted with a slow give. It felt almost like a crack running through old stone, small but undeniable.
When Miss Watton finished, the final note hung for a moment before fading into the quiet of the room.
Tessa burst into applause, nearly bouncing off the floor with excitement. Henry clapped as well, offering an appreciative nod toward the instrument, but Wilhelm didn’t move. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers curling into a fist as if he needed something solid to hold on to.
Henry leaned closer, pitching his voice low but very much meant for Wilhelm’s ears.