Chapter 23
The days after the ball settled into an uneasy rhythm, one that Wilhelm felt acutely even as he told himself he understood it.
Madeline did nothing wrong. She fulfilled her duties with precision and care, guiding Tessa through her lessons, walking beside her on the grounds, speaking to Wilhelm when necessary with courtesy and restraint.
She was, in every outward sense, the ideal governess.
And she kept her distance. No lingering in doorways. No moments where their hands brushed by accident. No glances held a heartbeat too long. When Wilhelm entered a room, Madeline ensured there was always space between them, physical and otherwise, as though proximity itself had become the problem.
His rational mind recognized it for what it was—they had crossed a line, and she was restoring it.
His heart, however, was far less accommodating.
It followed her relentlessly, noted the careful way she angled her body away from him, the way her gaze dropped the moment it caught his, the faint tension that lived in her shoulders now, like a string drawn too tight.
And worse, he felt it in himself, the constant effort of restraint, the deliberate stillness he imposed on his own hands when instinct urged him to reach, to touch, to claim some reminder that the garden had not been a fevered illusion.
At night, he slept poorly. When he did sleep, he dreamed of her with unnerving clarity.
The weight of her against him. The sound she made when she came apart beneath his touch.
The way she had looked at him afterward, fear and longing braided together so tightly he had not known which one to reach for first.
This could not continue. And yet, he could not bring himself to force a confrontation when she had retreated. Still, he refused to surrender what time he could claim.
“Prepare the carriage,” Wilhelm said to the butler one morning, standing in the entry hall as Madeline adjusted Tessa’s cloak. “We are going out.”
Madeline froze for the briefest moment, her fingers tightening at Tessa’s collar before she smoothed it away. “Out, Your Grace?”
“Yes,” he replied, watching her carefully. “An outing. All three of us.”
Tessa’s face lit at once. “Truly?”
“Truly,” Wilhelm said, allowing a faint smile. “And Miss Watton will join us.”
Madeline inclined her head, her expression composed, but the pause before she reached for her own coat did not escape him. She drew the heavy wool close around herself, fastening it higher than necessary.
He knew her discomfort was because of him.
He told himself this was the cost of restraint, the necessary discomfort of choosing composure over want, and turned his attention instead to Tessa, who chattered happily as they descended the steps, blissfully unaware of the careful balance the two adults beside her were trying so desperately to maintain.
By the time they were settled inside the carriage, the house already receding behind them, the air had shifted.
Wilhelm sat opposite Madeline, his legs angled to avoid brushing against hers, though every jolt of the wheels seemed to conspire to bring them together.
He watched her through lowered lashes. She kept her face turned slightly toward the window, her bonnet brim shadowing her features, one hand braced against the seat.
Every time the carriage slowed in traffic, her fingers gripped the edge of the velvet seat until her knuckles turned white. Her gaze scanned the street, tracking the faces of the pedestrians with a frantic, rhythmic intensity.
She is terrified, Wilhelm realized, a cold spike of protectiveness driving through his chest.
He had thought her anxiety was a reaction to the impropriety of that night in the garden, but this was something else. This was the vigilance of a creature who expected a blow from any direction.
“You are safe, Madeline,” he said softly, leaning forward so only she could hear over Tessa’s excited chatter about the toy shops.
Madeline started, her eyes snapping to his. She forced a smile, but it didn’t reach the tightness in her brow. “Of course, Your Grace. It is just… the noise. I am used to the quiet of the country.”
He didn’t believe her. He wanted to reach across the space and take her hand so he could lace his fingers through hers.
He wished he could promise her that no threat could ever touch her while he stood between them.
He thought of her in the garden, the way she had shouted that she wasn’t who he thought she was.
Who are you? he wondered. And who taught you to fear the world so much?
When they finally stepped out onto the bustling pavement of the street, the sun was bright, catching the copper highlights in Madeline’s hair where a few strands had escaped her hood. She tucked them back with a nervous, jerky motion, her head staying down.
Wilhelm acted on instinct. He saw a small, elegant florist’s stall on the corner, overflowing with late-season blooms—deep crimson roses, pale lilies, and sprigs of lavender that scented the smoggy air.
“Wait here,” he commanded.
He returned moments later with two small arrangements. The first he handed to Tessa: a neat bundle of daisies and cornflowers tied with plain twine. Her delight was immediate and unrestrained.
“For me?” she breathed.
“For you,” he confirmed. “Something bright to keep you company.”
Only then did he turn to Madeline.
The second posy was smaller, more restrained: violets and white jasmine, wrapped in a scrap of lace rather than ribbon. He held them out to her, his fingers brushing hers as she took them.
“They are for you,” he said, his voice low. “A bit of the country to carry with you through the city.”
Madeline looked down at the flowers, and for the first time that day, the tension in her shoulders broke.
She drew a long, shaky breath, inhaling the sweet, clean scent of the jasmine.
When she looked up, her eyes were wet, her expression raw with a gratitude that felt far too heavy for a simple bouquet.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she whispered.
Her words felt like a physical touch, a caring hand sliding over his heart. He felt a surge of triumph—he had made her forget the fear, if only for a second.
They did not go far at first. Wilhelm chose the quieter streets, away from the worst of the crowds, where the shops were smaller and the pace slower, and where Tessa could walk without being jostled.
She skipped between him and Madeline, her gloved hands held securely in theirs, the rhythm of her steps uneven but joyful.
“There,” Tessa said suddenly, tugging Madeline’s hand and pointing through a narrow shop window crowded with toys. “Look.”
Wilhelm followed her gaze and felt something tighten in his chest. Wooden figures filled the display, carefully painted and arranged in small scenes: horses, dancers, tiny carriages frozen mid-turn.
“May we?” Tessa asked, already angling her body toward the door.
“Yes,” Wilhelm said at once, before Madeline could even form the answer.
Inside, the shop smelled of wood shavings and oil. A bell chimed softly overhead. Tessa drifted toward the counter at once, her attention caught by a small carousel no larger than her two hands put together.
“This one,” she said, reverent now, as though she understood instinctively that this was something to be chosen carefully. “Papa.”
Wilhelm lifted it, testing its weight. The wood was smooth, the paint slightly worn at the edges, the horses frozen mid-gallop. He turned the key once, and a thin, tinkling tune spilled out, delicate and old-fashioned.
Tessa gasped. “Let me try it, Papa.”
Wilhelm handed the carousel back to her, and she turned it eagerly, frowning when the music failed to begin.
Madeline was already lowering herself to the floor beside her, skirts gathered with practiced care, her expression soft with quiet delight as she took Tessa’s small hands and guided her fingers to the mechanism.
“Slowly,” she said, patient and calm. “Like this. If you rush it, the music won’t last.”
As she spoke, Wilhelm noticed the way her attention fractured.
Her gaze lifted once, briefly, toward the street behind them before returning to Tessa.
A moment later, it flicked again, scanning faces with a quickness that did not belong to ease.
She smiled when the tune finally began, but the smile did not linger.
It appeared, did its duty, and vanished.
Wilhelm watched them from where he stood, the sight striking him with unexpected force. She was present with Tessa, but she was not at rest. And for reasons he could not understand, Wilhelm felt certain the flowers had done nothing to change that.
“There,” Madeline said, smiling. “You see? It just needs care.”
Wilhelm paid without comment, slipping the carousel back into Tessa’s hands. The child hugged it to her chest, solemn now, as though she had been entrusted with something precious.
They stepped back into the street together. A little farther on, the smell of roasted chestnuts drifted toward them, rich and smoky. Tessa slowed, her nose lifting.
“Papa,” she said hopefully.
He did not hesitate. “Three cones,” he said to the vendor, then paused, glancing at Madeline. “For each of us.”
She looked at him then, surprised. “That’s hardly necessary.”
“I want my own cone,” he replied simply, and held her gaze until she inclined her head in quiet acceptance.
They stood together as the vendor scooped the chestnuts into paper, the steam curling into the cold air. Wilhelm handed the cone to Tessa first, watching as she fumbled eagerly, then reached for Madeline without thinking.
“Careful,” she said, smiling despite herself as their fingers brushed. “They’re hot.”
“Not that hot,” Tessa said helpfully, blowing on her own chestnut with exaggerated seriousness.
Madeline laughed, startled, and the sound settled somewhere low and dangerous in Wilhelm’s chest.