#majesty

The schoolroom was cozy, though the chill of the morning crept in through the frosted windows despite the fire crackling in the hearth.

Josephine stood at the head of the table, her hands lightly clasped in front of her, as Lady Eleanor and Lady Beatrice bent over their arithmetic work. The girls were bundled in thick shawls, their cheeks still pink from the frosty air that had made its way through the stone walls.

“Now, Lady Eleanor,” Josephine said with a patient smile as she looked at the eldest girl, “if a merchant has twelve barrels of apples and sells half of them, how many does he have left?”

Eleanor frowned at the words from Josephine; her pencil poised above her slate as she tried to think hard about the worded question. “Six, I think?”

“Very good,” Josephine replied with a breath of air, letting her praise be known, “And if he sells two more the next day, how many would he have left?”

Beatrice’s head shot up—her hand raising just as quick as the thought came to her, her curls bouncing at the motion. “Four!” she exclaimed proudly.

Eleanor glared at her younger sister for the interruption, “Hey, I was going to say that!”

Josephine chuckled softly at the small squabble between the sisters’, stepping closer to the table as she shook her head. “You’re both correct, and that’s why it’s important to take each step slowly. Arithmetic isn’t a race. You both received the correct answer. There is no debate in arithmetic—it is just the answer.”

Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “Arithmetic is boring. Why do merchants always have to be selling apples? Why not something interesting, like ribbons or jewels?”

“Because apples are easier for sums, and it’s quite difficult when items such as jewels may have a price on them, which would make them singular items, but itemized,” Josephine explained, her tone starting to recognize that she may have been digging herself into a hole of confusion at her own explanation, “Though perhaps I could form a question about ribbons next time.”

Eleanor straightened, her eyes lighting up with a sudden idea. “Why don’t we move this lesson to the library? It’s much warmer there by the big fire.”

Josephine hesitated, glancing at the hearth where the flames already danced merrily. The schoolroom was warm enough, but she could see the hopeful gleam in Eleanor’s eyes and the way Beatrice perked up at the suggestion about being near the books rather than the small, contained classroom.

“Alright,” Josephine said at last, though she arched an eyebrow. “But only if you both promise to focus on your work,” Her head tilted, trying to earn their convincing, “the library is no place for distractions.”

Without another word, the girls leapt from their seats, gathering their books and slates with enthusiasm. Josephine suppressed a smile as she followed them out, the sound of their eager chatter echoing through the hall as they giggled their way down.

The library was grand; its high shelves filled with books that stretched toward the vaulted ceiling that were painted the brightest, warmest cream. A larger fire roared in the marble hearth, filling the room with warmth, and the faint scent of leather and parchment hung in the air around them.

Josephine’s eyes immediately fell on the individual seated at the large oak table near the window. Lord Styles was leaning over a journal, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing strong forearms that protruded as he held his pen with vigor. His pen moved steadily across the page, though he paused when he noticed their arrival.

“My lord,” Josephine said, dipping into a small curtsey at his conviction, “I didn’t realize you were working here. May we bring our lesson to the library? It was a bit cold in the classroom.”

Harry set his pen down gently, his gaze lifting to meet hers. For a moment, he didn’t speak, his eyes studying her with an intensity that made her pulse quicken as she watched him think. Then, his lips curved into the faintest smile that could have rivaled a smirk.

“There is no need to ask, Miss Josephine. The library is as much yours as it is mine.”

Surprised by his reply, Josephine hesitated for a moment with her hands clasped before her before offering a polite nod. “Thank you, my lord. I’ll ensure we won’t disturb you.”

The girls, not as oblivious to the charged moment as either of the adults, darted to a smaller table near the hearth, already chattering about their sums and the works of arithmetic; however, they wanted to distract from the topic and move into a new conversation instead.

“Are you writing poems again, Harry?” Eleanor asked, grinning at her brother.

Harry leaned back in his chair before turning his head to look at his sister fondly; his smirk lazy as he pondered his sister’s question for a moment. “Something like that,” he replied, his tone teasing at her remarks.

Josephine busied herself arranging the girls’ books, though she could feel Harry’s gaze lingering on her. She ignored it, or at least tried to, as Beatrice tugged on her sleeve.

“Will we do sums about jewels now, Miss Josephine?” Beatrice asked, her voice hopeful.

Josephine smiled gently, her voice steady despite the warmth rising in her cheeks. “Let’s stick to apples for today, Lady Beatrice. Tomorrow, we’ll see about something more exciting.”

As she guided the girls through their lesson, Josephine couldn’t shake the sensation of being watched from afar. Glancing up, she caught Harry’s eyes on her again. He didn’t look away this time, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them– to her disdain.

She forced herself to turn back to the girls, her hands trembling slightly as she adjusted a page. The library was warm, far warmer than the schoolroom, and yet Josephine felt a chill at the thought of just how dangerous it could be to let her thoughts linger on the man seated across the room.

The library was one of the few places in Northumberland where Harry could find some semblance of peace– whether that be mindful peace or solitary peace, either one had given him a quietness away from the masses of staff and pleasantries that were always awaiting him. It was a sprawling chamber, lined floor to ceiling with books that smelled of old leather and parchment that had been collected for years and years, through travel and trade.

The crackle of the fireplace provided a gentle, constant hum in the background as he sifted through ledgers and estate documents that his father had tasked him with; it was his father’s latest mandate to inspect and reorganize the household account, which was a mind-numbing task to say the least, but at least here he could shut out the world and finish it.

Except, of course, when the world came to him instead.

When the door had creaked open, the soft patter of slippered feet accompanied by giggles and hushed voices. Harry had glanced up from his work just in time to see his sisters, Eleanor and Beatrice, trailing into the room with Miss Dowding close behind.

He had returned his gaze to the accounts, willing himself to focus. But their voices floated over to him, unavoidable, dancing through the air like a melody he couldn’t ignore the lesson that continued before him.

“Next, we’ll be continuing our discussion on the poem you read yesterday, Eleanor,” Miss Dowding’s voice was gentle, the syllables rounded with patience. “And Beatrice, I believe you wanted to choose a story to read aloud?”

“I’ve chosen one already!” Beatrice announced proudly, holding up a thin book with a vibrant cover. “But it’s not boring like all the poems, of course.”

“Poetry isn’t boring,” Eleanor countered the small girls knowing tone, with the air of someone who took her studies very seriously. “It’s possible that you just do not understand it properly, which makes it boring to you.”

“Oh, I understand it well enough. It’s just dull.” Beatrice shot back; it was a tone that made Harry’s smirk lift in the corners. The robust attitude was forward and had a bit of bite to it; he knew that she would be trouble in the next few years, later into her young adult years, too.

His eyes lifted as he watched Josephine, wondering how she would handle the way that she was spoken to.

“Perhaps we could compromise?” Josephine intervened smoothly, giving a nod to encourage them to agree to it. “Eleanor may recite her poem first, and then Beatrice, you may read your story aloud. We’ll discuss what each of them teaches us, yes?”

Eleanor nodded in agreement, already preparing her book to find the pages to read aloud. Beatrice seemed satisfied enough with this, though she fidgeted restlessly at the idea of having to wait her turn. Harry allowed his gaze to drift over the scene playing out in front of him; his pen still poised above the paper as he maintained still to not let them think that he had been paying attention to it all.

“Whenever you are ready, Lady Eleanor,” Josephine encouraged, taking a seat in front of them both, allowing herself to warm by the fire under her dress.

Eleanor cleared her throat and began reading aloud. Her voice was confident, clear, yet too sharp in its precision – it was almost as if she had practiced too much. Miss Dowding interrupted her once, gently correcting her pacing to allow a more natural read. The governess’ instruction was calm, her tone more like a breeze than a reprimand. It seemed to work, for Eleanor continued more steadily afterward.

Harry glanced back at his ledger, scrawling a half-hearted figure into the margins. Numbers blurred before his eyes, almost like he had a complete nonunderstanding of what had been written before him– even though it had been his handwriting, after all. The cadence of Josephine’s voice, her simple quips and murmurs to allow Eleanor to move through her reading, was the only thing that kept his focus from drifting completely.

“You’re doing very well,” Josephine praised Eleanor. “You’ve captured the meter well. So, let’s discuss what the poet might be trying to convey with his words. Poems are just that – they’re much more precise than novels, so words must matter.”

Harry watched Eleanor almost look over the page again, trying to decipher the question. “Something about faith, I think,” Eleanor replied, her brow furrowed at that, thinking much longer. “And hope. Even when things seem bleak. We must have hope.”

“Exactly,” Josephine said, her smile warm. “And what does that tell us about perseverance, and how was approach it?”

“It means you have to keep trying,” Eleanor answered slowly, trying to gather the thoughts that had been accumulating behind her eyes. “Even when you feel like giving up.”

“My, that was very well said,” There was a proud smile that settled on Josephine’s smile, the pride very evident in her tone.

Harry’s pen stilled from writing, once again, his gaze fixed on the governess as she continued her lesson, turning next to Beatrice who had been practically shaking in her seat. The way she spoke to the girls was unlike anything he was used to—kind, yet firm. She meant what she said, and she said what she meant; it was completely unlike any governess their family had over the last few years, he should know best. Josephine was patient, yet never indulgent to the point of cracking under pressure.

It struck him, then, how easily she commanded the girls’ attention without force or condescension; how they looked to her for guidance with the sort of quiet admiration he rarely saw from them.

And here he was, supposed to be working.

With an irritable huff, he turned back to his ledgers, only to find that he couldn’t recall which column he’d been calculating – everything had seemingly turned into a mass of confusion that he had created upon himself now. Numbers swam before his eyes, indistinct and meaningless as he took in a deep breath.

Yet again, his gaze wandered back to Josephine instead, despite his better judgment.

Beatrice was now reading aloud from her chosen story, her voice animated as she delivered each line with exaggerated enthusiasm. Josephine chuckled softly at Beatrice’s dramatic pauses, a sound that Harry found himself inexplicably drawn to.

He forced himself to look down at his papers, his jaw clenching at the thought of being drawn by her yet again.

This was absurd, he thought deeply to himself.

He was a grown man, wasting time like a schoolboy distracted by a pretty face, a ruthless giggle, a precocious mind. He had work to be done, they had intruded on his space– yet, of course, he had allowed them in it, even when he knew that this was all his fault.

The lesson continued, but his attention remained hopelessly fragmented due to the way his wandering eyes and mind. He had many thoughts about Miss Dowding – perhaps most of what should stay within the confines of his mind. His sudden distraction could have been because he had been home for far too long without a draw of a woman’s attention.

The girls were nearly finished when he finally gave up on his task altogether, leaning back in his chair as he watched Josephine gather her materials, helping Eleanor and Beatrice, as well.

“Thank you, Miss Dowding,” Eleanor said earnestly, her tone matching the graciousness that she felt. “I think I understand the poem better now.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You both did very well today,” Josephine replied, her hand resting on Eleanor’s shoulder in a far more comforting way than Harry could have imagined, “Go enjoy the crisp air, get some reading in today before our lessons tomorrow.”

The girls scampered off, leaving Harry and Josephine alone in the library’s vastness with the sounds of the crinkling flames that threatened to burn a hole through their tension– her attention to her items seemed to let her forgetfulness slip in at her sudden jump to his words cutting in the silence.

“Miss Dowding,” Harry stated softly, in a way that was commanding but addressed her complimentary; she turned at his voice, her expression polite but wary.

“My goodness, your grace,” Her hand sat on her heart, in a way that drew his eyes to her hand in a spark of a moment before he recognized his eyes drew too low, “I had forgotten of your presence. You are being quieter than a church mouse.”

Harry sat up in his chair, giving her a small smile, “I apologize for my interruption,” He chuckled a bit, a pause before he spoke again, “But I must tell you, you’ve been introducing the girls to all these lofty poems and moral tales, which I find to be highly encouraged. But I’ve yet to hear you mention anything remotely entertaining.”

“Entertaining, my lord?” she echoed, her brow arching at his critique.

“Yes, something with a bit more flair. Surely, you’ve heard of The Mysteries of Udolpho? You seem like the type that would appreciate a well-spun gothic tale.”

Her lips parted slightly in surprise at his request.  “I’ve read it, yes. Though I doubt it would be suitable for Lady Eleanor and Lady Beatrice at their ages– I think that I—”

“No, perhaps not for their entertainment or scholar,” Harry admitted, interrupting her with a crooked smile tugging at his mouth as he felt his face flush with the thought of her stuttering. “But I would be curious to hear your thoughts on it. I find myself growing weary of books filled with nothing but estate finances and history, and it’s getting to be quite a bit too much.”

Josephine studied him, her expression unreadable as she tried to interpret what he had been suggesting. “Well, my lord, a book can be many things. A distraction, a lesson, or simply a comfort, I presume.”

He tilted his head; his gaze still fixed upon her. “And what are they to you, Miss Dowding?”

She hesitated at his request of an answer before she took in a deep breath that harbored deep in her chest, her eyes flickering down to the book still clutched in her hands. “I suppose they are all those things. Perhaps an escape, as well, but mostly a distraction, I will admit. I prefer to let my mind wander.”

Their eyes met at that moment, and Harry felt a curious twist in his chest when he was dazzled by the rich color of them that spun a thousand spells. There was something in her voice, a faint echo of loneliness, or perhaps experience, that made him want to press further. To unearth the secrets, she kept so carefully locked away.

But she was already turning to leave, her composure carefully maintained as she had gathered herself up in her robes and dress that held the warmth of her body from the coolness of the air around them. “Good day, my lord.”

Harry watched her go, the lingering scent of old parchment and lavender fading from the air in a way that made his memory stained but forgotten in the same breath.

________

The hour had grown indecently late, and Northumberland Hall had settled into its nocturnal hush with a silence so deep that the faintest echo of a footstep seemed sacrilege. Candlelight along the sconces shimmered along the stone corridors, gilding portraits of ancestors whose painted gazes followed intruders with an austere disapproval.

It was in this half-light that Lord Harry Styles walked with his coat unbuttoned, his cravat loosened along the base of his neck, his hair mussed from restless fingers. He had abandoned his study long ago, unable to concentrate on the ledgers his father insisted he review from their London estate. The numbers meant nothing when his thoughts were occupied by far more beguiling distractions.

By her.

He told himself it was absurd the way Miss Dowding crept into his mind unbidden, her quiet composure somehow more haunting than any coquettish laugh from the salons of London. He had met women who flaunted wit and beauty in abundance, but none who wore restraint like a mystery. He could not recall the precise moment his curiosity had tipped into something sharper, something perilously close to longing. But it had, and now, wandering the halls at midnight, he found himself wondering if he might catch another glimpse of her—if Providence, or his own weakness, might allow it.

When he turned the corner, Providence seemed to oblige his weakest, darkest desires.

She appeared at the far end of the corridor, a small flame trembling in her hand. The oil lamp light softened around her features, gilding her cheekbones, the faint curve of her jaw. Her hair, usually disciplined beneath its pins, had loosed a few stray tendrils that framed her face like brushstrokes as they hung. She was reading as she walked, and entirely unaware of the world around her as she was lost in the world beneath her fingers.

He took in the sight with a hunger he barely permitted himself to name as he saw the way that her nightdress had been hanging on her shoulders, almost as if she was trying to hide it by walking the halls in the middle of the night.

“Miss Dowding,” he said, his voice low, deliberate.

Her steps halted almost immediately, and the lamp shook with conviction as she turned, startled for the briefest instant before her composure settled like glass cooling in its mold. “My lord,” she murmured with a gasp, bowing her head slightly in acknowledgement. “Please, forgive me—I did not realize anyone lingered at this hour.”

“Nor did I,” he replied, his tone soft, unhurried as he made his final decent. “It appears neither of us is inclined to sleep.”

There was a hint of a small, polite smile that ghosted across her lips. “A governess’ duties rarely allow for idleness, my lord. I was merely returning this volume to the library.”

He moved closer, the shining brightness of her eyes glowed in the heat of the lamplight that burned warm, in an orange haze that danced along her face.

“Always the diligent scholar, you are,” he murmured, his mouth curving into the devilish smile that had kept him in trouble. “Tell me, what tome has kept you from sleep?”

“Poems,” she replied, her voice low but steady, almost if embarrassment and shame was brought upon her. “Lady Eleanor wishes to read more of them tomorrow, and I wanted to refresh my knowledge.”

“Ah. Of course.” His gaze lingered on her face, catching the faint play of light in her eyes. “Though I confess, I have always preferred the French poetry, you know.”

She looked at him cautiously, as if his words confused her for a moment. “You refer to their poets, my lord?”

“I refer to their novels,” he said, his voice dipped in amusement, correcting her assumptions about him as he stood before her. “Their poets are far too modest. Their novelists—well, they make no apologies for passion.”

Her fingers tightened around the handle on the lamp, though her expression did not betray it. “French novels are seldom suitable for the English drawing room—I would never be seen with one.”

“Precisely,” Harry said, taking another languid step forward, eyes narrowing down to her as he felt that moving towards her would possibly push her away—when it didn’t, he found his tongue licking over his top lip. “That is why they are interesting.”

He reached inside his unbuttoned coat and withdrew a slim, worn volume bound in deep green leather that had no title or any inclination of details; it had been completely free of notoriety. “This one I found in Paris—smuggled through half the city by a publisher who swore it was too indecent to sell openly. I’d be curious to hear your opinion. I was on my way to drop it by your room.”

Her eyes flicked toward the book but did not linger, almost feeling her cheeks rise in heat from the way he spoke than the lamplight. “You are offering it to me, my lord?”

Harry took in a breath, almost hitching as her words purred through her lips with challenge in itself. “I am challenging you to read it—a bit something that can be for you, rather than for your governess duties, hm?”

The corner of her mouth twitched, a whisper of humor betraying her restraint. “And why, my lord, would I accept such a challenge?”

“Because I think you might surprise yourself,” he said, leaning just slightly nearer almost to breathe in her same air. “You do not strike me as a woman easily scandalized.”

“That, my lord, is a dangerous assumption.”

Harry’s eyes glinted with the flames of a thousand fires. “I thrive on danger, Miss Dowding, I can assure you.”

The breath nearly left his lips as her hand reached outwards to take ahold of the book that he had been gifting her.

A silence fell between them that was fragile and yet charged with anticipation that neither of them could name. The candlelight above them shimmered over the meticulous marble floor, and Harry felt his restraint thin like paper.

She stood before him in a gown of soft muslin, modest yet hopelessly inviting in the glow of gold light. He imagined, for the briefest moment, what it might be like to touch her wrist, to trace the pulse there that had been beating frequently and harshly, then banished the thought with a deep breath. The feeling of her pulse, the life before him, beneath his touch was enough for him to delicately flutter his eyelids just at the thought.

He was not a man given to restraint, and yet with her, it became an exquisite torment that she would not give into his praises, not lean into them, not give herself the opportunity to douse herself in the world he could promise her with his eyes.

But that wasn’t a life that was for them, struck by their differences upon their lives that made it difficult for him to even be seen alone with her for longer periods of time.

“You’re an enigma, Miss Dowding,” he said finally, his tone quieter, weighted with something unspoken; it was hidden beneath him, pushing it further down. “Most women would do anything to win favor in this house, yet you seem determined to remain untouchable—and it’s,” he paused for a moment to think, lips wavering to come up with the correct terms. “Commendable.”

Her gaze met his with clarity so definite it was untouchable. “Perhaps, my lord, because I understand the value of boundaries and my role in the manor.”

He took a step closer, his shadow enveloping hers on the wall that stood behind her.

“Boundaries,” he repeated, his voice a murmur, almost as if that word was all of the sudden one that needed definition. “And yet you are here, a tick past midnight, speaking to me. Tell me, Miss Dowding, do those boundaries bend for curiosity’s sake?”

Her breath caught at the way he spoke with the gaze half heavy and wandering to a place that she could not bear to imagine without sin. “I do recognize a test when I see one, my lord.”

Harry’s lips curved in slow admiration, eyes dancing with enlarged pupils. “Then you see clearly.”

The air between them thickened with intimacy so perilous that she felt her knees weaken for a moment. His pulse drummed, the rhythm betraying his careful veneer. He wanted to reach for her just to see if she would flinch or stand her ground, but he restrained himself, if only to prolong the exquisite agony of not knowing. The stake of the game was heavy and wonderous and unknowing and exquisite.

“Good evening, Lord Styles,” she said at last, her voice a whisper that lingered into every inch of his being. “Rest well.”

He bowed his head slightly, forcing civility to mask what burned beneath it. “Good evening, Miss Dowding.”

Taking in a breath, she he passed him, her shoulder brushed the sleeve of his coat—a ghost of contact, but it left him rooted to the spot. The faint scent of lavender lingered long after her footsteps faded; his nose trailed behind his shoulder as he waited for her to pass.

When at last he turned back, his pulse was still unsteady, his mind unmoored. He smiled to himself with a quiet darkness that started to build inside of him. His chin tilted up as he shut his eyes, fists clenching before he shut out the thought.

If she thought her boundaries would protect her, she had sorely underestimated how determined he could be.

________

Josephine moved through the silent corridors as though pursued by her own thoughts, barely breathing in case someone were to hear.

The air still shimmered faintly from the lamp she carried, its flame trembling with every unsteady breath she took. Her hands felt unsteady, though she could not name why. She had faced worse in her life—crueler words, sharper gazes—and yet the few sentences exchanged in the corridor had left her trembling like a girl again.

When she reached her room, she closed the door quietly behind her and leaned against it, as though the solid wood could keep her thoughts at bay. The faint scent of wax and smoke lingered in her hair, and beneath it—oh, curse it—his scent lingered too. Something rich and faintly spiced, clinging to the air where he had stood too close.

Her pulse had yet to settle from thinking of the moment that she stood close to him.

She moved to the washstand, setting down her oil lamp that illuminated throughout the room. The mirror above it caught her reflection—her cheeks still flushed, her lips parted, her pupils wide as if she had seen something forbidden within the corridors. She did not recognize herself in that moment. It was as though another woman stared back at her, one startled awake after years of careful slumber.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the washbasin. She tried to remember what he had said—every word, every inflection—and hated herself for how vividly she could. The murmur of his voice still echoed in her mind: You do not strike me as a woman easily scandalized.

God help her; she had wanted to prove him wrong.

Her breath shuddered outwards before she pressed her palms to the table, bowing her head. She had sworn never again to feel this way—to let any man’s proximity ignite something wild and dangerous inside her. Her husband had taken the sweetness of that innocence long ago, replacing it with bruises and silence. When she fled Surrey, she swore she had buried the woman who could feel longing, who could crave the weight of another’s gaze.

And yet, one look from Lord Styles had undone her entirely.

She sank into the small chair by the window, pulling a loose shawl across her shoulders. Beyond the glass, the night lay heavy and vast, the stars thin and cold against the dark. The castle’s quiet pressed in on her ears, and in that stillness, she could almost hear his subtle laughter again—that soft, knowing sound that had seemed to pull something from her chest.

Her fingers brushed the fabric at her collarbone where his gaze had lingered. The memory was enough to make her skin prickle, her breath catch. Shame followed close behind, hot and unrelenting. What was she thinking—entertaining the charm of a man like him? A lord, a flirt, a creature of freedom and appetite?

She was a governess, a woman with no fortune, no title, no claim to the indulgences of desire—and yet desire did not care for propriety.

She rose abruptly, pacing the narrow room as if motion might scatter her thoughts. The hem of her gown whispered against the creaking floorboards. She told herself she despised his arrogance, his casual confidence, but the truth was far more treacherous. She envied it; envied the way he moved through life untouched by consequence, while she lived each day like a fugitive of her own past.

Her mind betrayed her further still. She could see him again in her mind’s eye—the candlelight of the sconces on his cheekbones, the faint curve of his smile when he had said, And yet, you do not step away.

She closed her eyes.

There had been moments, in her marriage, when she had felt something close to this; an awakening of the body’s oldest instinct, but it had been twisted, cruel, used against her. What she had felt tonight was not that. It was something she had not known she could still feel: desired.

It absolutely terrified her.

Josephine stood from her spot on the chair to move to the bed, her hands clasped before her, though she could not form the words of any prayer. Her mind was too full of him and the warmth of his gaze, the scent of his coat, the impossible question of what might have happened had she not walked away.

The dark swallowed her whole, her heartbeat refused to slow, echoing like a secret against the silence. It would pass; she told herself. It had to. She would see him again in daylight, and the illusion of intimacy would fade as quickly as it had come.

Yet, as she closed her eyes, she could still feel his breath—close and unbearably real—lingering in the space between memory and guilty as sin.

__________

There was morning dew that dawned pale and cold along the grass, the air still heavy with mist that clung to the hills beyond Northumberland Manor. Inside, the household had already begun to stir with the faint clatter of breakfast dishes echoing from the kitchens below, along the dining hall walls where the Styles family broke fast.

Josephine sat before the small mirror in her quarters, her fingers deftly twisting her hair into its neat arrangement. She had slept little, her thoughts haunted by the previous night—the heat of Lord Styles’ gaze, the dangerous current that had passed between them. Each time she closed her eyes, she saw him again in the flickering candlelight, his words curling like smoke in her mind.

She drew a slow breath and pinned her final braid in place. She would not allow him to unsettle her today; she had her duties, her purpose of being within the manor at all. The girls needed her, and she would not falter on that promise or her job.

A gentle knock interrupted her thoughts. Miss Ellory entered, her crisp apron spotless as usual, a tray in hand bearing tea and a slice of bread with orange marmalade spread across it.

“Good morning, Miss Dowding,” she greeted kindly, the smile on her face always meaningful, but only on good days. “I thought you might take your breakfast here. The halls are rather lively this morning, and I wasn’t sure if you were coming down—you are usually down by now.”

Josephine smiled faintly at the thought and nodded frivolously in apologies. “Thank you, Miss Ellory; I do apologize for my absence, I was quite tired this morning,” She pursed her lips as she turned her head to look at the woman in question, “Though lively, you say? It’s scarcely eight.”

The older woman pursed her lips, setting the tray on the table as she ran her palms along her apron. “Aye, but His Grace and Lord Styles are already at odds. You can hear it from the study clear across the hall,” She scoffed out a laugh, “And none of us were even looking for a gossip.”

Josephine’s hand paused on the teacup, it warmed in her hands as she felt her brows furrow, “At odds? About?”

Ellory sighed, lowering her voice. “Same as ever, Miss Dowding. His Lordship refuses to heed his father’s urgings—something about his duties, the estate, and the matter of returning to military service, if he so chooses. The Duke has been in quite a temper, so it will be best if you avoid the west corridor until they’re finished.”

Josephine nodded at that, though curiosity tugged at her. “It must be difficult for the family. I hear that he was well respected during the war.”

“That he was,” Miss Ellory said softly, settling her muslin towel on the edge of the table for Josephine. “But he returned changed—he’s quite brooding and restless. The Duke believes he must be molded into the heir Northumberland requires, but…” She shook her head, almost in an unsatisfactory way. “Men like Lord Styles don’t take kindly to cages.”

Josephine murmured her thanks for the towel, though her heart had already quickened at Ellory’s response.

“I will let you finish your breakfast and get on with your day, Miss Dowding,” She concluded before giving Josephine a small smile and leaving just as quickly as she had arrived. Josephine had looked out the window that sat directly beside her desk where she had been getting ready, looking at the way that the fog had continued to push along the mountains in the autumn air.

She promised herself she would stay out of the matter with the Duke and Marquess, but when she stepped into the corridor only a few moments later, she heard the raised voices through the heavy oak door of the Duke’s study—completed unprompted, but readily available to hear.

“—a hero to this country, Harry!” came the Duke’s deep, resounding voice. “Do you think that comes without obligation?”

“I did not ask to be your hero,” Harry snapped back, his voice raw with restrained fury; Josephine could hear it through the wood almost like it had cut her like a splinter. “Do you think I enjoy being paraded around as some—some symbol? I’m not your perfect heir, father, nor should you expect me to be.”

Josephine froze in the hallway. The heat in his tone sent a chill through her. The Duke’s reply came sharp and thunderous.

“You’ll fulfill your duties, whether you enjoy them or not, Harold. You owe this family that much!”

There was a long silence—then the sudden crash of something striking the floor, a chair perhaps. The door flew open, and Harry stormed out, his expression dark and unguarded. He nearly collided with Josephine, stopping short when he saw her with a disbelief on his face that acquainted to sudden scare.

“Miss Dowding,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. His coat hung open, his jaw tight, a flush of anger coloring his cheekbones, his hair amused. For a heartbeat tick, neither spoke. Her pulse stuttered at the proximity and at the scent of tobacco and leather clinging to him that had wafted.

“My lord,” she managed, lowering her gaze. “Forgive me—I-I did not mean to intrude.”

He exhaled sharply, forcing civility into his tone. “You could not have known. My father—” He stopped himself, shaking his head with an annoyed scuff, trying to push himself into a forced smile. “It matters not.”

Josephine hesitated as he brushed past her with his stride purposeful, his anger radiating like heat from a forge. But something within her—something reckless and unbidden urged her to move and follow behind.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she turned on her heel and went after him.

He was already at the far end of the hall, his long strides carrying him toward the rear of the estate; it was towards the stables, she realized.

His hands were clenched at his sides, his shoulders rigid beneath his coat. There was something unbearable about seeing him like this, stripped of his practiced ease. For the first time, he looked not like a lord or a flirt, but a man coming undone piece by piece.

Josephine hesitated at the end of the corridor, the air cool against her flushed cheeks. Every step she took was a risk—a step away from her duties, away from the safety of routine.

Miss Ellory’s warning echoed in her mind like a stern whisper: Do not draw attention to yourself. Do not give them cause to question your place here.

And yet, she found herself descending the servants’ stairway, the stone steps cold beneath the soles of her shoes, her heart hammering.

She should have gone to the girl; she should have been in the schoolroom, ensuring Lady Eleanor’s handwriting was precise and Lady Beatrice’s attention was fixed. But she could not shake the image of Lord Styles’ expression as he left the study.

Outside the manor, the chill of the morning air bit at her skin. The stables loomed ahead, a shadowed line against the gray sky. The scent of hay and earth met her as she stepped inside, mingled with the soft nickering of horses and the faint rustle of straw. Light streamed through the open doors in pale ribbons, catching dust motes in the air.

Harry was there, his back to her, his sleeves rolled to his forearms, jacket hanging next to the stable door as he adjusted the saddle on a restless bay mare. The hard lines of his shoulders were taut with restrained energy. Every movement was sharp, efficient, almost punishing in his shoulders that perused through his shirt.

It was as if he meant to conquer the beast by sheer force of will.

Josephine hesitated in the doorway. “My lord?”

He froze, his hands stilling on the reins before turning, his expression dark with surprise and irritation. “Miss Dowding?” he said sharply at first, but his register softened, “Have you taken to following me now?”

She flinched but steadied herself. “No, my lord. I—”

“You were outside the study,” he interrupted, his tone clipped. “I saw you.”

Her heart thudded at his stare. “I—yes. I heard— the raised voices and… I was concerned.”

“Concerned?” His laugh was short, humorless, like her concern was anything but. “You mistake me for a man in need of sympathy.”

He pulled the girth of the saddle to the horse; Josephine’s eyes flickered to the way his biceps pulled.

“Not sympathy,” she said softly, her voice trembling but firm. “But no man argues with another man in such a manner and walks away untroubled.”

He met her gaze, the mockery fading. For a long moment, the only sounds were the shifting of the mare’s hooves and the creak of the saddle strap in his hand. Then, with a sigh, he set the bridle aside with a defeat.

“You should not be here,” he said finally, though the edge in his voice had dulled. “If someone saw you trailing after me, you'd have your post revoked by sundown.”

“I—” Josephine narrowed her eyes before shaking her head. “May I ask what would give the audacity to remove me for trying to understand something?”

Something in her tone—quiet, resolute—made his brow furrow. His anger, once sharp, seemed to waver under her steady gaze. He turned away, running a hand through his hair.

“I am not the man they want me to be,” he said suddenly, his voice low, roughened by exhaustion. “To my father, I am a title. To my mother, a duty. To the rest of England, a salacious adulterer,” he huffed before shaking his head, “They do not the real man underneath it all.”

Josephine took a cautious step closer. “And who is that man, my lord?”

He looked over his shoulder at her, his mouth curving into something between a smirk and a grimace. “One who no longer knows.”

Her heart tightened. “You’ve returned from war, my lord. No one could remain unchanged by such things, you know.”

“Changed?” he repeated, bitterly amused. “I am no noble hero, Miss Dowding. I am merely a man who learned to survive. And for that, my father calls me ungrateful.”

“He calls you a hero,” she said quietly. “And yet, you speak as if that word has become a curse— it's noble.”

Harry’s laugh was soft, hollow. “Because it is a curse. They speak of glory, of honor. But what do they know of it? The stench of gunpowder. The sound a man makes when he dies— they think victory means returning alive.”

He paused, his chest rising sharply with breath he could not quite steady. His hands trembled where they gripped the stable door, and for the first time, Josephine saw him not as the arrogant Marquess who toyed with her composure, but as a man fractured by the weight of all he had seen.

“You are not alone in that, my lord,” she said softly, finding her words. “You may think yourself above others’ understanding, but pain is a thing all men share. And all women too.”

His gaze snapped to hers, searching. “You speak as though you know it well.”

Her breath hitched, but lips pursed. “We all have our battles.”

He stepped toward her, the tension in his frame shifting from fury to something quieter, more dangerous. “And what battles are yours, Miss Dowding?”

She faltered at that, lowering her eyes to be unfazed. “Ones I prefer not to revisit, my lord.”

For a moment, the only sound was the horse’s steady breathing in the cool, autumnal air. Harry’s anger had drained entirely, leaving behind something raw, which had become an exhaustion that felt older than he was. He exhaled and turned away, his tone softer now.

“I envy you, you know,” he said with quiet integrity. “Your restraint, your composure. I seem to have misplaced both.”

“You have reason,” she replied quickly, wanting to enlighten his dimness. “Composure is a luxury afforded to those who are safe, and you must find safety.”

Their eyes met again, and for a heartbeat, neither spoke. The air was heavy with things unspoken along with the questions and the strange intimacy of two people standing too close to their own secrets that are neither are willing to share.

At last, Josephine lowered her head. “You should ride, my lord. It may help.”

He studied her, the faintest curve of a smile ghosting across his lips. “And you should return to your pupils before Miss Ellory suspects you’ve been corrupted by poor company.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “I daresay it is too late for that.”

He chuckled, though the sound carried weariness. “You are a rare woman, Miss Dowding. I can’t decide if that intrigues or infuriates me.”

“Then perhaps it is best you do not decide,” she replied, turning toward the door with a quick smile. “But intrigue can create infuriation, my lord.”

As she stepped out into the morning light, she felt his gaze follow her, warm and weighted. The cold air bit her cheeks, but beneath it, something inside her glowed—a dangerous warmth she did not dare name.

Josephine lingered at the edge of the courtyard; her hands folded tightly before her as she watched the Marquess mount his horse as he had done so thousands of times prior. The bay mare shifted restlessly beneath him as he pulled back at the reins, her breath steaming in the chilly air.

Harry’s movements were practiced and smooth, the ease of a man who had spent half his life on horseback. Yet there was tension in the line of his shoulders, in the way his jaw set as he took the reins. Without another word, he kicked lightly at the stirrups and rode out, the sound of hooves echoing through the courtyard until it faded into the fog.

Josephine stood a moment longer, the hem of her gown brushing against the straw-strewn cobblestones. A strange ache pressed at her chest, and she hadn’t been sure if it was concern or something she dared not name. She forced herself to turn away and return to the main hall.

Her duty awaited her behind the mahogany doors.

By the time she reached the schoolroom, the fire had burned low in the heath, and the scent of ink and parchment filled the air around her. Eleanor sat primly at the table, a quill in hand, while Beatrice was already squirming in her seat with contained energy that she wasn’t able to place.

“Miss Dowding!” Beatrice exclaimed, eyes wide with delight. “We’ve been wondering where you have been.”

“I am sorry to keep you both waiting,” Josephine said gently, smoothing her skirts as she sat at the small desk. “We shall make up for lost time, my girls.”

Eleanor studied her, head tilted slightly. “You look… distracted,” she observed with a smile that was far too knowing for her years. “Are you alright?”

Josephine blinked, startled by the accuracy of the question. “I am just fine,” she said quickly. “Your curiosity and empathy are greatly appreciated, Lady Eleanor.”

Eleanor’s grin widened at the governess, along with a cheeky smile that matched her brothers with electricity, “But you’ve the look of someone with too much on her mind. Beatrice has it when she’s thinking about jam tarts.”

Beatrice gasped with a bit of drama as she looked upon her sister, “I do not!”

Josephine smiled despite herself, shaking her head. “Then let us think of how poetry and religion coincide and not about tarts, shall we?”

But as the girls bent their heads to their work in a moment of quiet, Josephine found her thoughts wandering back to the way the sound of his voice in the stable lingered in a way that she hadn’t seen from him before; it was clear and crisp and human. She had seen something raw in him, something he seemed desperate to hide but desperate to show her all at once.

It troubled her that she could not stop thinking of it.

__________

The countryside spread wide before him, its rolling hills bathed in a thin veil of mist as he kept his head up and forward. The chill wind bit at his cheeks as his horse galloped through the green valleys, the rhythm of hooves pounding a steady drumbeat beneath him. It was a familiar solitude through the wind and sky, and for the first time since morning, he could breathe in that undoubtably fresh air.

He rode hard, as though speed itself could scatter his thoughts, but they clung to him stubbornly.

Josephine.

Her voice, calm yet edged with quiet strength, echoed in his mind. The way she had looked at him—not with fear or flattery—unnerved him. It was as though she saw straight through the persona he had spent years perfecting. He had met hundreds of women who admired him, dozens who desired him and acted on that desire, surely, but none who regarded him as something... more.

And what a fool he was for thinking about her now. A governess, at that. It was almost as if he had forgotten about what had happened the last time.

He drew the reins, slowing his horse to a trot as he climbed a ridge overlooking the valley. Below, the estate, Northumberland Manor, sprawled its turrets rising from the mist like sentinels. To the east, the northern river had shimmered in the popping sunrays that attempted to burst, winding silver through the trees.

He remembered riding these same trails as a boy, before duty had a name and expectation a weight. His father’s words replayed in his head: You’re a hero to this country. Do you think that comes without obligation?

Harry clenched his jaw just at the thought of it; the duke saw only the heir to their hierarchy, the soldier who survived when better men had not. But beneath the title, beneath the uniform that had become so heavy emotionally and physically, he felt hollow with no further purpose or meaning. The war had taken from him something he could not name, and now the weight of their legacy pressed down like a thousand bricks of gold.

But, in a strange and unfamiliar feeling, another voice lingered in the back of his brain that hadn’t always been there: You are not alone in that, my lord.

The thought struck deeper than it should have. With a grim sigh, he turned the mare back toward the manor to face the sting of reality that had been upon him.

When he returned, the courtyard was alive with movement as two carriages stood near the grand steps, their coats-of-arms gleaming in true royal fashion. Harry’s curiosity got the better of him as he dismounted slowly, a sense of foreboding already stirring beneath his chest. A staff member had already approached him, taking the reins of the horse to return to the stable.

“Ah, there he is,” came his mother’s voice from the threshold. His mother stood with her usual grace, her hands clasped before her as she tilted her head at him with a proper motion, “Harry, you’ve returned just in time. We have guests this afternoon, dear.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed slightly at the carriages before turning back towards his mother; he hadn’t been properly dressed, a bit windswept and disheveled from his ride, his jacket down in the stables. “Guests?”

“The Duke and Duchess of Thorning,” his mother said smoothly, a cross of a smirk hinting at her lips before she raised her brows. “And their daughter, Lady Genevieve.”

Harry felt his body tense in a manner that shelled anger in a way that he couldn’t compress. “You cannot be serious.”

The duchess smiled in that serene, deliberate way that mothers do when they have plotted something far in advance, but more in a way that tried to get her son to keep polite and not rather storm off. “It would be impolite not to entertain them, Harry. Lady Genevieve newly comes from Bath, and her parents have long desired an introduction between the two of you.”

He gave a short, humorless laugh as he moved to his mother’s placement on the steps. “An introduction, or an arrangement?”

“Whichever comes first,” she said, her smile unwavering as she turned back to the carriages with the politeness of a dove.

Harry glanced toward the carriages again, where the young lady in question was stepping gracefully down with the aid of a footman. Even from a distance, he could see she was lovely—a refined and delicateness that was everything a duke’s daughter should be.

As she turned her head to offer a polite smile, his mind betrayed him once more.

It was not Genevieve’s soft beauty that came to him, but Miss Dowding’s steady and unwavering gaze in the stables, and the spark of defiance that had made his chest ache and his thoughts unspool.

He inhaled sharply and forced a charming smile onto his lips before stepping forward to greet the Thorning’s on their arrival to the manor, as any respectable Marquess would.

He had heard the footsteps behind him as his father approached them both, standing together on the stairs as final addition to their reign. Harry’s stomach ached with the feeling that came from the pleasantries he wasn’t aware of for the evening and tried his best to dismiss them by keeping his head held high.

“Your Graces,” he said, inclining his head to be above what his other mother and father thought of him. “It is an honor to welcome you to Northumberland.”

The Duchess of Thorning smiled with motherly satisfaction as she approached the stairs. “You are too kind, Lord Styles. We are most pleased to find you in residence. My husband has long spoken of your service abroad.”

“Then he is generous beyond measure,” Harry replied evenly with a smile that was varnished, “I am simply glad to be home.”

Lady Genevieve followed her mother with golden curls and fine silk; she moved like a creature designed for admiration. Her gloved hand rested lightly in her father’s as she descended, her eyes bright with polite interest; she curtsied, the movement precise and delicate.

“Lord Styles,” she said, her voice light and melodic and practiced, “It is a great pleasure at last. My parents speak most highly of you.”

“I am certain they exaggerate,” Harry returned smoothly, though his eyes did not linger. He smiled as duty required, but something guarded shadowed his expression.

The Duchess of Northumberland beamed, pleased by the exchange between them. “How fortunate that you should arrive just in time for supper. Our young girls will be delighted to meet such fine company, as they are completing their studies for the day.”

As the party moved through the great entrance hall, the soft hum of evening preparations filled the manor. Footmen hurried to light the sconces along the walls, their flames flickering to life one by one, while the scent of roasted pheasant drifted faintly from the kitchens.

Harry found himself swept along by the formalities, each word of polite conversation tightening the sense of obligation pressing against him. He longed for quiet, for the freedom of the open air once again and had been wishing that he had not felt the calling back to the manor so quickly. When the first opportunity arose, he excused himself, retreating upstairs to his chambers. There, he washed away the dust of the afternoon’s ride, changing into the dark attire expected of him for dinner.

Downstairs, unbeknownst to him, the Duchess oversaw the final arrangements with calm precision. In another wing, Miss Dowding gathered Lady Eleanor and Lady Beatrice from their lessons, ensuring they were properly dressed and composed before supper. The girls chatted excitedly, unaware of the social weight the evening would carry.

Josephine’s own heart beat with a quiet tension she could not name, though she forced a steady smile as she guided them toward the dining hall.

By the time they gathered in the grand dining hall, the manor glowed with warmth and candlelight. The Duke sat at the head of the table, the Duchess beside him, all fine manners and measured smiles. Josephine sat halfway down, flanked by Eleanor and Beatrice, who whispered and giggled over the array of silver dishes. She had dressed simply, as befitted her station, yet the soft blue of her gown brought out the delicate color in her cheeks. She had told herself she would not look for him, not tonight, but when Lord Styles entered the room, her resolve fractured completely and unwillingly.

He was wearing every inch the role of the Marquess with the dark cut of his coat, the subtle gleam of his signet ring, the careless power of his stride as he entered the room with no hesitation. Beside him walked Lady Genevieve, radiant in silk and pearls, smiling as though the world bent toward her pleasure; Josephine was certain that it did, anyways.

They took their seats near the Duke and Duchess, the very image of what the family desired: a future built on propriety and alliance. Josephine lowered her gaze, focusing on the girls, but her ears caught every word that passed between the two.

“Have you read the works of Cowper, my lady?” Harry asked lightly, his tone a touch too courteous to be true in sincerity.

Genevieve blinked prettily at him with a softness that Josephine couldn’t have practiced if she tried. “Oh, I am afraid not. Poetry has never quite suited me, I don’t think. I find it far too… traditional and quite a bore.”

Harry’s smile flickered away like the candlelight in front of him. “Then you have perhaps been reading the wrong poets.”

“I prefer music,” she said, tilting her head with a soft giggle. “A simple melody can convey so much more than pages of verse.”

Harry’s gaze drifted across the table to where Josephine sat quietly, pouring Eleanor’s water. Even if it was the briefest moment, their eyes had met at the words spoken as if either of them found that to be completely ridiculous.

It was a look heavy with unspoken thought. Her breath caught, but he looked away first.

Throughout the meal, the pattern repeated; Genevieve’s charm gliding effortlessly across the conversation, Harry’s attention waning despite his practiced courtesy. She spoke of Bath, of her design of gowns, of her delight in minuets and the latest gossip of the ton. He nodded, smiled in all the right places, but his eyes betrayed him.

More than once, they sought the far end of the table, drawn again and again and again to the governess who never quite met his gaze again.

When Josephine dared a glance, she found him watching her with his expression unreadable, the faintest curve of his mouth betraying amusement, perhaps longing, perhaps frustration. Her pulse raced just at the moment. She lowered her eyes at once, her hand trembling as she reached for her glass.

The duke raised a toast to the future, his voice deep and resonant. “To family, and to the bonds that strengthen it.”

“Family,” Harry echoed, his tone polite, but the edge was there—soft enough to pass unnoticed by their guests, but not by Josephine. Nor by his mother, whose gaze flicked between them with quiet awareness.

Eleanor leaned toward Josephine, whispering, “Lady Genevieve is very pretty, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Josephine murmured with painted confidence. “Quite.”

Beatrice piped up with innocent enthusiasm, in a whispered manner between them. “But she doesn’t seem to know about horses, or maps, or poetry like Harry does. That’s silly.”

Eleanor made a strong face at her sister, but Josephine only smiled faintly, her heart twisting in her chest.

The evening dragged on, each course a delicate performance of manners and unspoken longing. Conversation swelled and ebbed like the tide, silverware chiming faintly against porcelain as footmen glided between courses.

Harry played his part to perfection—his laughter smooth and measured, his compliments effortless, yet every word he offered Genevieve felt rehearsed, practiced, devoid of genuine warmth; he was good at playing the part and entertaining the moment. She responded with the same eager smiles, leaning toward him with demure grace, though her eyes betrayed the same hunger for approval that had always bored him.

To Josephine, seated further down the table, the spectacle was almost painful to see. She could see the faint twitch at the corner of Harry’s mouth each time Genevieve spoke of Bath’s endless soirées or the charm of London balls. His gaze, however, betrayed the truth of his restlessness.

It strayed again and again, unbidden, to where Josephine sat with the girls. Once, as the candlelight flickered over crystal and brass, their eyes met and the air between them seemed to tremble. Her breath caught, and for the briefest instant, it felt as though the rest of the table ceased to exist.

Harry felt it too: the sharp tug in his chest, the pull of something forbidden yet undeniable. He broke the gaze first again, masking the turmoil behind another easy smile, turning his attention back to Genevieve’s practiced charm.

When the duchess finally rose to suggest music in the drawing room, Harry pushed back his chair with careful restraint, but far too quickly as if he had been waiting. He stood as a gentleman should, offering his arm to Genevieve, but his movements were slower, more deliberate—as if each step were weighted with thought.

Even then, his gaze flickered once more toward the governess, lingering longer than propriety allowed. The soft light caught the sheen of her hair, the delicate composure of her face, and for a fleeting moment, he forgot himself entirely.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to still around them—the clatter of silver fading, the chatter of the table dulling into silence. His eyes met hers, warm and full of something she could not bear to name with the intensity of a thousand suns.

Then, he would turn away as if that intensity was supposed to just… go away.

Josephine forced her attention back to the girls, her composure steady though her pulse betrayed her. She had known from the moment she accepted her post that this world was not hers to touch. And yet, as she watched him escort Genevieve toward the drawing room, her heart whispered treason against all good sense.

For the first time in much time, Josephine feared that her heart might betray her again.

The drawing room gleamed with the warmth of candlelight and the faint scent of tea and roses. The Thorning’s had settled on the sofa nearest the hearth to keep warm in the bristling late autumnal air, while servants moved gracefully between tables with silver trays of steaming cups and delicate cakes that had been prepared fo them.

The duke, ever cordial in company, had launched into a discussion of land and politics with Lord Thorning, while the ladies made polite conversation about the season’s gatherings in London.

Harry stood near the window at first, hands clasped behind his back, staring out at the black stretch of night that had started to come across the land. The bit of forst along the glass caught the light like veins of silver. He could hear Genevieve’s gentle laughter and felt the familiar weight of obligation pressing against his chest.

It was decent laughter, it was a laughter he could imagine for the rest of time.

“Harry,” came his father’s voice, sharp but smiling as if to pull him away from his thoughts, “come, my boy. You have been most quiet this evening. Lady Genevieve was just speaking of her fondness for music. Surely, you can offer something of interest.”

Harry turned, offering the semblance of a smile as he held the glass full of scotch that was eager to add fire to the flames in his chest. “I fear my talents in that regard are limited, father. My appreciation of melody is high, but I fear that I have not an ounce to add to this conversation.”

A ripple of polite laughter followed, though the duke’s eyes glinted with restrained irritation for the way that his son disconnected. The duchess, seated nearby, observed the exchange with quiet awareness. She could see the tightening of her son’s jaw, the way his attention drifted from Genevieve’s expectant expression toward the shelves of books that lined the far wall.

And there, moving quietly along those shelves, was Miss Dowding.

She was tracing the titles with a fingertip, her expression thoughtful, almost wistful. The flicker of the firelight caught the dark sheen of her hair and the soft curve of her face as she tilted her head to read a spine. The duchess saw the shift in her son instantly—the way his shoulders eased, his irritation softening into something gentler, more intent.

Her son had started stepping away from the group as he reached Josephine with a quiet ease. His voice carried lightly across the room, laced with that familiar charm that made the duchess still. “Surely the governess isn’t searching for my father’s dull ledgers after such a fine supper?”

Josephine turned, startled to find every pair of eyes now upon her. “No, my lord,” she said, her tone polite but firm—it was almost as if she was questioning why his attention had turned to her rather than his fanciful guests. “I was just admiring your father’s collection. He seems to have quite the range of history and philosophy.”

Harry’s lips curved faintly, nodding in agreement. “Indeed, he does. Though I doubt he has opened half of them as you can see the collection of dust that predates myself, surely. Tell me, Miss Dowding, do you favor history over poetry?”

A hint of color touched her cheeks at his question that turned her eyes towards the fictional tales. “I favor truth over flattery, my lord.”

The duchess hid a smile behind her teacup as she overheard their remarks. Lady Genevieve blinked, uncertain whether to laugh or frown at how the attention had moved.

Harry tilted his head, clearly amused by her; he took a soft sip from his chalice. The way that her eyes shown told him a story, but he felt as if he hadn’t known the language.

“A fair answer. But I suspect you know your poetry well enough. Perhaps I might send you a volume to test that theory, if you’d so desire.”

Josephine lowered her gaze quickly, her eyes quickly glared to the sitting room that had been awaiting Harry’s attention again. “That would not be necessary, my lord.”

“Nonsense,” he replied, his tone easy but his eyes intent. “I insist.”

Across the room, the duke cleared his throat pointedly. “Harry,” he said, his tone crisp, “I am certain Lady Genevieve might prefer your attention over conversation on philosophy.”

Lady Genevieve smiled with a pointed politeness that could sting like a scorpion, though the gesture seemed forced. “Indeed, Lord Styles, I should enjoy hearing more of your time in France.”

Harry hesitated next to Josephine for a moment, the charm momentarily fading. His gaze flicked once more toward Josephine before he turned back to Genevieve with a polite nod. “Of course, my lady. The French countryside is lovely this time of year, though I confess my memories of it are less than idyllic.”

The duke gave a satisfied nod as conversation resumed, but the duchess saw the truth written across her son’s face.

His smile never reached his eyes, and though he answered Genevieve’s questions with practiced civility, his thoughts were elsewhere—trailing behind the governess who had quietly withdrawn to the corner near the girls, her posture composed yet inwardly trembling from his attention.

The duchess understood her son far better than her husband did, she knew. The Thorning alliance promised security, wealth, and prestige to their name, but it would bring her son no happiness. And yet, she knew the duke would not see it that way—she knew that no matter the state of her son’s happiness, that would not matter. All that mattered was their funds and stature in a world that had become societal.

As tea was poured and music began to play softly from the pianoforte, the duchess cast another glance toward her son. Harry’s eyes were fixed not on the woman his father hoped he would marry, but on the one no one in the room dared to notice.

__________

The guests had long since departed, their laughter fading down the drive, leaving behind the stillness of a house too grand for silence. The fire in the drawing room had burned lower, throwing a soft amber glow across the shelves and the polished surface of the decanter that sat upon the sideboard. Harry stood before it, one hand resting on the mantle, the other holding another full glass of scotch that caught the light like liquid gold.

His eyes felt the dance along the wooden log.

His mother entered quietly, her footsteps light against the rug. “Harry,” she said softly, closing the door behind her. “It has been a long evening. You should retire to bed shortly.”

He turned slightly, offering her a faint smile that did not reach his eyes. “You might say that, mother.” He took a slow sip, the warmth of the drink doing little to ease the tightness in his chest.

The duchess crossed the room, her expression a careful blend of affection and concern. “You handled yourself well. The Thorning’s were most impressed by you, you know.”

“Were they?” he said, his tone edged with weariness and a bit of humorless pity. “I imagine they were too polite to show otherwise.”

She studied him for a long moment before seating herself on the sofa near the fire. “Harry,” she spoke out gently, “I know what your father asks of you is… heavy. But we are not seeking to burden you. We only want what is best for you, and what will bring you happiness.”

Harry gave a low, humorless laugh at the wording. “Happiness? I am not sure that word applies to our family’s vocabulary—we don’t do things to make us happy.”

“Then perhaps it should,” she replied softly. “You think I do not see it? The way you grow restless here, as though every wall in this house is closing around you. Your father believes you need duty to ground you. I believe you need something that will give you peace.”

He looked down at his glass, swirling the amber liquid within. The firelight caught his face, painting his expression in shifting gold and shadow. “Peace,” he repeated quietly. “A fine word, but one I do not think I will ever know.”

“Because of the war?” she asked gently.

He hesitated, trying his best to push down the feeling of resent that had built between his ribs and started to grow like a cancer that clung to each bone.

“Because of everything.” He turned towards her, his voice low, thoughtful. “The war taught me how fragile men are… what little control we have, even when the world tells us we were born to command it. Since returning, I’ve felt…” he paused for a moment, taking in a steady breath, “untethered. And now father wishes to tie me to another chain. One wrapped in silk and titles.”

The duchess folded her hands in her lap, her gaze softening. “You mean Lady Genevieve.”

He gave a faint smile at how his mother had picked up on that alone, shaking his head. “She is everything a man in my position ought to want—she’s quite beautiful, obedient to the rules of this world.” He took another drink before adding, “And yet, I felt nothing—not a flicker. I could not even pretend to be interested,” his eyes met his mother’s, “She had the personality of someone built by the system, not built by interest. She didn’t have a thought of her own, and it is not what I seek.”

The duchess exhaled slowly at her son’s admissions, watching the firelight dance across his shoulders. “Then what is it that you seek, Harry?”

His silence stretched long enough that the ticking of the clock seemed deafening. When he spoke, his voice had softened, low, uncertain. “I wish you would allow me to find out.”

His mother’s brows furrowed. “You mean to take time before settling.”

“I mean to take time before being forced into a life I did not choose.” He turned then, meeting her gaze with rare vulnerability. “I wish to understand what it is that stirs me, what it is I truly want. Because right now, my mind is… captured. And I cannot—no, I will not—ignore it.”

The duchess studied him carefully, her expression unreadable. “Captured, you say?” she murmured. “By what—or by whom?”

He hesitated with her intense curiosity, looking away, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You are far too perceptive, mother.”

Her lips curved faintly at the way that he shot away from the conversation and disabled it altogether. “You always were a poor liar, Harry. You have your father’s temper, but my heart sees through you easily.”

He set his glass down, rubbing the back of his neck as he couldn’t let his mind numb from the ideas that danced around. He was soft and quiet with his admission. “I do not know what this is yet. Only that when I am near her, the noise quiets. The restlessness dulls. There is…” he paused to almost catch his breath, “There is comfort.”

“The governess,” the Duchess said softly, her tone neither shocked nor reproachful—only resigned. “Miss Dowding.”

Harry said nothing, which was answer enough to both.

The duchess rose from her position on the chaise, moving closer to him. She laid a gentle hand on his arm. “You must tread a dangerous path, my son. The world would not forgive such attachments lightly, and you know this.”

“I know,” he said simply, eyes narrowing just a bit at the way that she pushed. “But I have fought battles that cost men their souls, and still I lived. I cannot go on living a life that feels like dying.”

Her gaze softened at her son’s pleas, full of quiet sorrow and maternal pride for his fight towards a life that was unbeknownst to him. Not only as a woman, but as a figure in society, she knew where this would end. “Your father will not understand this.”

“I know,” he repeated, “But perhaps you might.”

The duchess hesitated, then nodded slowly. “I understand more than you think. But if you are to follow your heart, Harry, you must be certain it is not born of pity or loneliness. You must be sure it is truth, that is the only way to know that it is right.”

He met her eyes, steady and unflinching. “It is truth enough for now.”

For a long moment, they stood in silence—the mother and her son, two souls bound by duty and longing for something bigger than themselves, the fire crackling softly between them. At last, the duchess sighed and turned toward the door to leave her son in peace.

“Then I shall do what I can to give you time to consider your actions,” she said quietly. “But as mentioned, tread carefully, Harry. You are no longer a soldier on a field—you are a man in society’s gaze, and that can be a far crueler battlefield in its own regard.”

When she left, the room felt larger somehow, emptier than without her presence. Harry poured himself another measure of scotch and stared into the fire until the embers blurred, his mind drifting once more to the sweet, measured voice reading poetry in the schoolroom, and the look in Miss Dowding’s eyes when she dared to meet his own.

__________

The night had grown still within the manor, apart from the quiet save for the distant ticking of the hall clock and the whisper of the wind pressing against the windowpanes.

In her chamber, Josephine sat curled in the narrow armchair by the hearth, a single candle burning low beside her. Its golden flame trembled each time she turned a page, throwing flickers of light across the open book on her lap; it was the very volume Lord Styles had pressed into her hands earlier.

A French novel.

Bound in worn leather, its pages soft with age and use. She had hesitated before opening it, fearing its contents might be too bold, too intimate for her to stomach. But the curiosity had a will of its own, and now she found herself lost within its daring prose.

The words were lush, unflinching, painting the complexities of passion and longing in strokes that felt almost indecent for her to read even in her own confines. Her breath caught as she read of stolen glances, trembling hands, the quiet agony of restraint. It was all too much— with too much vividness, too much honesty. She pressed a hand to her throat, feeling the warmth rise on her skin even in the cool air.

She read on despite herself and the feeling that had encapsulated her. Each sentence unfurled like a whisper, the candlelight licking at the edge of the page. Her imagination betrayed her; without meaning to, she found herself thinking of him—of Lord Styles leaning lazily against the mantel, of his low, teasing tone, of the spark that danced in his eyes when she dared to challenge him.

She shifted in her seat, closing the book feverishly as though caught in sin.

“This is foolish,” she whispered to the empty room. “Utterly foolish.”

But the silence gave her no comfort. The heat in her chest refused to fade, and the confines of her chamber began to feel stifling. She rose, her night robe brushing softly against her ankles, and crossed to the window. Below, the courtyard lay still, bathed in moonlight. A soft glow flickered in the distance—from the library on the opposite end of the manor, she realized.

For a long moment she stood there, battling reason. She ought to stay, to fight sleep; to forget this feeling that had no place in her life, but her thoughts were restless, and her pulse refused to slow down.

So she took up her candle, wrapped her shawl about her shoulders, and slipped quietly into the corridor.

The halls were cold and dark, the sconces unlit save for the faint glimmer from the main stairwell. Her slippers made no sound on the stone as she descended, every step deliberate. She moved like one caught between dream and waking, drawn forward by something she could not name.

When she reached the library door, she paused for a ticking moment. The faint scent of smoke and scotch drifted through the air; she hesitated only a moment longer before pushing the door open.

Inside, the fire burned low, its amber light spilling across the vast room. The shelves stood in silence even with their large presence, rows upon rows of books climbing into shadow. And there—half reclined on the chaise before the hearth—sat Lord Styles.

He had discarded his coat, his waistcoat undone, his white shirt open at the throat. A book lay in his hand, though he wasn’t reading. The firelight caught the sharp line of his jaw, the glint of the glass on the side table beside him. He looked every bit the portrait of idleness and thought, a man adrift in his own solitude.

For a moment, Josephine could only stand in the doorway, her oil lamp trembling slightly in her grasp.

He glanced up at the faint sound of the door, his gaze sharpening when he saw her.

“Miss Dowding,” he said softly, surprise flickering into something else—something warmer, almost amused, almost like he had been dreaming. He sat up in an effort to become presentable, “I had not expected company at this hour.”

“I could not sleep,” she said, her voice low as she moved into the room, letting the door close behind. “I thought perhaps searching for another book might help.”

His eyes drifted to the volume still clutched in her hand, recognition curved his mouth into a knowing smile. “Ah. My little gift has found its way into your evening, then.”

Josephine felt her cheeks heat at the way that his eyes had found her hands; she shifted it between her fingers. “I must say, it is… rather bold, my lord.”

Harry chuckled, setting his own book aside before he turned to her more. “The French seldom bother with restraint. It is part of their charm.”

She hesitated, stepping further into the room even though she noticed the mused sense of his hair and the way that he seemed to have a glossiness to his eyes that had started to play into his smile.

“Charm is not quite the word I would have chosen.”

He rose from the chaise to greet her in a formal manner, the firelight catching the fine lines of his face; his white shirt unbuttoned a bit at the top. “And what word would you choose, Miss Dowding?”

Her breath wavered when he stood and she could see the way he had become a bit undone. “Dangerous, perhaps.”

His smile deepened at that, though his tone remained light but covered in syrup. “Then perhaps it suits you more than you realize.”

She blinked, uncertain if it was jest or something else entirely. The fire cracked softly between them and the silence that overcame them both, and for a moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched through them; she clutched the book closer to her chest, as if it might shield her from the gravity of his gaze.

“I should let you return to your reading, then, my lord,” she murmured at last, dipping her head. “Forgive me for disturbing you.”

He inclined his head, though his eyes never left her; he felt his own pulse strengthen with the idea that she may leave.

“It is no disturbance, Miss Dowding. In truth, I find your company far more engaging than anything I have read tonight.” He gestured toward the opposite chair by the fire, his voice a velvet invitation. “If you find yourself unable to sleep, perhaps you might join me in here.”

She felt the hesitation on her lips, the proper protest rising to her lips, but his tone was not commanding, only gentle. Against her better judgment, she stepped nearer, placing her lamp on the small table that sat parallel to the chaise

Harry poured another measure of scotch, the amber catching the light, and offered her a faint, almost teasing smile. “Ellory will scold you, should she find you wandering the corridors at this hour, you know.”

Josephine’s lips curved slightly at the thought of it—how much he didn’t even know. “Then I trust you will not mention it, my lord.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” His eyes softened, the playful edge in his voice fading into something more intent. “I should hope you would feel no need to hide here. You work harder than anyone beneath this roof. Surely you may rest for a moment.”

She sat, carefully, smoothing her skirts as though to remind herself of her boundaries. “Resting, my lord, has rarely brought me comfort.”

He leaned back as he took a seat next to her, studying her through the shifting glow of the fire. “No? You surprise me, Miss Dowding. You seem to possess a calm that eludes most.”

“Appearances deceive you, my lord,” she murmured, eyes lifting to find his and finding her mouth dry, “And please, do call me Josephine.”

He smiled, eyes tracing her expression as if reading a line of poetry. “They do, indeed. Josephine.” His voice dropped lower. “I should like to know what truth lies beneath yours.”

Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she forced herself to look away, recalling Ellory’s warning—those whispers amongst the manor had already begun, that she must not linger in his gaze too long, that she may not be caught here with him way past either of their bedtimes.

“I am not a puzzle to be solved.” She tells him with a certainty that makes his eyes flare in a deep color that’s unknown to mankind. It’s one that circles between intrigue, lust.

“Then forgive me if I am drawn to mysteries,” he bites back with a bit of wit. “The unknown is fascinating.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The fire crackled, painting their faces in shades of gold and shadow. Josephine felt the weight of his eyes on her, the quiet, simmering pull that both thrilled and frightened her. He had looked at Lady Genevieve all evening with polite distance, yet now, as his gaze held hers, she felt undone by the heaviness of his stare on her.

“You must think me improper, sitting here in my nightrobes,” she said finally, rising as though the movement could steady her.

“On the contrary,” he speaks, rising too, his height a shadow before her. “I think you are the only honest soul in this house.”

She faltered, her pulse unsteadies, yet before she could step away, he gestured toward the chair once more. “Stay, please. The hour is late, and it seems neither of us is inclined toward sleep.”

With a reluctant nod she settled back into the armchair beside his, the distance between them narrow enough that she could feel the warmth of the fire mingling with his nearness.

They read in silence for a time, the only sound the soft crackle of burning logs and the occasional rustle of a page.

Harry broke the quiet first when he realizes that nothing that he had read had been comprehended with her sitting next to him, his tone almost casual.

“Tell me, Josephine—do you ever tire of these halls? Of the endless lessons and proper courtesies?”

She kept her eyes on the page, taking in a deep breath. “Duty has its own reward, my lord.”

He smiled faintly at the way that she speaks, pushing away the depth of his questions, almost to challenge him further. “That sounds like something my mother might say. But I asked if you tire of it, not if it is admirable.”

Josephine hesitated as she lifted her eyes in a blink, “We all find weariness in repetition, I suppose.”

“And before you came here?” His gaze was sharp but not unkind. “Did you live in Ashbourne all your life?”

Her fingers stilled on the book’s spine, fingers moving down the gold leaf. “For a time,” she said carefully. “It is a quiet place.”

Harry watched her for a long moment, sensing the wall she built between her words the more he questioned her. “And your family?”

“My parents—” She felt herself pause, the dryness in her throat was felt as she tried to seem unbarred by his sudden interest in her life before this. “They are proud, they are decent people.”

He inclined his head, respectful but curious. “You speak of them fondly.”

“I try to remember the kindness,” she replied softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “The rest is best left forgotten.”

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, the firelight tracing the thoughtful lines of his face. “You are not like most women I have met, Josephine. You do not chatter for the sake of sound; you choose your words as though they might cost you.”

“Perhaps they might,” she pursed her lips, closing the book gently.

His eyes lingered on her face, green and searching, and for a heartbeat she thought he might press further. But instead, he leaned back, a small smile touching his mouth. “Then I shall not ask what burdens your silence. Not tonight.”

She met his gaze, startled by the gentleness in his tone. “Why not tonight?”

“Because you sound tired,” he said quietly, “And because I find I would rather have you here, in the peace of this moment, than see you retreat into shadows if I scare you away.”

Her breath caught, her heart twisting in her chest. She lowered her eyes, her voice faint. “You say too much, my lord.”

“Or perhaps not enough,” he answered, his smile softening into something that felt dangerously sincere.

They sat like that for what felt an age—the fire sighing into ash, the night beyond the windows, still. Josephine could feel the pull of his attention, could almost sense his heartbeat echoing her own. And yet, even as her pulse betrayed her, she clung to Ellory’s words, the warnings whispered in the hush of dawn: do not let him see you falter.

So, she smiled faintly, rising at last. “It grows late.”

He stood as well, his gaze following her as he matched her intentions. “Indeed. But I find myself wishing it did not.”

She inclined her head, her composure thin as glass as she breathed out gently. “Good night, my lord.”

“Good night, Josephine,” he said, his voice low and rich, carrying something unspoken that lingered long after she turned away, back towards the door and down the hall as if this had all been a dream.

If her lingering scent of tangerine and jasmine hadn’t been in the room with him, he may have believed it to be.

__________

In the next morning light, the sun crept slowly through the tall windows of the breakfast room, glinting off crystal decanters and silver serving trays. The air was still, save for the clink of porcelain and the low murmur of voices as the family gathered for the first meal of the day. Outside, a thin beginning winter frost still clung to the lawns, the world pale and quiet under the breath of early winter.

Josephine poured tea for Lady Eleanor and Beatrice, her motions measured and precise, her face calm though her thoughts were far from settled.

The memory of the previous night lingered like warmth at the edge of a dream—the smell of the firewood, the quiet intimacy of shared words, the way Lord Styles’ eyes had softened when he spoke to her but clung to her in a way that she hadn’t felt before. She had laid awake long after returning to her room, scolding herself for what she knew could not be allowed to grow.

At the head of the table, the Duke of Northumberland unfolded a letter brought by the morning post, scanning its contents with interest.

“It appears,” he said after a moment, reading through it thoroughly, “that the Wilton’s of Ashbourne will be arriving in two days’ time. They write to say they have been invited to stay on their way north.”

Harry, seated opposite his mother, paused mid-sip of his coffee. “The Wilton’s?” he repeated, his tone polite but indifferent. “I hadn’t heard of them travling north; I suspect that will be a grand tour, then.”

“Great old friends of the family,” the duchess explained. “Lord Wilton served with your grandfather in Parliament years ago. His wife is said to be quite the charming hostess. They have a son, I believe—”

“Yes,” the duke interrupted, nodding. “Edward Wilton, who is to inherit the Ashbourne estate. I met him once—very clever man, if a bit… prideful.”

Josephine’s hand faltered as she set down the teapot. The name struck like a bell against the walls of her mind, sharp and cold.

Edward Wilton.

It was completely unbelievable that she had found herself in a position that she knew she would be unable to get out of now. She forced herself to draw a breath, to continue with her task as though nothing had changed. But the way that the name sounded in the room had made her breath stop, her heart beat two times faster.

Beatrice, oblivious to the tension that had seized her governess, swung her feet beneath the table. “Will they bring children, mama?”

“I believe not,” the duchess replied with a smile. “They travel lightly this time of year.”

Harry glanced briefly at Josephine as he reached for the marmalade.

Something in her posture caught his attention—the faint stiffness in her shoulders, the way she kept her eyes fixed on the teacups as though they alone mattered.

“Miss Dowding,” he said lightly, as though to draw her back into the room, “I believe I had asked your previously about your knowledge on the Wilton’s—they are from Ashbourne, after all.”

The spoon in her hand clattered softly against the saucer, she had let the nerves be seen and she scolded herself for it. “I—” She stopped, her voice barely steady. “Yes, my lord. I knew whispers them—I do not believe—uh, they are… well regarded in the region.”

His brows lifted slightly at her tone, quiet and guarded. “Indeed? You sound as though you recall them clearly.”

She swallowed, forcing a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “One does not easily forget a family of such distinction.”

The duke nodded approvingly. “Quite right. A good name carries far. The Wilton’s are of sound reputation and fine standing. Their visit will be an excellent opportunity for us all.”

Across the table, Harry’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer, but this time with unnerve. There was something in her eyes—something fleeting, like fear. He couldn’t place it, but it unsettled him. “You seem troubled, Miss Dowding,” he said softly, almost kindly. “Are you unwell?”

She shook her head quickly, before she lifted her head and looked onto the three eldest at the table. “Only a touch of fatigue, my lord. The morning has come rather early.”

“See that you rest, then,” he murmured, though his expression betrayed his curiosity.

As the conversation turned to other matters—the girls’ lessons, the Thorning’s departure, the details of the Wiltons’ expected arrival—Josephine excused herself from the table quickly when she found herself starting to breathe heavier.

She moved swiftly, trying to maintain a façade, her heart pounding in her chest as she left the room. Once beyond the threshold on the other side of the dining room and through the drawing room, she pressed a trembling hand to her lips in a disbelief that she couldn’t fathom as she leaned against the wall.

Edward Wilton.

Her husband. The man she had fled from, the man she had taken herself from.  

For years she had prayed their paths would never cross again, that the world was wide enough to keep her hidden. And now, fate, with its cruel sense of irony, had brought his name back to her doorstep.

In the breakfast room, Harry watched her go with a quickness that he found intense and surely not lost on him.

The unease he had sensed deepened into something sharper. There was a story behind those eyes, a truth she had buried as carefully as any soldier concealing a wound. And though he did not yet understand why, he felt a pull to uncover it.

He took a sip of his tea and placed his hand towel on the table next to his plate, excusing himself before he found himself moving towards the door where Josephine had excused herself.

When he moved into the room, he noticed Josephine standing there in an uncertainty.

“I apologize, my lord,” Josephine stated with a reverence that she tried to cover up, but she stood straighter—calmer, then. “I needed a bit of air.”

Her sense of being was being masked before she saw the way that he tilted his head in the slightest way that made her eyes blink away. Harry stood there for a moment, sensing her, trying to understand the way that she trembled under his eyes before he lifted his head in a reserved manner.

“Apologies are not necessary,” he told her, words soft as they melted into a gentle tone, “I request that you return to your chambers at once, you seem unwell.”

Josephine took in a breath and looked upon him for a moment before she watched him interrupt her thoughts, “I insist. I will inform my family that you are unwell, and should you need anything,” his eyes turned upwards with the green orbit that she found herself lost in, “Find me.”

It felt like her words couldn’t come out, but rather than not being able to find the words, she couldn’t form them.

“Lord Styles, I—” her heart raced at his willingness to help, “I cannot accept your offer.”

“It is not an offer,” he told her with confidence and suggestion; he held his hands behind his back and nodded solidly, “It is an order.

Another pause between them before he nodded his head finally, “I will… make my way to your chambers sometime,” he bit the inside of his cheek, “To check on you.”

Her eyes lifted at that, startled by the intimacy of his words, the boldness veiled beneath his courtesy. “My lord, it would not be proper.”

“Perhaps,” he said, stepping closer, his voice almost a whisper. “But propriety has never been my strongest virtue.”

The faintest smile ghosted her lips despite herself, though she forced composure back into her voice. “Then I pray you discover it soon, for both our sakes.”

Harry’s eyes softened—green and deep as forest light—as he inclined his head, the corner of his mouth curving into something between apology and temptation. “You wound me, Miss Dowding. But I will take your counsel to heart,” he found himself smirk just enough, “But not in action, I fear.”

She dipped her head, meaning to leave, yet lingered for a moment too long. His gaze held her there, caught between sense and the dangerous warmth that drew her in like the fire between them.

Finally, she turned, her steps light and measured, but her pulse betrayed her calm. Behind her, the Marquess of Northumberland watched until the sound of her retreating footsteps disappeared into the silence of the hall, the faint scent of candle wax and lavender still hanging in the air where she had stood.

When she had made her way out of sight, Harry let out a slow breath and ran a hand through his hair, the echo of her presence burning through the quiet like an ember refusing to die.