Eugenia nodded.
“You are excellent at this, Eugenia,” Dorothy beamed. “All right, I will seek now.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “But if I find you first, Eugenia, I shall tickle you without mercy!”
Eugenia’s eyes sparkled, and a light giggle escaped her as she spun on her heel and ran, her little feet pattering against the garden path.
Dorothy straightened, delighted, and called after her. “Run well, My Lady, for I am quick as the wind!”
“Is that... laughter that I hear?” Magnus’s voice cut through the stillness of his study.
His butler, an older man with shoulders still straight despite the years, paused where he was arranging decanters upon the sideboard.
“Yes, Your Grace,” replied Keene, bowing slightly. “Her Grace is playing with Miss Eugenia in the garden.”
“Playing?” Magnus let the word fall as though it were sour upon his tongue. He pushed back his chair, the scrape of wood against the floorboards sharp. He crossed to the tall windows that overlooked the grounds, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.
How bitterly ironic. He had chosen this room with care when he first ordered the house refurbished, insisting that his study overlook the garden. The expanse of clipped hedges, fountains, and climbing roses had always offered him tranquility, a stillness in which his mind might work without interruption. This view was meant to steady him. Silence, order, symmetry... that was the reason his desk sat in this very corner of the manor.
Now, it was shattered by shrieks and the peals of a woman’s laughter. His niece darted across the lawn with flushed cheeks, the Duchess not far behind her, their skirts a blur of movement through the roses. Even Mrs. Tresswell, who never softened, had the audacity to smile as she watched.
Magnus’s lips thinned into a hard line. “How, pray, is a man to work...” he muttered, “... when his garden is transformed into a nursery playground?”
He had never in all his life seen Eugenia run. The child had always been pale, moving as though each step cost her a measure of strength she could not afford to waste. To see her now, flying across the grass, laughter tumbling out of her like spring water, was... surprising. Shocking. The sight sent a heat creeping into his chest, settling low and uncomfortably in his knees. It was dangerous, that warmth. Dangerous because it threatened the cold discipline that kept his world in order.
He pressed his palm flat against the window ledge, steadying himself, yet his gaze refused to pull away.
The laughter swelled again, unrestrained and far too near. Magnus pinched the bridge of his nose. No, he could not take it another moment. His study was not a sanctuary anymore but a cage of noise, every peal of amusement rattling against the stone walls as though to mock his patience.
He turned around and strode from the room, every step measured but edged with irritation. Down the staircase, through the great hall, and out into the gardens where the air was sweet with late roses and maddeningly alive with voices.
He had scarcely set foot on the gravel walk when a blur of muslin and curls came barreling toward him. Eugenia, breathless and laughing, rounded the hedge and collided with him.
The small body rebounded against his frame, and Magnus’s hands shot out instinctively to steady her.
The moment her wide eyes lifted to his face, all the color drained from her cheeks. The laughter died in her throat. She recoiled as though burned, stumbling back a step, her tiny hands flying to her skirts. It was fear he saw in her eyes. Sharp, unvarnished fear, staring back at him from those grey eyes.
Magnus froze. For an instant, he thought the child might scream. His lips parted, but before a word could fall, movement at the far end of the path caught his eye. Dorothy came swiftly through the roses, bonnet askew, her expression tightening the moment she beheld him. Behind her waddled Mrs. Tresswell, fanning herself as if the air of the garden might excuse the disturbance, and Jenny hovered uncertainly, fingers clutching her apron.
Dorothy’s eyes widened, her hand darting to Eugenia’s shoulder. She pulled the child back a step. “Eugenia,” she said, her voice a little too bright, “you must greet His Grace properly. You forget yourself.”
Magnus’s stride into the garden had been bristling with impatience, but it was not true anger. He had come merely to put an end to the racket. Yet the moment Eugenia skittered back as though she had collided with a wolf rather than her uncle, recoiling as if his very presence was a threat, something sharp and unwelcome stabbed through him. His jaw set, his displeasure no longer directed at the noise but at the bafflingfear reflected in the child’s eyes. Why should she shrink so from him? He had done nothing but attempt warmth.
Magnus arched a brow. “Forget herself? She nearly knocked me over like a wayward pony.” His gaze swept the group, cold and cutting. “How very astonishing to find you all out here. Who would have thought it? The racket you contrived carried so well I was nearly deceived into believing Covent Garden had relocated beneath my windows.”
Dorothy flushed but lifted her chin. “We were only at play, Your Grace. Children cannot be expected to sit in silence like statues.”
“Children?” His voice sharpened. “Forgive me, Dorothy, but I counted at least grown voices among the din. I am surprised Mrs. Tresswell, too, has joined the game.”
Dorothy’s lips pressed thin. “We did not expect you in the garden.”
“Indeed?” His tone dripped with irony. “You did not expect me in my own garden? Though you thundered beneath my study as though to summon me deliberately? Remarkable logic.”
Eugenia clung to Dorothy’s skirts, staring up with pale, frightened eyes. Dorothy smoothed a hand over the child’s curls, her own gaze fixed on Magnus. He shot her a look, his irritation flaring anew when he saw how she clung to Dorothy’s skirts as if his very presence demanded protection. That sting cut deeper than Dorothy’s insolence.
“If the garden displeases you so, Sir, perhaps you might return to your books and leave us to enjoy it,” Dorothy added.
Magnus’s gaze fell to the child’s gown, the once pale muslin now muddied and streaked green with grass stains. His jaw tightened.
“So, this is what comes from a morning in my garden,” he said coldly. “Her dress is in a state most unbecoming. Tell me, Dorothy, was it your intention to let her run about like a stray?”
