He watched her pause, the small crease of defiance in her brow, and felt the ache in his chest twist sharper. Eugenia’s laughter, bright and careless, filled him with delight, but each gleam of fear that flickered across her face gnawed at him. He knew he should temper his words, restrain the scolding, yet the cadence of his voice betrayed him.
Dorothy’s eyes widened at the rebuke, but before the child could wither under the sharpness of his tone, she stepped forward. “That is my fault, not hers,” she said quickly. “I encouraged her to run, and it is only a dress, Your Grace.”
“Only a dress?” His voice sharpened. “Is it also only a reputation? Only an upbringing? You are meant to be a steady influence upon my niece, not...” He gestured toward the trampled paths and scattered flowers. “... a wild companion leading her into mischief.”
Dorothy’s chin lifted, color rising in her cheeks. “Better mischief than a prison, Your Grace. She is a child, not a miniatureduchess. Must she never breathe the air, never laugh, never play?”
His eyes darkened, the rebuke on his tongue meant for her alone, until he caught sight of Eugenia again. The child hovered behind Dorothy’s skirts, wide-eyed, shrinking as though he might strike her down with his very shadow.
“You defend her play,” Magnus said, his voice lower but taut. “Yet what am I to think when the child herself still recoils like this? You have been here a month; what have you been teaching her? Where is her boldness? Where is her courage?”
Dorothy drew in a breath, her lips parting in protest, but before she could reply, Mrs. Tresswell clucked softly and laid a hand upon Eugenia’s shoulder.
“Come, darling,” she murmured, sensing the storm in the air. She guided Eugenia gently toward the path. “We shall go inside and change that gown.”
The little girl cast one last, timid glance up at Magnus, then clutched Miriam’s hand and hurried away, her small shoes scuffing the gravel. Magnus remained rooted where he stood, every muscle rigid, his eyes still on the retreating figure before turning back to Dorothy.
Dorothy folded her arms, her eyes narrowing. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Was I meant to be keeping a journal of my progress? A daily account of whether Eugenia has laughed, skipped, or dared to look a beetle in the eye? Forgive me, I musthave misplaced the ledger where you wished me to record her courage.”
His brows snapped together. “You take this lightly, but it is no jest. A month under your charge, and still she shrinks from me. What am I to conclude but that you have failed her?”
“Failed her?” Dorothy’s voice rose, incredulous. “You think boldness can be drilled into a child, like sums or Latin declensions? She is tender; she needs time. Not every soul bends to your commands, nor should they.”
“Time?” Magnus echoed, his tone cutting. “Time, when she is already years behind? I expected guidance, steadiness, not indulgence and dirt-stained gowns.”
“Oh, of course,” she shot back. “Because nothing says ‘steady guidance’ like constant scolding and a face so grim it might sour cream. If you truly wish her to grow bold, perhaps you might try something novel like kindness. Or heaven forbid, play.”
Magnus’s jaw tightened. “You mistake me. Discipline and structure are what she requires, not frivolity.”
Dorothy gave a short, sharp laugh. “You speak as though she were a soldier in your regiment. She is a child. A lonely one. What do you offer her but silence, frowns, and the occasional rebuke? Tell me, Your Grace, how is that helping?”
“You have no idea what I have done,” Magnus said suddenly, his voice rougher now, his eyes fixed on Dorothy as though she had struck something buried deep.
“How could I possibly know?” she said softly. “How could I know anything when you will not even tell me? We have been married a month, Your Grace, and it does not even feel like a marriage. I do not know the man I share this roof with. Only this stern, closed-off stranger who cannot abide a muddy dress.”
His head snapped back to her, his voice clipped. “We have been over this.”
“Not nearly enough.”
“I do not care to repeat myself,” he said, each word measured, controlled, the tension in his shoulders betraying the storm beneath. “You must stop dwelling on the fact that we are married. It is done. What matters is why you are here. Eugenia. That is your purpose. You have nothing to do with me. Nothing.”
Dorothy stilled for a moment, and he saw the glisten in her eyes before she lifted her chin. “That is what I am trying to do!” she replied loudly.
Before he could reply, she turned and swept away, her skirts trailing behind her as though her anger itself propelled her.
Magnus stood rooted, his breath caught tight in his chest. He exhaled only then, slowly, realizing he had been holding it allthe while they quarreled. His pulse was unsteady, his thoughts disordered. He loathed the feeling, being rattled, unsettled. It was not how he lived. Not how he survived.
Yet somehow, with her, he could not seem to help it. She rattled him.
CHAPTER NINE
“Your Grace, if you would only listen for half a moment,” Dorothy began, her hands clenched together with the air of one presenting an argument before Parliament. “A swim in the lake would do Eugenia a world of good. The child needs fresh air and exercise, not endless embroidery samplers and Latin verbs.”
“You seem to have a problem with Latin verbs,” Magnus retorted, seated behind his desk.
“It is only a swim, Your Grace.”
“I heard you perfectly,” Magnus returned, his arms folded as though they were iron bars bolted across his chest. “My answer is the same as it was the first time you made this absurd proposal. No.”
