The dining room was arranged as it always was when Rhys was in residence: the children at one end of the table, their father at the other, with a place set for Mel between them. It was an arrangement that blurred the lines of her position, placing her neither with the family nor apart from it, and she had never quite known how to feel about that ambiguity.
Tonight, the ambiguity felt sharper than usual.
Rhys rose when she entered, a gesture of courtesy that he had adopted somewhere in the course of his extended visits. He looked tired, she noticed he had acquired dark circles under his eyes and a tension in his shoulders that had not been there when he left. His smile, when he offered it, did not quite reach his eyes.
“Miss Grace. I trust the children behaved in my absence?”
“The children are always a pleasure, Your Grace.”
The title came out automatically, the formal address she had adopted since learning the truth about his identity. She saw him register it, saw the slight tightening of his expression, but he said nothing. What was there to say? She was his employee. He was her employer. “Your Grace” was the appropriate form of address.
Dinner proceeded in the usual fashion. The children recounted their activities during their father’s absence: Anna’s progress in French, Viola’s completed drawings, Thistle’s discovery of what she continued to insist was a fossilised dinosaur tooth. Rhys listened and responded with appropriate interest, asking questions and offering praise, being the father they wanted him to be.
Mel ate and contributed to the conversation when directly addressed but otherwise remained quiet. She could feel his attention on her, the weight of looks she did not return, but she kept her eyes on her plate and her expression neutral.
After dinner, the children went upstairs with Mrs. Kemp for their evening routine. Mel would normally join them for bedtimestories and final tuck-ins, but tonight she lingered in the dining room, hoping that Rhys would take himself elsewhere.
He did not.
“Miss Grace. Might I have a word?”
She looked up to find him standing near the doorway, his posture uncertain in a way she had never seen from him before. The confident duke, the charming rake, seemed to have been replaced by a man who did not quite know how to begin the conversation he wanted to have.
“Of course, Your Grace. What do you require?”
“I require…” He stopped, seemed to reconsider, and tried again.
“I would like to explain. About London… about what you may have read.”
“I have read nothing that requires explanation.”
“You’ve read the gossip sheets. Mrs. Kemp mentioned that they arrived last week.”
Of course Mrs. Kemp had mentioned it. The housekeeper saw everything, understood more than she let on, and apparently reported what she observed to the master of the house.
“The gossip sheets are entertainment, Your Grace. I place no stock in their contents.”
“Even when their contents concern me?”
“Your activities in London are not my concern.” Mel rose from her chair, smoothing her skirts with deliberate precision.
“If you’ll excuse me, the children will be expecting me for their bedtime routine.”
“Mel…”
“Miss Grace.” The correction came out sharper than she intended. She saw him flinch, saw the impact of the formal address land like a blow, and felt a complicated mix of satisfaction and regret.
“I am the children’s governess, Your Grace, nothing more.”
She left before he could respond, climbing the stairs to the nursery with careful purpose, not fleeing, simply moving forward.
The bedtime routine was soothing in its familiarity. Stories and songs and the particular rituals that each child required: Anna’s precise arrangement of blankets, Viola’s whispered good nights, Thistle’s extended negotiations about whether Brutus could sleep on her pillow. By the time all three children were settled and the nursery was quiet, nearly an hour had passed.
Mel made her way back downstairs, intending to retrieve a book from the study before retiring to her room. The house was quiet, the servants retired to their quarters, the only sound the distant crackle of a fire somewhere on the ground floor.
She was passing the drawing room when she heard voices.
Rhys’s voice, and another voice she recognised: Lord Benedict Vane, who must have accompanied Rhys from London. She had not known he was here as she had not seen him at dinner, which meant he must have arrived after the meal and been received privately.
