Julian laughed—a warm, unrestrained sound. “Yes. Precisely.”
“Lord Julian.” She set the book aside and met his gaze. “I appreciate your concern. Truly. But the situation between His Grace and myself is… not simple. He is a duke. I am a governess. The difference between us—”
“Is not so insurmountable as the world would have you believe.”
“It is insurmountable enough. Society would not see it otherwise. Nor would it spare him for disregarding it.”
“He would not be diminished by choosing happiness.” Julian’s tone sharpened. “Miss Weston, I watched Dominic come back from Spain a ghost. I watched him shut himself away from every friend he possessed. I wrote to him and received no answer. I came here and was turned away at the door more often than not. For four years, I waited for some sign that he had not vanished entirely.”
He paused, his voice roughening. “And then I arrived and saw it. Not much—a crack, perhaps—but it was there. Because of you. Because of what you have done for that boy. Because of whatever stands between you that neither of you will name. And I will not see the first good thing in four years undone by caution or fear.”
Lorraine swallowed. “He has drawn away. Since you came. He scarcely looks at me.”
“Because he is jealous.”
She stared. “Of you?”
“Of me. Of anyone who can make you laugh without effort.” Julian shrugged. “It is a most inconvenient trait, jealousy. It rarely troubles itself with logic.”
“That is absurd.”
“On the contrary. It is proof that he cares.” Julian rose. “Give him time. And do not allow him to retreat entirely. He requires someone who will not permit it.”
He offered his arm with a slight bow. “Now—shall we walk? I have promised Thomas a lesson in foxes, and I should hate to disappoint him.”
Lorraine hesitated. She should refuse—should maintain the professional distance that was already stretched gossamer-thin.
But Julian’s smile was uncomplicated and kind, and she was tired—so tired—of being careful.
“Very well, my lord. Though if we encounter one, I reserve the right to flee.”
***
They found Thomas in the garden with Jenny, already bundled into coat and hat and fairly vibrating with anticipation. The four of them set out along the path toward the old stone wall, Julian and Thomas leading, Lorraine and Jenny following at a more measured pace.
It was, at first, a pleasant walk. Julian described the foxes on his Derbyshire estate—sleek red creatures with brush-tails and bright, watchful eyes—and Thomas plied him with questions, earnest and intent as any young natural philosopher. Jenny listened with open admiration, directed as much at Lord Julian himself as at his stories.
They were nearing the wall—Julian crouched beside a gap in the stones he declared a fox’s entrance—when Lorraine felt it.
That prickle at the nape of her neck. That shift in the air.
She turned, slowly, and looked back toward the house.
He was there.
At the study window, outlined against lamplight, utterly still. Watching.
Even at this distance, she felt the force of it—his attention like heat against her skin, like pressure she could neither escape nor ignore. One hand braced against the frame, he did not move, and she knew—with the quiet certainty born of long observation—that he was not merely watching.
He was fighting himself.
Her pulse faltered. She turned back at once.
Julian caught her glance and followed it toward the house. Something flickered across his expression—recognition, swiftly concealed.
“Thomas,” he called lightly, “come and look—there are tracks here, I think.”
While the boy scrambled to his side, Julian rose and stepped nearer to Lorraine, his hand settling, unremarkably, at her elbow.
