A woman he had not evenseen, not properly—only the back of a cloak in the rain.
And his sleeping mind had already taken her apart and given her back to him as a benediction.
He sat up. Pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. The fire had burned to embers. The room was cold. Somewhere above him, a door closed softly, but Dominic did not register it; Dominic was registering only the hot pulse of something in his chest that he had thought long dead.
He rose. Stripped the damp sheet with furious efficiency and bundled it into the laundry basket, where Mrs Potter's morning girl would find it and, Dominic devoutly hoped, draw no conclusions. He built up the fire with hands that were not entirely steady. Poured another whisky and did not drink it, merely held the glass as though the weight might anchor him.
She is a governess, he told himself.She is under your roof. She will leave within three months, like the rest. You will not—you willnot—
He sat in the chair by the fire, wrapped in his dressing gown, and waited for morning.
When at last he slept again, it was not of auburn hair and firelight. It was Spain. The ravine. The war all over again.
The nightmare had been a bad one.
They were always bad, of course—no man dreamt of Badajoz and woke refreshed—but some nights were worse than others. Some nights he was back in the ravine, musket fire cracking through the darkness, men screaming, the smell of powder and blood thick in his throat. Some nights he made different choices, and the dream showed him what might have been: more men saved, or fewer, or none at all.
Last night, William had died in his arms again. But this time, when Dominic looked down, it was not William’s face he saw.
It was the boy’s.
He had woken gasping, drenched in sweat, and had not attempted sleep again. The whisky helped—it always helped, though he was not fool enough to suppose it led him anywhere good. It dulled the edges. Quieted the noise. Allowed him to function through another day of estate management and correspondence and carefully rationed interaction with a household that had long since ceased to expect warmth from its master.
Four years since Badajoz. Four years since he had stood in a Yorkshire church and received condolences for a father he had scarcely known, a title he had never desired, an inheritance that felt less like a gift than a sentence. In those same years,the boy had been safely settled with his mother’s family, and Dominic—new to his responsibilities and scarcely equal to them—had let that arrangement stand. Four years of building walls so high and so thick that nothing might breach them.
And then William’s son had arrived, and the walls had begun to crack—and Dominic had responded in the only manner he understood.
By building them higher.
***
At precisely nine o’clock, a knock sounded upon the study door.
Dominic was seated behind his desk—a deliberate choice, the broad expanse of oak serving equally as barrier and declaration of authority. He had dressed with care: dark coat, immaculate cravat, every inch the forbidding nobleman. If this Miss Weston were to remain in his household, she must understand from the outset that her employer was not a man who encouraged familiarity.
“Enter.”
The door opened, and the woman who stepped within was not what he had anticipated.
He had imagined someone older, perhaps—grey-haired and severe, as governesses were supposed to be. Or young and timid, easily cowed. Instead, she was neither—somewhere in her middle twenties, with hair the colour of autumn leaves, pinned up in a style that was neat but already losing its contest with a number of unruly curls. Her gown was grey, modest, and entirely suitable to her station.
Her eyes were not modest at all.
They travelled the room—the heavy curtains, the cold hearth, the whisky decanter Dominic had neglected to remove—and then settled upon him with an expression of frank assessment. Blue-green, those eyes. Changeable. The colour of the sea before a storm.
She did not flinch. She did not lower her gaze. She merely looked at him as though taking his measure, and had not yet determined what she made of it.
Something stirred, faint and unwelcome, in Dominic’s chest. He ignored it.
“Miss Weston.” He did not rise, nor gesture to the chair before his desk. “You are punctual.”
“Your Grace.” She dropped a curtsy—correct, neither too deep nor too shallow—and remained standing, her hands neatly folded before her. “I understand you wished to speak with me regarding the terms of my employment.”
“I wish to ensure that we understand one another.” He leaned back in his chair, studying her. “You are here to care for my ward. To educate him, to oversee his welfare, and to prepare him for his eventual departure to India with hisgrandparents. This is a temporary arrangement. The Hardings are expected within a few months. Do you comprehend?”
“Perfectly, Your Grace.”
“Very good.” He adjusted the papers upon his desk—meaningless correspondence, but it occupied his hands. “Mrs Potter will acquaint you with the household schedule. Meals are taken in the nursery. You may make use of the library when it is not otherwise engaged. Should you require anything for the boy’s education, submit a list to Graves, and it shall be procured.”
