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Helena looked at him, surprised by the profound sincerity in his words.

"He will learn compassion because he has those around him who care for his well-being," she offered gently, her gaze lingering on George's face. "He will not be left to navigate the world alone, Your Grace."

"I intend to see to that," George affirmed quietly, his eyes fixed on Oliver's face. "Whatever mistakes were made in the past by those who came before me, they will not be repeated with him. That is a promise I intend to keep, regardless of the cost."

George's attention shifted from Oliver, rising to fix entirely upon Helena. She could feel his deep blue eyes travel over her face, taking in the soft contour of her cheekbones, the faint shadows beneath her dark eyes, and the delicate curve of her throat above the lace collar of her morning dress.

Helena felt an immediate, piercing consciousness of herself beneath his scrutiny, her skin flushing with radiant heat that she was utterly powerless to suppress.

George watched the color rise in her cheeks as a soft faint smile crawled onto George's lips, disappearing swiftly as his jaw tightened into its disciplined lines.

"You look tired," George spoke quietly, breaking the stillness with a voice that was soft yet impossibly rich. "Did you not sleep well after our conversation last night?"

Helena felt her throat go dry. "The estate is quiet at night, Your Grace, but my mind was somewhat occupied."

"Occupied? I would think that you had very little to do here that exceeded the scope of managing my nephew. Or were you plagued by heavy dreams?" George replied.

"I rarely have time for idle dreams, Your Grace," she countered carefully. "Reality provides quite enough complexity to keep one awake."

"Indeed, it does," George murmured, his voice laced with a subtle depth that made her pulse skip a beat. "Reality has a way of presenting circumstances that defy all previous expectations."

Will he really not speak of last night's kiss? Or has he chosen to be more brutal than me to completely wipe out the event from his memory? Helena could only wander in her head, guessing about George's thoughts.

"Allow me to take him, Your Grace," Helena requested, her voice slightly strained despite her best efforts to sound composed. "You have been standing for quite some time, and Mrs. Halloway will surely return momentarily."

She moved closer, intending not only to relieve him but to look him directly in the eyes and demand some honest explanation for his silence about last night. As she came within arm's reach, George stood his ground, his tall frame towering over her, his scent of polished leather, cedarwood, and crisp autumn air instantly enveloping her senses. As her hands came to rest gently beneath Oliver's blanket, her fingers accidentally brushed against George's broad knuckles.

George stayed still for a second, his eyes locked onto hers from mere inches away. Helena's skin burned under his gaze as her lips slightly parted and the desire to reignite what happened last night flooded her heavily. He is so close, she thought. Just one step closer, his arms wrapped around me and I could feel his intoxicating embrace again.

"Your Grace... about last night⁠—"

Before she could complete the sentence, the heavy mahogany door creaked open, and Mr. Gibbs stepped into the room.

"Your Grace, apologies for the intrusion, but you are needed." Mr. Gibbs announced, bowing low at the waist with crisp, practiced precision before stepping aside to allow the doorway to remain clear. "A courier has just arrived bearing urgent dispatches regarding the southern tenancy disputes, and Mr. Pembroke is currently awaiting your presence in the study regarding the damaged timber mills."

The spell was instantly broken. George closed his eyes for a brief moment and the soft tenderness that had briefly illuminated his features vanished entirely, replaced by the cool disposition of a duke.

"Thank you, Gibbs," George replied. "Inform Mr. Pembroke that I shall be down within five minutes, and have the dispatches placed upon my desk immediately."

"Very good, Your Grace," Mr. Gibbs responded with another low bow, stepping backward into the corridor and closing the door quietly behind him.

George looked at Helena, carefully transferring the sleeping Oliver into her waiting arms. Helena cradled Oliver securely against her chest, her heart sinking slightly at the insurmountable wall that had once again descended between them.

"It appears duty calls me away, Your Grace," George said quietly, his blue eyes holding hers. "We shall resume our discussions at a more convenient hour."

"Of course, Your Grace," Helena replied, dipping into a modest curtsy while holding the child. "Do not keep the solicitor waiting."

Can he not see it? This fire in me? How can he make me feel such intense emotions and then walk away as though nothing happened?

Chapter Eleven

"Your Grace," Mr. Pembroke spoke up immediately, bowing as he gestured toward the desk. "Apologies for arriving so early in the day, but the matters at hand require your immediate, personal authorization. We have the quarterly payroll ledgers for both the domestic staff and the estate laborers, as well as the pressing issue of the timber mill repairs in the valley."

Waiting near the heavy mahogany desk was Mr. Pembroke, clad in a black frock coat with his spectacles resting upon the tip of his sharp nose. Standing near the hearth was Mr. Bradley, the estate bailiff, holding a leather-bound ledger under his arm and looking thoroughly relieved at the Duke's arrival.

George strode behind his desk, shedding his dark morning coat and draping it over the back of his chair before rolling up the sleeves of his white linen shirt. "There is no need for apologies, Mr. Pembroke. Business does not wait for the sun to rise, nor shall I."

George sat down in his broad leather chair, gesturing for both men to take their seats. "Bradley, since you're here, let us begin with the estate workers. Has the adjusted wage scale been implemented as I instructed last month?"