The Duke’s Runaway Cinderella (Preview)

Prologue

Amelia Wilson’s eyes flicked over the letter once more, a bid to be ultimately certain this was the furthest thing from a dream. That she in fact finally had a solution to all her problems. Her eyes glazed over the passage in the newspaper clipping, word by word, taking in the sentences and the lines as they appeared on the page.

The Hampshire Chronicle, Tuesday Edition, 1815

WANTED,

A Governess of irreproachable character, to undertake the instruction and moral supervision of three young children of noble birth.

The successful Candidate must be proficient in Reading, Writing, Arithmetic, French, and Music.
Preference will be given to those who can produce satisfactory Testimonials of Experience in families of distinction.

Applications, enclosing References and particulars of Qualifications, to be addressed to Everleigh Manor.

She could do this. Become a governess. Her eyes shifted to the brown satchel she had packed first among her things. She had everything she needed to take the job in that bag. All she needed to do was in fact, take the first step and face this head-on.

She placed the letter back on the table and walked to her bed, where a few of her dresses remained. They were sprawled out and rumpled but that did not matter. She had a plan in mind. She would bear what little time she had left in what she considered purgatory.

She folded the first dress, a woolen gray frock with threadbare cuffs. It slipped through her fingers, a feat caused by years of continuous wearing and mending. She laid it gently into her half-filled trunk and pressed her palm against it, feeling tears well up behind her eyes.

No. Amelia. Not now. You simply cannot afford to do that.

Behind her, the wooden door opened, the creaking sound carrying through the room like echoes from scary stories.

“Oh look. It is Mother’s charity project,” a voice called from the door. Amelia snapped her eyes shut.

Frances.

Frances rarely walked alone, so her presence in Amelia’s room could only mean one thing. Clara was right behind her.

“Calling her charity still gives her some credit, do you not think?” another voice chirped—a bit firmer than the first.

Just as she’d thought.

Footsteps followed the voices, growing closer by the second. Soon, the two women stopped merely a few feet away from her. Amelia tensed her jaw and felt her hands begin to tremble.

She grabbed another dress—one made strictly of silk this time around. the trembling in her hands intensifying as she started to fold it, feeling the piercing gazes of her sisters, like a hot rod, on the back of her neck.

“I do not even know why you bother folding your clothes. You cannot fool anyone,” Frances muttered. “One might think you possess some kind of dignity if you continue to do that.”

Amelia ground her teeth. “I am only trying to finish my work here as soon as possible. I would be grateful if I am not disturbed.”

Clara laughed. “Do you hear that, sister? She does not want to be disturbed.”

Amelia said nothing in response. She folded the last of her dresses and reached for one of the books from the stack by her trunk. Usually, the only way she could escape them was to ignore them.

There was no reason why the same method should not work again. She grabbed the book and flicked through a page, too absent-minded to look through the title. Clara walked toward her, her skirts drifting with her movements. With one sweeping motion, she slapped the book out of Amelia’s grip.

It fell to the floor face down, the pages crumpling upon impact with the rough carpet. Amelia snapped her eyes shut for the better half of a minute. She exhaled and opened them again. Then she tried reaching for another book.

Clara, with another wave of her hand, sent the whole stack clattering across the carpeted floor. The displaced thud of each book echoed across the small room.

“Oh, smart Amelia. Always with her nose in a book… never can see what is going on around her,” Clara quipped. “You have always fancied yourself superior, have you not? Scribbling away in your little books and reading your little pages as though it might mysteriously elevate your status.”

“Well, clearly, something went wrong somewhere,” Frances added, and they both burst into laughter, their resounding cackles echoing across the room.

“It is true, is it not?” Clara continued, the laughter still etched in her voice as she spoke. “Because here you are, still as unwanted as yesterday. You have no family to shelter you—wait, no family, from here on out, to shelter you.”

She picked up Amelia’s hairbrush, examining it.

“Please do not touch—” Amelia tried to say, her hand outstretched.

Clara dropped the brush, as though it burned her hand. Amelia could see it, the look of disgust on her face as it fell from her hand.

“Face it, Amelia. You are as useful as a carcass laying rotten in the woods.”

Amelia’s eyes shifted to the clipping of the newspaper on her nightstand. Her eyes examined it briefly, its edges drifting in the cool afternoon wind. A part of her desperately prayed and hoped they didn’t see it. That would be her last straw.

“Please. I am only trying to finish my packing,” she muttered, her gaze returning to the carpet, her voice low.

“Well, is anyone stopping you?”

“I would help you pack as well because I want you out of this manor more than anything but…” Frances whispered. “…I simply cannot afford to have my hands soiled by your rotten outfits.”

Amelia swallowed. She was out of words. And if even she wasn’t she didn’t dare vocalize whatever she might be thinking. Her eyes shifted to the books scattered across the floor instead and she leaned down to start picking them up.

First book, second book. She reached for the last one by the edge of her bed, but Frances stopped her before she could. Her boot settled hard and fast on the cover, causing Amelia to involuntarily withdraw her hand out of shock.

“Mother spent more than necessary on your ungrateful hide,” Frances said, the repulsion in her voice clearer than day. “I do not believe you have the right to any of her misplaced benevolence. And yes, these include your lovely books.”

Amelia looked up at Frances. “Please. The books are all I have.”

“Well, not anymore.” Clara’s voice rang out.

Amelia’s eyes darted to her. “What does that mean?”

Clara stepped closer, the smell of her lingering perfume taking the air almost by surprise. She stopped before Amelia, who already rose to her feet and stared at her.

Amelia felt a wave of slight cold run down her spine, but she made an effort to not let it show.

Then Clara dug into her pocket, causing Amelia to prepare herself. She expected anything. A whip, a book on fire, a dead rat.

The last thing she had expected was a box. One she could not stop looking at as Clara pulled it out.

“This is for you. She insisted that you have this.”

Amelia reached out and closed her hands around the box, causing Clara to eventually let go, a flick accompanying her gesture. Like she could not drop the box faster if she tried.

“We checked what was in it. It is nothing but a cheap locket,” Frances stated. “Cheap or not, I do not understand why you need an item such as that. No respectable gentleman in his right mind would ever choose to court a foundling like you, locket or not.”

Heat swam up Amelia’s cheeks, and she felt the tears from earlier return to the back of her eyes. She blinked them away desperately.

Frances took a step closer, her eyes narrowed, and her lips pursed as Amelia continued to examine the box.

“See that you are gone before nightfall.”

Her voice was low. Enough to send utter chills down Amelia’s spine. Enough to make her grip falter around the box she now held so carefully.

Just like they had come, Clara and Frances made their way out of the room. Amelia was once again left to her melancholy and silence. Her eyes searched the room. They had toppled a few things but not much damage was done, at least compared to previous times. The newspaper page was still safe. But the box in her hands felt strange.

She sank to the edge of the bed, her weight slightly pushing down the mattress.

The silence, now a welcome distraction, settled around her like a shroud as she eventually reached for the catch, hesitating, just slightly before opening the box.

A locket?

A part of her room expected the box to be empty. It was nothing Clara and Frances hadn’t done before. However, when she eventually eased the lid open, the smell was the first thing to hit her.

It was faint and had traces of lavender. Then she noticed the locket, as mentioned, laying gently above a roughly folded piece of cloth.

She had never had anything in her possession this shiny. The thought alone that something this beautiful had been handed to her sent waves of euphoria down her body.

Carefully, she lifted the locket. It hung from a thin silver chain and on the oval case was an engraving.

The letter M.

Her eyes narrowed. That was odd.

She examined the locket even more, watching the chain slightly glisten in the sun that filtered in through her windows. Then she lowered it, feeling as though she had satisfied her curiosity for the time being. Her eyes shifted back to the box. She took out the white piece of cloth, the faint smell of lavender hitting her nostrils even harder. Lying beneath the cloth, at the very bottom of the box was a small and neatly folded piece of paper.

She unfolded the paper and stared at the sentence on it, scrawled almost hurriedly in dark ink.

This belonged to your parents.

A part of her felt grateful to Mrs. Wilson for giving this to her. Another part felt relieved that she would not have to spend another day under her care anymore. It had been a harrowing decade, living with such a woman. Mrs. Wilson raised her with everything except love and affection. She had been especially hard on her for the past few years.

And her daughters never wasted any chance to taunt and embarrass her. Now she no longer had to take it anymore. She closed her trunk eventually, certain that there was nothing else she had to put in there. Nothing of great importance anyway. As she walked to the windowsill, her eyes forlorn and looking into the bright afternoon fields behind the glass, a slow sense of dread crashed into her.

Would she ever find a place where she was truly wanted? Or would she have to go through what she faced in this manor for the rest of her life? She needed somewhere warm. Somewhere real and lasting. A place that could fill the emptiness that overtook a major part of her heart.

She turned to look at the advertisement resting on her bedside again. The vacancy section was the only thing pushing her forward. She had spent the past few weeks searching for vacancies. Mrs. Wilson had given her the newspaper to read just a few days earlier, right before the fever eventually took her, and Amelia had taken the page with the vacancy for herself. Now that she was being evicted by her sisters and no longer had the woman to defend her, she had to strive for herself from then onward.

Her eyes shifted to the satchel. In it, arranged neatly on top of each other were recommendation letters she had forged overnight. She had to look her best at Everleigh Manor to get the job and if that included cutting corners, she would do it.

It was only to get the job. Once she did, she would be the best governess they ever hired. She was certain of it. But first, she must find a way to get in the door—and that was what the forged letters hidden in her satchel were for.

She looked around her room once more and suddenly found herself growing more appreciative of it for some reason. The walls, the floors and the distinct smell of fresh wood had carried her through many bad days. She was leaving it all behind… along with memories of her time at this dreadful place.

Good-bye forever, Mrs. Wilson. I hope we never cross paths again, Clara and Frances.

She squared her shoulders. She must think ahead. She had a journey before her. It was not the time to falter. Whatever awaited her at Everleigh Manor, she would face it with her dignity intact.

Chapter One

At first, there was only darkness. The one that came with being in the sickroom for way too long. Then the smell of wood, burnt flesh and laudanum filled Julian Everleigh’s nose. Slowly, the darkness started to slowly disappear. A single candle streaked the blank space before him, throwing him in the middle of a situation he couldn’t remember getting into, no matter how hard he tried.

Then he looked down. Wrapped around his hand, was his father’s dry and wrinkled hand. The older man lay on his sick bed, life slowly beginning to leave his eyes. Julian stared ahead, the shock on his face slowly making its way to other parts of his body—including and especially his fingers.

His father looked utterly terrified but Julian could not tell if it was rightfully so. His eyes were bloodshot red, and his lips quivered in a way that seemed to indicate that there was something he needed to say.

“Father,” Julian called, his voice slow and soft. “Father, you need to save your strength. The doctor says it is better for you if you do not talk.”

He ground his teeth, the tension in his jaw momentarily appearing. The healer had also said the duke did not have much time left but he couldn’t worry the man with matters like that. Yet, the look behind his father’s bloodshot eyes seemed to tell Julian that he was well aware of that already.

“Julian. You need to listen to me,” the duke began to speak, his hand momentarily squeezing Julian’s. His voice sounded just slightly better than a gargle.

“Father, you should not—”

“Montrose,” his father rasped, cutting him off before he could finish. His lips moved again, but the words dissolved into a wet cough. “The papers—Reginald—you need to be alert—”

Julian bent closer. If the man wanted to talk, he did not think it would do either of them any good to stop him. “Father, what about Montrose? What do I need to be alert about?”

But the old man only shook his head, eyes rolling back. His breath rattled and ceased, and in the hush that followed, Julian felt something leave the room. His father’s soul. Along with whatever final, unspoken truth he had taken with him.

***

His eyes snapped open. The darkness was gone. The smell of laudanum and wood. All gone. He was in his study, his head on the table. He sat up slowly, pulling a paper that had been stuck on his face.

The one thing that was not fully gone was his father’s voice. It took a moment to banish the echo of the old duke’s words in his mind. Even weeks after his death, he still could not stop thinking about what his father had said—or had not said to him—on his deathbed. It had been a month since he became the Duke of Belvoir and yet he still wanted to be anywhere else. He wished he was where he truly belonged.

Back on the water.

His father’s last words reverberated over and over in his head. Montrose. Reginald. The papers. If only he had let the man speak earlier instead of trying to preserve his health by keeping him quiet.

He exhaled slowly, pressing a hand to his brow. Outside, dawn crept sullenly over the manor’s grounds. The storm had happened overnight, flattening every single grass on the field before the morning light.

He rose and walked to the window, leaning one palm against the cold pane. Rain trickled down the glass in slow rivulets.

Back in the navy, they had fiercer storms. For some reason, he seemed to miss those, even though he could hear himself curse whenever they had to prepare for one. His eyes shifted from the windows and fell to the ledgers stacked almost endlessly on the desk behind him. They consisted of tenant accounts, correspondence, inventories. Not a page among them had anything about his father’s last words. Nothing at all to justify the unease that continuously stalked him in his sleep.

The door creaked open and a familiar maid, Mary, walked in, her head bowed slightly as she approached Julian’s table.

“Your Grace,” she said, her head still dipped. “The new governess is expected within the hour.”

He turned to her, his lips tight in confusion.

“What?”

“The new governess, Your Grace,” Mary repeated.

Julian’s confusion grew. “Who hired a new governess?”

“Lady Thompson did, Your Grace. You—I believe you approved it when she informed you.”

Julian drew in a slow breath, the memory suddenly hitting him. Catherine had insisted on hiring a governess for the children, arguing that routine and discipline would do them a lot of good after so much chaos in their lives. First with his sister’s husband, Spencer Thompson, dying at sea and then their father. Julian realized he must have been overwhelmed by thoughts of managing the estate when he agreed.

It needed more attention than he could spare, and the mere thought of presiding over domestic arrangements felt absurd after a decade at sea.

“Thank you, Mary.”

Dipping her head in a brief curtsy one more time, Mary made her way out of the room.

His gaze drifted to a letter left unopened on the corner of the desk. The familiar seal marked it as coming from an old naval comrade. He broke the wax and skimmed the contents, pausing only when the word engagement caught his eye.

He set the letter aside almost immediately.

Engagements, love matches, alliances—he had seen too often how such sentiments could be bartered for advantage. In his experience, affection was merely another currency. A man might as well fancy himself noble just for paying his debts.

He looked again toward the rain. Somewhere in the manor, among the ledgers and the faded carpets, lay the truth of his father’s final moments.

And it had fallen to him alone to find it.

The stack of books and gloves that crowded the library never ceased to overwhelm him. Even now, as his determination grew strong, he still felt the usual sense of being lost at sea.

He was a naval captain. That was one thing he knew how to do. Managing an estate as a duke? He didn’t know the first thing about that. He didn’t know how to deal with the town’s aristocrats. How to act pretentious and indirect in public, which seemed to be the very thing every other noble around him was doing.

The door creaked open again and his eyes shot forward, half-expecting Mary to walk in again, declaring that she had forgotten something or announcing something else to him.

It wasn’t Mary. It was The Dowager Duchess, his capricious mother. She walked in, gently, her strides elegant. Julian noticed it almost immediately; the basket wrapped in her hands.

“Mother?” He swallowed, his cautious eyes still lingering on the suspicious looking basket. “Mother, what is that?”

Before she could respond, a spaniel lifted its head from the basket, its dark and seemingly sad eyes blinking in the watery morning light.

“No.” His response was sharper than he had intended. “Whatever you intend to do with that, I would advise that you take it back instead.

“It is only a puppy,” she said gently, as if he were a boy still floundering at lessons. “He will make fine company. You look just as gloomy as the weather, son. That is precisely why you need one.”

“I do not want a puppy,” he said firmly, the conviction in his voice stronger than earlier. He eyed the creature. It had shiny silky ears and white paws. A knot tightened in his stomach as it curled deeper into the folds of the blanket. The sight of the dog only continued to make certain words echo in his mind. Words that sent utter dread to the very depths of his spine.

Permanence. Attachment. Routine.

Those words were why he had to leave everything behind in England and take to the sea.

“I was thinking you could name him something simple. Like Darcy.”

Julian’s eyes widened. “Darcy?”

“Fine name for a fine dog, do you not agree?”

Julian rubbed his forehead gently, feeling a slight headache take hold at the back of his head.

“Must I be presented with every manner of obligation?” he murmured under his breath, but his mother ignored the remark with her usual grace. That, or she did not hear him at all.

Of all the gifts he had gotten, thanks to his new position, a dog struck him as the most superfluous. Too needy. He couldn’t focus on the estate and his father’s last words and still give his attention to something else. Especially a puppy.

Lady Eleanor fussed with the puppy’s blanket before glancing up. “Catherine will arrive shortly to present the new governess. I trust you recall her intention?”

He nodded.

“The children require structure, and structure means a governess,” he recited, his voice monotonous, almost like the statement was practiced. The memory of him explicitly signing the approval letter still hadn’t come to him, making him conclude that he must have done it while skimming estate ledgers that still made no sense to him.

The rain had slowed to a thin drizzle by the time he joined his mother at the manor entrance. The great doors stood open to the sweep of the cobblestone entrance. He could see an unfamiliar carriage draw up from where he stood. Catherine alighted first, her green dress sharply contrasting the wet soil. Then she turned to help another figure step down.

Even from a distance, Julian noted the stranger’s poise. She carried herself without the habitual shrinking he expected of a hired governess. Her plain grey dress was not particularly striking, but her spine stood straight and her chin was properly lifted.

As they approached, Catherine cocked her head with a smile that was both warm and brief.

“Julian, please allow me to present Miss Amelia Wilson. The new governess.”

Julian’s eyes met the stranger.

Miss Wilson curtsied, lingering a little too long in the position. When she rose, her gaze met his squarely. Strands from her packed red hair rested on her face, contrasting the sharp green in her nervous eyes.

“Miss Amelia, this is my brother, Lord Julian Everleigh, Duke of Belvoir. He is also the children’s uncle,” Catherine continued, her voice drifting through the space. Julian almost couldn’t hear her. “Do not take his moodiness personally. He is like that to everyone.”

“My Lord,” she said, her voice soft but steady.

“Your Grace,” Catherine corrected gently.

He saw a wave of red cross Amelia’s face at the correction and then nodded gently. The title still felt odd. It felt like he wore a coat that didn’t belong to him.

“Miss Wilson comes highly recommended,” Catherine continued. “And her letters speak to a rather thorough education.”

Julian’s gaze dropped, almost absent-mindedly, to the slender chain glinting against the base of Amelia’s bare throat. A small and silver locket shifted beneath the high collar of her gown. He watched it glint slightly in the bleak morning light and for some reason, a wave of mild unease settled into him.

When he looked up again, she was watching him with eyes the precise shade of a bright green bottle. They were filled with intelligence, not the usual meekness he had become accustomed to—and had come to expect—from a hired servant.

Was she examining him as well?

He felt a movement by his legs and looked down. The puppy had somehow found its way to him. He leaned toward the floor and ran his hand through its soft fur gently.

“Hello, Darcy,” he murmured under his breath.

Even if not fully, he could hear Catherine ask where Amelia completed her education.

“I completed my education some years ago at Mrs. Clearwater’s Seminary,” She responded.

His fingers froze on the puppy.

Mrs. Clearwater’s Seminary.

He remembered the school. He was well-acquainted with the admiral who managed it. He still remembered the last letter the Admiral had sent a few years back. He remembered the mention of the school’s insolvency and the decision to eventually shut it down.

That cannot be right. The school closed three years ago.

He rose to his feet and straightened, interrupting Catherine’s seemingly pleasant questioning with a voice that came out harsher than he intended.

“Pardon me, Miss Wilson but when precisely did you finish your studies there? At Mrs. Clearwater’s?”

A flush rose on her cheek, the first hint of faltering he had seen in her composed manner since she arrived.

He narrowed his eyes, feeling the growing silence dig into his nerves.

Her lips parted, but before she could speak, an older man appeared in the doorway, his moustache gleaming.

“This is Lord Reginald Everleigh.” He heard Catherine tell Miss Wilson as the man approached them. “He’s our uncle.”

“Julian, I believe there is a messenger from London waiting to see you,” Reginald announced, his eyes shifting between the three people standing at the manor’s entrance.

Julian’s gaze remained fixed on Miss Wilson. He saw the flicker of relief that crossed her face right before she lowered her eyes.

“Thank you, uncle,” he responded.

Catherine laid a hand on Miss Wilson’s arm, guiding her into the hall. As they passed, Julian’s attention turned to Reginald, still standing by the stairs. His uncle’s expression was almost unnoticeable, but his eyes followed the new governess with a peculiar intensity.

With Darcy still brushing against his leg, Julian tried fruitlessly to make sense of all that had just happened.

Chapter Two

Amelia rose well before dawn.

Usually, she was the kind of person who enjoyed her own company. That morning, though, in new territory for the first time in quite a long while, she felt immediately drawn to a more profound kind of silence. The kind that came from being alone for a while, awake… while others slept.

The house was still deep in its overnight slumber, so she trudged ahead rather carefully.

When she stepped out into the courtyard, the cold morning air pierced her body immediately, following her as she moved. The ground was comfortingly softer than usual beneath her feet as she walked past a row of trimmed hedges.

In the horizon, miles ahead of her, stood mountains and trees that rose into the low morning cloud. A brief smile covered her face and a small part of her wondered if it was possible to get used to living in a house with such a view on its horizon.

When she turned the corner, a sight stopped her so abruptly that her breath caught in her throat.

Before a large oak tree with low hanging branches. was Julian Everleigh.

No.

The Duke of Belvoir.

He was kneeling in the grass with his sleeves rolled up, cupping something she could not see. Something she could tell anyway was evidently small and fragile.

His hair looked damp from the mist and stray strands fell across his temple. She continued to watch, a raging question pressing in her mind.

How long had he been out here?

She examined him even more from where she stood. She didn’t know his shoulders could actually fall back this much. He looked way more relaxed in the dull morning light.

It felt like the man who had asked her questions the previous day had gone and the one she was now staring at was a completely different person.

She took a step closer, and eventually, she saw what was in his hands.

It was a tiny bird. A frail nestling. Her eyes narrowed. The bird was barely feathered and shivered uncontrollably in the misty cold. He lifted it toward the tree branch above him frowning at the crude arrangement of twigs he must have tried to rebuild.

The nest sat lopsided, one side too low to hold anything for long.

He was doing it wrong. The whole thing. Yet it didn’t stop the warmth she felt in her heart just at the sight of the man before her. Again, this looked nothing like the man who had spoken to her in the grand foyer the day before. This was someone else entirely, a man absorbed in a task, knowing there was no audience to judge him.

Like her mind had prompted it all on its own, the memory of his question returned, almost as invasive and as sharp as the blades of grass that surrounded the bottom of the tree where Julian currently stood.

When precisely did you finish your studies there?

Not once did she consider the fact that anyone in her new home would know the school was closed… or even know it at all.

Yet he had. He had known the school was closed, and she had not been prepared for that knowledge. A part of her wondered what lie she would’ve had to tell if Lord Reginald hadn’t interrupted him.

She took another step forward, trying to get a better view. She felt it beneath her feet before she could do anything about it—a thin twig.

She pressed down accidentally and felt it crack.

Her blood ran cold.

The duke’s head snapped around. His eyes, so recently soft, hardened at once. The irritation in them was unmistakable.

“Miss Wilson.” He mentioned glaring at her. His words weren’t a greeting, that much she was aware of. They seemed to be an inquiry.

As if the What in God’s name are you doing here was silent behind his mention of her name.

Amelia lifted her chin and swallowed. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to intrude.”

“Well, you did.” His response was quick and sharp. Amelia nodded and felt his gaze flick over her, taking in her dress and her overall posture.

She swallowed, feeling the silence between them continue to grow. Then, in a last bid to save herself, she pointed gently at the nestling still cradled in his palms.

“You are doing it wrong.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line.

“What?”

She stepped closer, now unable to stop herself. “You have the nest placed too far along the branch. If you move it closer to the trunk, it will be more stable.”

He looked as though he might counter her statement with something harsh but instead, he only shifted his stance under the tree, his feet firm on the soft soil.

Before he could say anything else or dismiss her, she moved even closer to help. Her fingers were careful while she steadied the nest. He, meanwhile, adjusted the bird’s position. For a moment, they both worked in silence, their actions both collaborative and mutually acknowledged.

The morning light was growing brighter. She was aware that their positions were growing less inconspicuous by the minute but a part of her relished the work she was doing.

A while later, she reached to straighten a part of the nest, he also reached to adjust one of the twigs.

Then her hands brushed his.

He stilled for a moment, and she felt a wave of chills run down her spine. It was like the moment itself froze and after a while, it thawed. The duke returned to working on the nest, refusing to acknowledge it. She did the same.

When the nest was secure, he released it and stepped back. “It will most likely fall again.”

“Perhaps,” she said, dusting her hands. “But I suppose it is far better than leaving it on the ground.”

He shrugged and she watched the bird settle properly into the nest.

Amelia folded her hands in front of her. “Yes. That is good.”

He only gave her a nod in response. Cold and detached. And just like that, the Duke of Everleigh she had met the previous day had returned.

She watched him eventually disappear into the house; her own feet bolted into the ground. Her eyes returned to the tree and the nest she had watched him build before stepping in to help. Something filled her heart. Was it warmth? Concern? She could not describe it no matter how hard she tried. But she would not wait under the giant oak tree to figure it out.

As the early sunrise spilled a wave of golden hue across the manor and its gardens, she made her way back across the garden path, her mind, a conflicting tangle of relief and disappointment.

While a part of her was glad that the duke had hurriedly withdrawn himself and spared them both any further awkwardness, another part of her, one that seemed to be ruled by foolish and unguarded instinct, regretted the quick end to his unbridled warmth. She had seen a side of him he was never going to share with her otherwise if she hadn’t caught him this morning. Like feeling a door permanently close behind her, something told her she would never see it again.

She drew a slow breath, gathering herself before returning into the house. Now was not the time to be sentimental. She knew that if she started wishing for more kindness from him, it would breed nothing but more disappointment. She had to get the encounter that morning out of her mind and get ready for her first class with the children.

The lesson room—a makeshift drawing room near the manor’s foyer, was bright when she entered, the curtains drawn wide to absorb the bright morning light. Three pairs of eyes fixed upon her with varying degrees of interest.

Lady Thompson had briefed her properly the night before on everything she needed to know about the children.

“They will test your resolve. They will say things that will likely make you want you to run away. I find establishing your authority will gain their full and proper attention,” Lady Thompson had said to her the previous night, after dinner. Now that she stared at them one after the other, she was glad Lady Thompson supplied her with the relevant information beforehand.

Thomas, the eldest, straightened his spine in a clear but futile attempt to appear taller than his twelve years. Charlotte, only a year younger, regarded Amelia warily beneath lowered lashes. Emma, the youngest at only seven, gazed at her with open curiosity, her hands clasped around the ribbon of her brightly colored wooden doll.

“Good morning,” Amelia started, ensuring her voice was clear and steady. “I am Miss Wilson. We shall be having our first lessons today.”

Thomas crossed his arms. “You will not last a week,” he declared.

Amelia arched her brow. “Is that so?”

“Three governesses have gone in two months,” Charlotte added, her tone soft but edged. “One cried in her room every day.”

Emma leaned forward on her stool, her hand still clasped around her doll. “Will you cry?”

“No,” Amelia replied, biting back a smile. “I have no intention of crying. Nor do I intend to leave.”

She meant it.

Thomas opened his mouth to speak, and Amelia turned to him, her gaze still warm and undeterred. Mild panic flashed across his face and his lips snapped shut.

She smiled. “So today, we shall start small. Then we build with each lesson from here on out.”

She began with arithmetic, giving them a series of problems. When Thomas insisted the sums were too simple for his clever mind, she set a challenge he could not refuse. She asked him to calculate the number of miles a proper naval ship might travel in a week, given easy wind and favorable waters.

“You know about ships?” he asked, caught off guard.

“I know enough.” she said lightly. “And I expect the correct answer by the end of the hour.”

Charlotte brightened a little, the intrigue on her face undeniable.

Emma fidgeted with her doll until Amelia knelt to her level. “Would you like to learn something new today Emma? We can continue with your counting tomorrow.”

The girl nodded, eyes wide. “Yes, Miss Wilson.”

A wave of warmth spread across her heart but she shrugged it off almost immediately.

“Did you know,” she began, her voice lowered, like she was about to reveal a scandal, “…that the red-spotted ladybird beats its wings nearly ninety times each second?”

Emma’s mouth fell open. “Truly?”

“Truly,” she said, smiling. “And when we finish with your numbers tomorrow, we shall visit the garden and see if any ladybirds visit the roses.”

By the end of the morning, Thomas had stopped taunting her, and Charlotte had asked a question about verbs. Emma though, had been completely won over and by the end of the class, Amelia knew she had grown fond of her new governess.

When she finally stepped out of the lesson room, she felt something close to satisfaction. These children were not Clara and Frances. They were not cruel, only wary of yet another stranger in their lives. If she was steady enough, they might learn to trust her.

She tightened her grip around the books she held and turned toward the library.

She turned a corner in the hallway and immediately came face to face with the duke, almost bumping into him. He took a step back when he saw her, the coldness in his ice-blue eyes sharp and evident.

“Miss Wilson,” he said. “I presume you are familiar with the times for teaching the children.”

Her cheeks warmed, though her voice remained even. “Yes, Your Grace. Lessons have concluded for the morning.”

“Very good,” he responded and just as quickly as he had appeared, made his way out of her sight.

Something in her chest contracted. Only a few hours before, she had watched him cradle a fragile creature as though its small life mattered. Now he could not be bothered to look her in the eye. She was as significant as the sand beneath his shoe.

It did not matter, anyway. She was there to be useful, not to be seen. The duke was not cruel, no truly cruel man would do what she had seen him do that morning. What she didn’t understand, however, is why he wished to appear so. Why he wanted to seem colder than she knew he truly was, at heart.

She made her way into the library, the question unsettling her more than she would like to admit.