Chapter 1 

 

“Pray do not dawdle, Miss Waye,” the butler intoned as he led her up the sweeping, shadowed staircase. “His Grace does not abide delays.”

Georgia Waye tightened her grip on her valise and quickened her pace, though her sodden boots squelched most in a most undignified manner against the polished marble steps. The winter storm that had battered her coach for the final three miles to Blackthorn Hall had shown no mercy to either her traveling dress or her composure. Water was still dripping from the hem of her cloak, leaving a trail of impropriety in her wake.

“Of course,” she replied, lifting her chin despite the butler’s obvious disapproval. “I would not wish to inconvenience His Grace further.”

The man was quite tall and possessed of the sort of dignity that suggested he considered himself barely a step below royalty. He cast her a sideways glance that managed to convey both skepticism and resignation. “Indeed, miss. His Grace maintains the standards befitting one of the premier dukedoms in England. He expects nothing less from those in his employ.”

The emphasis on ’employ’ was subtle but unmistakable, a gentle reminder of her place in the household hierarchy. Georgia bit back the observation that punctuality was rather difficult to maintain when one’s carriage wheel had foundered in a snowdrift not a mile from the estate entrance gates.

“I am Hartwell, by the by,” the butler continued as they ascended. “I have served the House of Thornesdane for seven-and-twenty years. The late duke, God rest his soul, and now His Grace. Standards, Miss Waye, are what separate the noble houses from the merely wealthy.”

“Naturally,” Georgia murmured, though privately she wondered if such rigid standards extended to basic human kindness.

The staircase seemed to stretch endlessly upward, each step revealing yet another portrait of some stern-faced Thornesdane ancestor. Their painted eyes followed her ascent with what Georgia fancied was collective disapproval with centuries of ducal authority gazing down upon the latest governess to dare enter their domain.

“The third duke,” Hartwell noted, gesturing to a particularly imposing portrait of a man in elaborate court dress. “He served as Lord Chancellor to King George the Second. The fifth Earl of Ravensholme before the title was elevated, of course. And there…” he indicated a woman in an elaborate powdered wig, “the fourth duchess. She was lady-in-waiting to Queen Charlotte herself.”

Each introduction served to remind Georgia of the weight of history pressing down upon this household. This was not merely wealth, but power that stretched back generations, influence that had shaped kingdoms and toppled governments.

“The current duke,” Hartwell continued with obvious pride, “is cut from the same cloth. His Grace’s word carries considerable weight in Parliament, and his estates span three counties. The Thornesdane name opens doors that remain forever closed to lesser mortals.”

They reached the first landing, where an enormous window looked out onto the storm-lashed grounds. Even in the fury of the blizzard, Georgia could see that the estate stretched to the horizon unfolding thousands of acres of parkland, forests, and farmland that spoke of wealth beyond imagination.

“And the current duchess?” Georgia ventured, then immediately regretted her curiosity when she saw Hartwell’s expression darken.

“There is no current duchess,” he replied stiffly. “Her Grace, the late Duchess of Ravensholme, passed some six years ago. A most tragic accident.” His voice dropped to something approaching reverence. “Lady Margaret was the daughter of the Earl of Davies, as fine a lady as ever drew breath. Her loss was… deeply felt.”

The way he spoke suggested that the duke’s grief had not been a private affair but something that had infected the entire household like a contagion.

“His Grace has not since taken on another wife? Georgia asked, immediately realizing it was an impertinent question but finding herself curious despite her better judgment.

Hartwell’s eyebrows rose in obvious shock at her presumption. “His Grace’s private affairs are hardly a matter for speculation among the staff, Miss Waye. I would advise you to remember that in future.”

The rebuke was delivered with the sort of icy politeness that only a supremely well-trained servant could manage cutting without being overtly rude, a reminder of one’s place wrapped in proper deference.

“Of course. Forgive me.”

They continued their ascent in silence, passing more portraits, more reminders of the unbroken chain of power and privilege that had led to the current duke. Georgia found herself wondering what it must be like to live under the weight of such history, to know that every decision, every action would be measured against centuries of noble precedent.

“The household thrives on punctuality and silence,” Hartwell said as they reached the second floor. “You would be wise to remember it, Miss Waye. His Grace has little patience for disruption of any kind. The proper order of things must be maintained.”

Georgia straightened her shoulders and met his gaze directly. “I was engaged as a governess, not as a nun. I shall keep silence when it is fitting, and speak when it aids the child.”

For a moment, something flickered in Hartwell’s pale eyes, not quite approval, but perhaps a grudging acknowledgment that she had some steel in her spine. “His Grace will be the judge of what aids Lady Amelia. She is, after all, his heir until such time as he re-weds and produces a son.”

The casual mention of the child’s position struck Georgia oddly. To speak of a little girl primarily in terms of her value as an heir seemed both practical and somehow heartless.

“She is his daughter first, surely,” Georgia said quietly.

“She is the daughter of a duke, Miss Waye. That distinction shapes every aspect of her existence, as it should.” Hartwell stopped before a massive oak door carved with the Thornesdane coat of arms, a raven surrounded by thorns, with a ducal coronet above. “You will find His Grace in his study. Remember, punctuality, silence, and absolute deference to his wishes.”

“Bold words for a governess, Miss Waye,” Marcus interrupted smoothly from behind them.

Both Georgia and Hartwell spun around, startled. The Duke of Ravensholme stood in the corridor as if he had materialized from the very shadows, his approach so silent that neither had heard his footsteps on the thick carpet.

“Your Grace!” Hartwell immediately bowed low. “I was just escorting Miss Waye to your study.”

“I gathered as much.” The duke’s voice carried the sort of effortless authority that came from generations of absolute power. “Though I confess myself curious about these ‘bold words’ that seem to have preceded my arrival.”

Georgia felt heat rise in her cheeks, but she forced herself to stand straight. This was her new employer, the man who would determine her fate in this household, and first impressions were everything.

Marcus Thornesdane, Fifth Duke of Ravensholme, was not what she had expected, and yet he was everything she might have imagined in a peer of the realm. Younger than she had anticipated, perhaps five and thirty, with dark hair touched by silver at the temples and features that spoke of centuries of aristocratic breeding. He was tall and lean, with the sort of elegant bearing that seemed to have been bred into his very bones. His clothes were exquisite, a perfectly tailored coat of midnight blue superfine, pristine linen, and a cravat tied in a style so complex it must have taken his valet an hour to achieve perfection.

Everything about him radiated power, from his confident stance to the way he held his head, as if he had never in his life doubted his right to command absolute obedience from everyone around him. This was a man who had been born to rule, who had been raised knowing that kingdoms might rise and fall, but the House of Thornesdane would endure.

His eyes, however, were what truly commanded attention. They were gray as winter storm clouds, and when they settled upon Georgia, she felt assessed, catalogued, and found wanting in the space of a heartbeat.

“Miss Waye,” he said, his voice holding that particular tone of aristocratic reserve that managed to be both perfectly polite and utterly dismissive. “You have arrived rather unpunctually.” 

Georgia sank into her deepest curtsy, grateful that years of practice had made the gesture automatic. “Your Grace. The storm delayed my carriage and the roads were quite impassable for a time.”

 Her long, heavy tresses of auburn had escaped their pins and fell about her shoulders, damp and disheveled from the rain.

She stood there and looked at him with her expressive emerald eyes.

“Indeed.” He did not sound particularly interested in her explanation. “Hartwell, you may leave. I shall conduct Miss Waye to my study myself.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” The butler bowed again and withdrew with obvious reluctance, leaving Georgia alone in the corridor with one of the most powerful men in England.

For a moment, neither spoke. The duke studied her with the sort of thorough assessment that suggested he was sorting every detail of her appearance, from her damp traveling dress to the tendrils of hair that had escaped her pins during the journey. Georgia forced herself to remain still under the scrutiny, though every instinct urged her to fidget or look away.

“You seem younger than I expected,” he said finally. “Your references spoke of considerable experience.”

“I have been a governess for eight years, Your Grace,” Georgia replied. “I began when I was eighteen.”

“Eighteen.” He repeated the number as if testing it for accuracy. “And you are now six-and-twenty. Still quite young for someone professing to handle a challenging pupil.”

There was something in his tone that suggested he found her youth a disadvantage rather than merely noteworthy. Georgia lifted her chin slightly. “Youth need not preclude competence, Your Grace.”

His eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch, the first sign of genuine expression she had seen from him. “Indeed? And what, pray tell, qualifies you to educate the daughter of a duke when four previous governesses have failed?”

The challenge was clear, delivered with the sort of aristocratic hauteur that expected immediate submission. Georgia felt her spine stiffen. “Perhaps, Your Grace, the question is not what qualifies me, but why four previous governesses found their positions here untenable.”

The silence that followed was so complete that Georgia could hear her own heartbeat. She realized, with dawning horror, that she had essentially suggested that the duke himself might be responsible for his employees’ failures. It was precisely the sort of impertinence that could see her dismissed before she had even begun her duties.

But instead of the explosion of ducal wrath she expected, something flickered in those cold gray eyes. Not quite amusement, but perhaps a grudging acknowledgment that she possessed more backbone than he had anticipated.

“Careful, Miss Waye,” he said softly. “Your boldness borders on insolence.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I meant no disrespect.” Georgia kept her voice steady, though her heart was racing. “I merely hoped to understand what challenges I might face in my new position.”

“The challenge,” he replied with cutting precision, “is my daughter. Lady Amelia is willful, prone to fits of temper, and utterly resistant to proper discipline. She has driven away four governesses through sheer obstinacy, and I begin to suspect she takes pleasure in the exercise.”

There was something in his tone when he spoke of his daughter, not quite coldness, but a distance that struck Georgia as profoundly sad. This was a man speaking of his child as one might discuss a particularly troublesome piece of property.

“Children often act out when they feel misunderstood,” Georgia ventured carefully. “Perhaps Lady Amelia simply requires a different approach.”

“Lady Amelia requires discipline and structure, Miss Waye. Nothing more, nothing less.” His voice had taken on the sort of finality that suggested the subject was closed. “She is the daughter of a duke, and she must be educated accordingly. I will not have her disgrace the family name through ignorance or impropriety.”

He gestured toward his study door, and Georgia realized she was being dismissed from the corridor and commanded to follow. The moment they stepped across the threshold, she was again impressed by the room’s severe magnificence, so considerable in its scale, so cold, and undeniably arrayed with every suitable symbol of authority.

“Lady Amelia,” the duke called, and Georgia realized with a start that they were not alone.

A small figure emerged from behind an enormous wing chair near the fireplace, a child of perhaps ten years, with her father’s dark hair and enormous gray eyes that seemed to take up half her pale face. She wore a simple dress of mourning colors that did nothing to bring warmth to her complexion, and she moved with the careful precision of a child who had learned to make herself small and unobtrusive.

“Papa,” she said quietly, dropping into a perfect curtsy that would have done credit to a child twice her age.

“Approach.” His voice was not unkind, but neither was it particularly warm. “This is Miss Waye, your new governess.”

Lady Amelia approached with obvious reluctance, her steps measured and careful. When she reached her father’s side, she curtsied again to Georgia with the same mechanical precision.

“How do you do, Miss Waye,” she said in a voice so soft it was barely audible.

Georgia’s heart went out to the child immediately. There was something heartbreaking about such formality in one so young, such careful control where there should have been natural childish exuberance.

“I am very well indeed, Lady Amelia,” Georgia replied with genuine warmth. “And I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I look forward to our lessons together.”

For just a moment, the child’s face brightened, but the expression was quickly suppressed when she glanced toward her father.

“Lady Amelia has been without proper instruction for the better part of a month,” the duke said, his tone suggesting that this was a failing on the child’s part rather than a result of circumstances beyond her control. “I trust you will find her studies sadly neglected.”

“I’m confident we shall manage admirably,” Georgia said, noting the way Lady Amelia’s shoulders seemed to draw inward at her father’s words.

“Her education must be comprehensive,” the duke continued, beginning to pace behind his massive desk with the restless energy of a man accustomed to action. “French, Italian, German if time permits. Mathematics sufficient for household management. Natural history, geography, the proper use of the globe and celestial charts. Deportment, dancing, and the management of domestic affairs. Music, of course, she must play both the pianoforte and harp with competence, if not skill.”

He paused in his recitation to fix Georgia with a stern look. “She must be prepared to take her place in society as befits her rank. The daughter of the Duke of Ravensholme cannot be permitted any deficiencies in her education.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Georgia agreed, though privately she wondered when the child was expected to have time for anything resembling childhood.

“Her late mother,” the duke continued, and his voice took on a different quality, not precisely softer, but somehow more remote, “was considered one of the most accomplished ladies of her generation. Lady Margaret spoke four languages fluently, played the harp like an angel, and could discourse knowledgeably on any subject from philosophy to botany. Lady Amelia must be educated to the same standard.”

Georgia glanced at the child, noting the way she seemed to shrink further into herself at the mention of her mother. The weight of such expectations must be crushing for a little girl who had lost her mother at such a young age.

“Lady Margaret was exceptional,” Georgia said carefully. “But surely Lady Amelia should be allowed to develop her own particular talents and interests as well?”

The duke’s eyebrows rose in obvious surprise at her presumption. “Lady Amelia’s interests are immaterial, Miss Waye. She has a duty to her name and position that supersedes any personal inclinations she might possess.”

“But surely…”

“There is no ‘but surely’ in this matter,” the duke cut her off with the sort of aristocratic authority that brooked no argument. “I am not employing you to indulge a child’s whims, Miss Waye, but to prepare her for her eventual role as a lady of the highest rank. Her future husband will expect certain accomplishments, and upon my honour, she shall possess them.”

The casual mention of Lady Amelia’s eventual matrimony as if it had already been arranged, though the child was barely ten years old, struck Georgia as profoundly disturbing. But she bit back her immediate response, recognizing that she stood upon precarious ground with her new employer.

“Of course, Your Grace. I understand completely.”

“Do you?” His gray eyes were sharp, assessing. “I wonder. Your references spoke of success with the merchant class, Miss Waye. Educating the daughter of a duke is an entirely different matter. The standards are higher, the expectations greater, and the consequences of failure far more serious.”

“I am aware of the honor you do me in entrusting Lady Amelia’s education to my care,” Georgia replied with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Honor?” The duke’s laugh was short and entirely without humor. “Miss Waye, you mistake necessity for honor. You are the fifth governess I have employed in eighteen months. The others proved… inadequate to the task. I trust you will not follow their example.”

The threat was implicit but unmistakable. Georgia felt her temper stir at being spoken to as if she were already proven incompetent, but she forced herself to remain calm.

“I have never failed to complete a position, Your Grace. I do not intend to begin now.”

“Bold words,” he said, echoing his earlier observation. “We shall see if your performance matches your confidence.”

He moved to his desk and withdrew a sheet of paper, which he handed to her with the sort of casual authority that suggested he was accustomed to having his every gesture obeyed without question.

“Your schedule,” he said. “Lessons begin at eight o’clock sharp each morning. Luncheon at noon, afternoon studies until four, tea at half-past. You will take your meals in the nursery with Lady Amelia as I prefer not to have the routine of the house disrupted by governess comings and goings.”

Georgia scanned the schedule quickly, noting that it left precious little time for anything resembling relaxation or play. Every moment of Lady Amelia’s day was accounted for, scheduled with military precision.

“The child requires structure,” the duke continued, as if reading her thoughts. “Too much freedom breeds laziness and impertinence. I will not have my daughter grow up to be one of those silly, frivolous creatures who think only of gowns and gossip.”

“Certainly not, Your Grace,” Georgia agreed, though she privately thought that a little frivolity might do Lady Amelia a world of good.

“You will find your quarters adequate,” he continued. “They adjoin the nursery, as is proper. Mrs. Crawford will show you to them shortly. I trust you have no particular requirements that cannot be met by a well-managed household?”

“None at all, Your Grace. I am quite content with simple accommodation.”

“Good. Simplicity is a virtue too often overlooked in modern society.” He returned to his desk and seated himself with the sort of unconscious grace that spoke of aristocratic breeding. “Lady Amelia, you may retreat to the nursery. Miss Waye will join you there directly.”

The dismissal was clear, but Lady Amelia hesitated, glancing between her father and Georgia with obvious uncertainty.

“Go along, child,” the duke said, his tone sharpening slightly. “Miss Waye and I have matters to discuss.”

Lady Amelia curtsied again and withdrew, moving with the same careful silence that seemed to characterize everything about this household. Georgia watched her go with a heavy heart, thinking of all the laughter and joy that was being systematically trained out of the little girl.

“A word of warning, Miss Waye,” the duke said once they were alone. “Do not mistake my daughter’s current docility for genuine improvement. She has a talent for lulling her governesses into complacency before displaying her true nature. I advise you to remain vigilant.”

“What sort of… displays should I expect?” Georgia asked carefully.

“Tantrums. Deliberate disobedience. Tears when frustrated, silence when challenged. She has perfected the art of making herself appear the injured party while driving her instructors to distraction.” His voice was utterly matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing the weather rather than his own daughter’s emotional struggles.

Georgia felt a surge of sympathy for the child. “She is very young to have lost her mother. Perhaps these behaviors are expressions of grief rather than deliberate defiance.”

The duke’s eyes went cold. “Lady Amelia was a newborn baby when her mother passed away, Miss Waye. She has no conscious memory of Lady Margaret to grieve. Her current difficulties stem from lack of proper discipline, nothing more.”

“But surely the loss would affect her nonetheless…”

“Miss Waye.” The duke’s voice cut through her words like a blade. “I will not have my daughter’s failings excused by sentiment. She is the daughter of a duke, and she will behave accordingly. That is your task, to ensure that she does.”

The finality in his tone made it clear that the subject was closed. Georgia inclined her head in acknowledgment, though privately she suspected that Lady Amelia’s problems ran far deeper than simple willfulness.

“I understand, Your Grace.”

“Do you? I wonder.” He leaned back in his chair, studying her with those penetrating gray eyes. “You seem… softer than your predecessors, Miss Waye. More inclined to sympathy than discipline. I trust this will not interfere with your duties.”

The implied criticism stung, but Georgia kept her voice level. “I believe firmness and kindness need not be mutually exclusive, Your Grace. A child who feels secure and valued is more likely to respond positively to instruction.”

“Pretty theories,” he said dismissively. “We shall see how they fare in practice. Lady Amelia has defeated more experienced governesses with far less charitable inclinations.”

“Then perhaps,” Georgia said with quiet determination, “it is time for a different approach.”

Something flickered in the duke’s eyes, surprise, perhaps, or possibly irritation at her persistence. “You are either very confident or very naive, Miss Waye. I suspect time will reveal which.”

“Indeed it will, Your Grace,” Georgia replied with a slight smile. “I look forward to the discovery.”

For a moment, they regarded each other in silence, the duke with his aristocratic authority and cold reserve, Georgia with her quiet determination and stubborn refusal to be intimidated. Finally, he nodded once, a gesture that seemed to indicate the interview was concluded.

“Mrs. Crawford will show you to your quarters. Lessons begin tomorrow at eight on the hour precisely. Do not be late.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Georgia curtsied one final time. “Thank you for your time.”

As she moved toward the door, his voice stopped her once more.

“Miss Waye.”

She turned back to find him watching her with an expression she could not quite read. For just a moment, something seemed to flicker in those cold gray eyes, not warmth, exactly, but perhaps the faintest suggestion that his harsh facade might not tell the complete story.

“My daughter has been through considerable… upheaval in recent months. I trust you will remember that consistency is more valuable than sympathy in such circumstances.”

It was not quite a kindness, but neither was it entirely cold. Georgia found herself oddly moved by what seemed like genuine concern for his daughter’s well-being, even if it was expressed in such an emotionally distant manner.

“I shall remember, Your Grace. Thank you.”

As she left the duke’s study and followed Mrs. Crawford through the labyrinthine corridors of Blackthorn Hall, Georgia reflected on her first encounter with her new employer. Marcus Thornesdane was everything she might have expected in a duke, proud, authoritative, and utterly certain of his place in the world. But beneath that aristocratic facade, she sensed depths that perhaps even he did not fully understand.

As for Lady Amelia, that sad, silent little girl who moved through her father’s house like a ghost, would require all of Georgia’s skill and patience to reach.

But reach her she would. After all, even the coldest winter eventually gave way to spring, and Georgia Waye had never yet met a heart too frozen to thaw.

Chapter 2 

 

“You will find your quarters adequate,” Marcus said coolly. “The nursery adjoins them.”

Georgia followed the duke through the corridors of Blackthorn Hall, noting how his stride never faltered despite the obvious chaos that seemed to have befallen the household. Servants hurried past them with buckets of water and armloads of linens, their faces flushed with exertion and barely contained panic. The acrid smell of smoke hung in the air, growing stronger as they moved through the house.

“I do hope there is no serious emergency, Your Grace,” Georgia ventured, stepping aside as two footmen rushed past carrying what appeared to be a scorched table.

“Merely a small fire in the kitchen,” Marcus replied with the sort of dismissive indifference one might reserve for commenting upon a slight change in the weather. “Lady Amelia decided to conduct an experiment with the cook’s brandy and a candle. Nothing that cannot be managed.”

Georgia stopped walking entirely, staring at his profile in disbelief. “Lady Amelia set fire to the kitchen?”

“A small fire,” he corrected, continuing his measured pace without bothering to look back at her. “Mrs. Patterson assures me the damage is minimal. The cook’s eyebrows will grow back in due course.”

The casual manner in which he delivered this information was as if his eight-year-old daughter regularly engaged in acts of potential arson left Georgia momentarily speechless. She bit back the sarcastic observation that perhaps his previous governesses had not fled from mere willfulness, but from genuine fear for their lives.

“I see,” she managed instead, hurrying to catch up with his long strides. “And this is… typical behavior?”

“Lady Amelia has always possessed an unfortunate fascination with flames,” Marcus said with the same tone he might have used to discuss her fondness for particular sweets. “It is one of several habits that must be corrected through proper discipline.”

They turned down another corridor, this one mercifully free of scurrying servants and the smell of smoke. Here, the oppressive grandeur of the house reasserted itself with more portraits of stern ancestors, and even more reminders of centuries of ducal authority. Georgia found herself wondering how anyone could breathe freely in such an atmosphere, let alone a small child seeking attention through increasingly desperate measures.

“We have arrived,” Marcus announced, stopping before a door that was significantly less imposing than those she had seen thus far. “Your quarters.”

He opened the door without ceremony and stepped aside to allow her to enter first. The sitting room beyond was indeed adequate, simply furnished with a writing desk, two chairs, and a small bookshelf. A fire had been laid in the grate, though it remained unlit, and the single window looked out onto what appeared to be the stable yard.

“Modest but sufficient,” Marcus continued, moving to the window and gazing out with apparent satisfaction. “You will find that the duke’s household does not indulge in unnecessary luxuries for the staff. Character is built through restraint, not comfort.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Georgia replied, though privately she thought a little comfort might do wonders for everyone’s character. “It will suit admirably.”

He moved to another door, which he opened to reveal her bedchamber, a narrow room containing little more than a bed, washstand, and wardrobe. Everything was clean and well-maintained, but utterly without personality or warmth.

“Your personal effects will be delivered within the hour,” he said, closing the door again. “I trust you travel light. Excessive baggage suggests excessive attachment to material possessions.”

Georgia, who owned precisely three dresses, two shawls, and a handful of books, found this observation rather amusing. “Indeed, Your Grace. I find that simplicity serves best in my position.”

“Quite agreed.” He moved to the final door, the one that connected to the nursery. “Now, as to your duties and expectations.”

The nursery that lay beyond was exactly as Mrs. Crawford had described, magnificently appointed and utterly cheerless. Marcus entered with the air of a general inspecting troops, his gaze moving critically over every perfectly arranged surface.

“Lady Amelia will rise at seven each morning,” he began without preamble. “Prayers and Ablutions shall occupy the time until the half-hour. Breakfast is served precisely at eight on the hour succeeded directly by the lessons, which shall continue until noon.

 

The French tongue is to be studied on Mondays and Thursdays, the Italian on Tuesdays and Fridays, and Mathematics will be studied every day without exception. Natural history twice weekly, geography on Wednesdays.”

He paused at the writing desk, straightening an already perfectly aligned row of quills. “Deportment lessons each afternoon, music practice for one hour daily. She is to master the pianoforte before progressing to the harp. Her mother was proficient in both instruments.”

There was something in his tone when he mentioned Lady Amelia’s mother, not precisely warmth, but a subtle shift that suggested deeper emotions carefully held in check. Georgia filed the observation away for future consideration.

“The child must not be indulged,” Marcus continued, his voice returning to its usual crisp authority. “She is fragile enough without foolish coddling adding to her difficulties. Discipline, structure, and unwavering expectations are the tools that will shape her into a proper lady.”

Georgia moved to examine the rows of books arranged with military precision on the shelves. Educational texts, moral treatises, collections of improving poetry, everything calculated to instruct and elevate, nothing chosen for the simple pleasure of a good story.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” she said carefully, “but a child deprived of warmth grows brittle. Strength without kindness will not endure.”

The silence that followed was so complete that Georgia could hear her own heartbeat. She turned to find Marcus staring at her with an expression that might have been surprise, disapproval, or both.

“Are you instructing me on parenthood, Miss Waye?”

His voice was deceptively quiet, carrying the sort of deadly calm that suggested a man holding his temper in check through sheer force of will. Georgia felt heat rise in her cheeks, but she forced herself to meet his gaze steadily.

“No, only speaking what any sensible governess must. You may dismiss me if my methods offend.”

For a long moment, they regarded each other across the pristine nursery, he with his ducal authority and barely contained irritation, she with her quiet determination and stubborn refusal to back down. Georgia found herself studying his face more closely than propriety should have allowed, noting the way his jaw was set in a hard line and how his hands had clenched into fists at his sides.

He was younger than his manner suggested, she realised. The rigidity of his countenance and  great emotional distance he maintained were not the natural results of age nor vast experience, but rather the clear products of a man who had been compelled to armour himself completely against the danger of feeling too intensely.

“Your predecessors,” he said finally, his voice carefully measured, “were dismissed for excessive sympathy rather than insufficient discipline. Lady Amelia does not require another indulgent fool to encourage her worst impulses.”

“What does she require, then?” Georgia asked, genuinely curious to understand his perspective.

“Obedience,” he replied without hesitation. “Respect for authority. The understanding that her position in life brings both privilege and responsibility. She must be made to learn the conduct that befits the daughter of a Duke, and cease all pretense of conducting herself as though she were some common child permitted to run wild.”

Georgia moved to the window, gazing out at the grounds where snow continued to fall in thick, determined flakes. “And what of happiness, Your Grace? Does that factor align with your plans for her education?”

“Happiness?” Marcus repeated the word as if it were foreign to him. “Happiness is a luxury, Miss Waye. Duty is eternal. Lady Amelia will find satisfaction in the proper fulfillment of her obligations.”

“Satisfaction is not the same as happiness.”

“No,” he agreed with what might have been regret. “It is not. But it is more reliable.”

There was something in his tone that made Georgia look at him more closely. For just a moment, his careful mask had slipped, revealing a glimpse of something that might have been pain. She found herself wondering what had taught him to distrust happiness so thoroughly.

“Perhaps,” she said gently, “both might be possible.”

His laugh was short and entirely without humor. “You are either very naive or very optimistic, Miss Waye. I suspect time will reveal which.”

He moved to the far end of the nursery, where a door stood slightly ajar. Without thinking, he pushed it open, then immediately stepped back as if he had been burned.

Georgia caught a glimpse of what lay beyond, another sitting room, but this one was different from the rest of the house. Where everything else was cold and formal, this room seemed to have frozen in time, preserved exactly as someone had left it years ago. Sunlight streamed through tall windows onto furniture covered in Holland cloth, and on a small table near the window sat a crystal vase containing what had once been roses, now dried to brittle brown husks but still carefully maintained.

Most striking of all was the portrait above the mantelpiece, or rather, what she could see of it. The painting had been covered with a cloth, but one corner had come loose, revealing a glimpse of golden hair and a laughing face.

“That room is not to be entered,” Marcus said sharply, pulling the door closed with unnecessary force. “By anyone. For any reason.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Georgia replied softly, though her curiosity was thoroughly aroused. “I understand.”

“Do you?” His gray eyes were hard when they met hers. “I wonder. The previous governesses found it necessary to speculate endlessly about matters that did not concern them. I trust you will not follow their example.”

The warning was clear, but Georgia found herself drawn to the mystery despite her better judgment. “I have no interest in speculation, Your Grace. Only in performing my duties to the best of my ability.”

“See that you remember that.” He moved away from the closed door as if its very presence disturbed him. “Lady Amelia is not to be encouraged in excessive curiosity about… certain topics. She has quite enough to occupy her mind with her studies.”

“What topics should I avoid?” Georgia asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.

“Her mother.” The words came out clipped and final. “Lady Margaret is deceased. Dwelling upon the past serves no useful purpose and only encourages morbid fancies in a child already prone to dramatic behavior.”

Georgia felt a surge of sympathy for little Lady Amelia. To lose one’s mother at such a young age was tragedy enough, but to be forbidden even to speak of her seemed unnecessarily cruel.

“Children often find comfort in memories of those they have loved,” she said carefully.

“Lady Amelia has no memories of her mother worth preserving,” Marcus replied with brutal finality. “She was but moments old when Margaret passed away, thus any supposed recollections are merely imagination fed by servants’ gossip.”

“But surely…”

“Miss Waye.” His voice cut through her words like a blade. “This subject is closed. There is nothing further to be said upon the matter.” You will not encourage Lady Amelia’s fanciful thinking on this matter, and you will not permit her to indulge in melancholy reflections that serve no purpose save to make her more difficult to manage.”

The harshness of his tone surprised Georgia, revealing depths of pain that his careful control usually concealed. Whatever had happened to Lady Margaret, her demise had left wounds that six years had done nothing to heal.

“I understand, Your Grace,” she said quietly.

“Do you indeed? I begin to doubt your comprehension, Miss Waye. Perhaps I should be more explicit in my expectations.”

He began to pace the length of the nursery, his movements sharp and controlled. “Lady Amelia will rise at seven and retire at eight. Her meals will be taken in this room, not in the dining room where her presence might disrupt adult conversation. She will speak when spoken to and remain silent otherwise. She will complete her lessons without complaint and practice her instruments without prompting.”

“And if she fails to meet these expectations?”

“Then she will learn the consequences of disobedience.” His smile was cold. “I am not a harsh man, Miss Waye, but I am a thorough one. Lady Amelia will learn proper behavior, or she will learn to regret improper behavior. The choice is hers.”

Georgia felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. “What sort of consequences?”

“Whatever proves most effective. Confinement to her room, withdrawal of privileges and additional lessons. I will still resort to the cessation of meals until proper conduct is restored.” He spoke as if discussing the weather, utterly matter-of-fact about punishments that seemed designed to break a child’s spirit rather than guide her behavior.

“Your Grace,” Georgia said carefully, “such methods might prove counterproductive with a child who is already struggling…”

“Lady Amelia is not struggling, Miss Waye. She is simply willful. There is a significant difference.” His eyes were hard when they met hers. “She has been permitted far too much latitude by previous governesses who mistook defiance for distress. I will not make that error again.”

“But surely a child who sets fires in the kitchen is expressing some form of distress?”

“Lady Amelia sets fires because she enjoys the chaos that results. It is attention-seeking behavior of the most manipulative sort.” He moved to the window, gazing out at the snow-covered grounds with apparent indifference. “She has learned that dramatic displays result in concerned adults clustering around her, offering sympathy and making excuses for her conduct. It is a pattern that must be broken.”

Georgia found herself studying his profile, noting the rigid set of his shoulders and the way his hands were clasped behind his back with military precision. Everything about his posture suggested a man holding himself under the tightest possible control.

“What if you are wrong?” she asked quietly.

 “Pray, repeat that, if you please.”

“What if Lady Amelia’s behavior stems not from manipulation, but from genuine need? What if she sets fires not for attention, but because she lacks the words to express her feelings?”

Marcus turned to face her fully, his expression one of polite incredulity. “Miss Waye, you have been in this house for less than two hours. Lady Amelia is my daughter. I do believe I am better qualified to assess her motivations than a stranger who has not yet met her properly.”

The rebuke was delivered with ducal authority, but Georgia heard something else beneath it, uncertainty, perhaps, or the faintest suggestion that he might harbor his own doubts.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she replied diplomatically. “I merely hoped to understand the situation fully before beginning my duties.”

“The situation is quite simple. Lady Amelia requires firm guidance and consistent discipline. She does not require sympathy, indulgence, or endless analysis of her supposed emotional states.” He moved toward the door, clearly intending to end their conversation. “I trust I have made myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Your Grace.”

But as they prepared to leave the nursery, Georgia found herself unable to resist one final attempt. “Your Grace, might I ask what happened to the previous governesses? You mentioned that they were dismissed for excessive sympathy, but surely there were specific incidents that led to their departure?”

Marcus paused in the doorway, his hand resting on the frame. For a moment, Georgia thought he might actually answer her question. Instead, he simply shook his head.

“Miss Harrison lasted three months before declaring Lady Amelia ‘impossible to manage.’ Miss Fitzpatrick endured barely six weeks before claiming that the child was ‘disturbed beyond help.’ Miss Carrington departed after Lady Amelia convinced her that the nursery was haunted by her deceased mother’s ghost.” His voice was utterly flat, devoid of emotion. “Miss Thornbury lasted the longest, almost four entire months, following the act of Lady Amelia locking her in the coal cellar for an entire afternoon.”

Georgia felt her eyes widen despite herself. “Locked her in the cellar?”

“With considerable ingenuity, I’m told. The mechanism was quite clever for a child of ten years.” There was something that might have been pride in his voice, quickly suppressed. “As I said, Lady Amelia is intelligent. Unfortunately, she applies that intelligence primarily to making life difficult for anyone charged with her education.”

“And you believe this behavior stems from willfulness rather than distress?”

“I believe,” Marcus said with finality, “that Lady Amelia has learned to use her intelligence as a weapon against those who would impose proper structure upon her life. It is a habit that must be broken.”

They moved through her quarters toward the main corridor, and Georgia found herself thinking about everything she had learned during this brief tour. Lady Amelia was clearly a troubled child, but her father seemed determined to treat her emotional struggles as character defects to be corrected rather than wounds to be healed.

The preserved room with its covered portrait and dried roses suggested depths of grief that Marcus Thornesdane had never properly addressed. How could he help his daughter heal from losses he refused to acknowledge in himself?

“No dismissal,” Marcus said suddenly, as if reading her thoughts. “We shall see if your notions have merit, Miss Waye. But understand that my patience is not infinite. Lady Amelia requires results, not experiments.”

“I understand, Your Grace,” Georgia replied, though privately she wondered if he understood anything at all about his own daughter’s needs.

They had reached the main staircase when disaster struck. Georgia was descending carefully, her attention focused on the conversation rather than her footing, when her boot struck something small and hard on the steps. Her ankle twisted sharply as she lost her balance, and she found herself pitching forward with a cry of alarm.

The marble steps rushed up to meet her, and for a terrifying moment she was certain she would tumble headlong down the entire flight. But before she could fall, strong hands seized her waist, pulling her back against a solid chest with breathtaking efficiency.

Georgia found herself pressed against Marcus Thornesdane’s waistcoat, her hands instinctively clutching at his coat sleeves for stability. She could feel the rapid beat of her own heart, the warmth of his body through the fine fabric of his clothes, the clean scent of his cologne mixing with the faint aroma of sandalwood.

For a moment, neither of them moved. His hands remained at her waist, fingers spread wide across the fabric of her dress, and she could feel the strength in them, the controlled power that had prevented her fall. His chest rose and fell beneath her palms, and when she dared to look up, she found his gray eyes staring down at her with an expression she could not decipher.

Heat flooded her cheeks as she became acutely aware of their proximity, of the impropriety of being held so closely by her employer. She could feel his breath stirring the loose tendrils of hair at her temples, could see the faint lines around his eyes and the small scar near his left temple that spoke of some long-ago accident.

“I… forgive me, Your Grace,” she stammered, trying to step back and finding that his hands had not released their grip on her waist. “I seem to have… that is, I didn’t see…”

His eyes darkened, and for a moment she thought she saw something flicker in their depths, something that had nothing to do with ducal authority and everything to do with the fact that she was a woman and he was a man. But the expression was gone so quickly that she might have imagined it, replaced by a glare of unmistakable irritation.

“Clumsy,” he said, his voice harsh. “I would have expected a governess to possess better coordination than to trip on a staircase.”

The unfairness of the accusation stung, particularly when she was still trembling from the near fall and acutely aware of his hands still resting at her waist. “There was something on the steps, Your Grace. I couldn’t see…”

“Excuses do not alter facts, Miss Waye.” But even as he spoke, his gaze moved to the stairs behind her, and his expression shifted. “What in the name…” 

Still holding her steady with one hand, he bent to retrieve the object that had caused her stumble. It was a small wooden cart, the sort of toy that children might use to transport dolls or other playthings. It had been positioned precisely at the edge of a step, almost invisible in the shadows but perfectly placed to catch an unwary foot.

Marcus straightened slowly, the toy cart balanced in his palm, his expression growing thunderous as the implications became clear.

“Lady Amelia,” he said, his voice deadly quiet.

Georgia felt his fingers tighten slightly at her waist before he seemed to remember himself and released her with abrupt movements. She immediately missed the warmth and security of his touch, which was an entirely inappropriate reaction that she chose not to examine too closely.

“She set a trap,” Georgia said, understanding dawning. “For the new governess.”

“Indeed.” Marcus turned the wooden cart over in his hands, examining it with the sort of attention a general might give to an enemy’s battle plans. “Clever. Malicious, but undeniably clever.”

“She might have killed me,” Georgia pointed out, still shaken by how close she had come to serious injury.

“I doubt that was her intention. Lady Amelia is many things, but she is not genuinely vicious.” He pocketed the toy with swift, economical movements. “No, this was designed to humiliate rather than harm. To demonstrate her power over yet another governess before lessons had even begun.”

The casual way he analyzed his daughter’s attempt to injure her was almost as disturbing as the act itself. Georgia found herself staring at him with something approaching disbelief.

“And this is acceptable behavior in your household?”

“It is behavior that will be corrected,” Marcus replied with icy calm. “Immediately and thoroughly.”

“How?” Georgia asked, though she was not certain she wanted to hear the answer.

“Lady Amelia will discover that actions have consequences, Miss Waye. Unpleasant ones.” His smile was sharp as a blade. “She will spend the next week confined to the nursery with only bread and water for sustenance. No books, no toys, no diversions of any kind. Perhaps solitude will encourage better judgment.”

Georgia felt horror rise in her throat. “Your Grace, surely such punishment is excessive for…”

“For attempting to cause serious injury to a member of this household? I think not.” His voice brooked no argument. “Lady Amelia must learn that her manipulations will not be tolerated.”

“She is ten years old,” Georgia protested. “A child acting out of loneliness and confusion. Surely isolation is precisely the wrong response to such behavior?”

Marcus turned to face her fully, his gray eyes hard as winter stone. “Miss Waye, you have been employed for less than three hours. In that time, my daughter has set fire to the kitchen and attempted to cause you bodily harm. Do you still believe that gentleness and understanding are the appropriate responses?”

The question hung in the air between them, a challenge that demanded an honest answer. Georgia found herself thinking of Lady Amelia’s pale, solemn face, of the way she had moved through her father’s study like a shadow, silent and withdrawn.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I do.”

Marcus stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. When he spoke again, his voice was very soft, very controlled.

“Then you are either a fool or a saint, Miss Waye. And in my experience, saints rarely survive long as governesses.”

With that pronouncement, he turned and strode away down the corridor, leaving Georgia alone on the staircase with her racing heart and the lingering memory of his hands at her waist.

As she watched his retreating figure, she found herself wondering which of them was truly the prisoner in this cold, magnificent house, the lonely child acting out in desperate bids for attention, or the grief-stricken man who had armored himself so thoroughly against feeling that he could no longer recognize love when it stared him in the face.

Tomorrow, she would begin the delicate task of reaching them both. But tonight, she would pray for wisdom, patience, and the strength to survive whatever tests Lady Amelia had devised for governess number five.

Chapter 3 

 

“Miss Waye, must I copy these lines again?” Amelia groaned, her quill blotting the page with dark ink that spread like spilled wine across the pristine paper.

Georgia looked up from where she had been arranging the morning’s lesson materials and studied her young pupil with growing concern. Lady Amelia sat hunched over her writing desk, her small shoulders curved in defeat, dark hair falling forward to obscure her pale face. The child had been laboring over the same passage of moral verse for nearly an hour, and each attempt seemed to produce more blots and smears than legible text.

The nursery felt particularly cold this morning, despite the fire that had been laid in the grate. Snow continued to fall beyond the tall windows, casting everything in that peculiar gray light that belonged to deep winter. It had been three days since Georgia’s arrival at Blackthorn Hall, and she was beginning to understand why four previous governesses had found their positions untenable.

Not because Lady Amelia was willfully destructive, though the incident with the wooden cart on the staircase had certainly given Georgia pause but because the child seemed to have withdrawn so completely into herself that reaching her felt like trying to grasp smoke.

“Let me see,” Georgia said gently, moving to stand behind Amelia’s chair. The page was indeed a disaster, covered with crossed-out lines, ink blots, and what appeared to be tears. The prescribed text, a dreary moral poem about the virtues of obedience had been copied and recopied until it was barely recognizable.

“My hand won’t obey,” Amelia whispered, so softly that Georgia had to lean closer to hear. “The letters come out wrong, and Papa will be angry if my penmanship is poor.”

Georgia felt her heart constrict at the defeated note in the child’s voice. This was not the behavior of a willful, manipulative child, but of one who had been crushed by impossible expectations and the constant fear of disappointing those she loved.

“Perhaps,” Georgia said carefully, settling into the chair beside Amelia, “we might try a different approach.”

Amelia looked up with wide, hopeful eyes, the first sign of genuine animation Georgia had seen from her. “Different?”

“Indeed. Tell me, what is your favorite story?”

The question seemed to surprise Amelia. She glanced toward the door as if expecting her father to appear and correct such frivolous conversation, then back at Georgia with obvious uncertainty.

“I… I’m not certain I should have favorites, Miss Waye. Papa says preferences are indulgent.”

“But surely you must enjoy some stories more than others?” Georgia pressed gently. “When you read alone, which tales capture your imagination?”

A faint flush colored Amelia’s pale cheeks. “There is one,” she admitted reluctantly. “About a princess who lives in a castle made of ice. She has the power to create snowflakes and frost patterns, but she is very lonely because everyone fears her magic.”

Georgia nodded encouragingly. “And what happens to this lonely princess?”

“She meets a little girl who is not afraid of the ice and snow. The little girl teaches her that magic is not something to hide from, but something to share.” Amelia’s voice grew stronger as she spoke, and her eyes began to brighten. “Together, they create the most beautiful winter garden anyone has ever seen.”

“What a lovely story,” Georgia said with genuine warmth. “Now, instead of copying these dreary moral verses, suppose you were to write me a letter from the ice princess to her new friend?”

Amelia blinked in surprise. “A letter?”

“Indeed. Think of all the things the princess might want to tell the little girl about her castle, her magic, her loneliness. Write it in your own words, with your own thoughts.” Georgia moved to a clean sheet of paper and placed it before the child. “Pray do not be anxious about slight imperfections such as the occasional blot or correction. Even princesses make mistakes when they are learning to express their feelings.”

For a moment, Amelia simply stared at the blank paper as if it were a foreign object. Then, slowly, she picked up her quill and began to write. The difference was immediate and remarkable, instead of laboring over each letter, she began to write with something approaching eagerness, her small tongue poking out in concentration as she crafted her imaginary correspondence.

Georgia moved quietly about the nursery, arranging the day’s other lessons while keeping a watchful eye on her pupil. This was the first time she had seen Amelia display genuine enthusiasm for anything, and she was determined not to interrupt the moment.

“Miss Waye,” Amelia said after several minutes, “how do you spell ‘crystalline’?”

“C-r-y-s-t-a-l-l-i-n-e,” Georgia replied, impressed that the child would attempt such an advanced word. “What does your ice princess wish to say about crystalline things?”

“She wants to describe the walls of her castle. They are made of ice so clear you can see through them, but they cast rainbows when the sun shines through.” Amelia paused, chewing thoughtfully on the end of her quill. “Do you think that is silly, Miss Waye?”

“I do believe it sounds perfectly magical,” Georgia assured her. “And I believe any little girl would be honored to receive such a letter.”

They worked in companionable silence for nearly an hour, Amelia writing her letter while Georgia prepared materials for their afternoon lessons. The atmosphere in the nursery felt different somehow warmer, despite the continuing snowfall outside. For the first time since arriving at Blackthorn Hall, Georgia felt as though she might actually be reaching her young pupil.

It was then that she became aware they were being observed.

Marcus Thornesdane stood in the doorway, silent as a shadow, his gray eyes fixed on the scene before him with an expression Georgia could not decipher. He was dressed impeccably as always a coat of deep brown wool that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, pristine linen, and boots that bore not a trace of mud despite the weather. Everything about his appearance suggested a man who had never known a moment’s uncertainty about his place in the world.

Yet there was something in his eyes as he surveyed his daughter bent over her writing that suggested depths Georgia was only beginning to suspect. How long had he been standing there? And what conclusions was he drawing about her unorthodox teaching methods?

“Good morning, Your Grace,” she said quietly, not wishing to startle Amelia from her concentration.

Marcus inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment but did not immediately speak. His gaze moved from his daughter to the abandoned moral verses, then to the fresh page covered with Amelia’s eager writing.

“And what lesson is in progress here, Miss Waye?” His tone was carefully neutral, but Georgia detected an underlying note of disapproval.

“Penmanship and composition, Your Grace,” she replied with perfect honesty. “Lady Amelia is practicing her letter-writing skills.”

“I see.” Marcus stepped into the nursery, his presence immediately filling the room with tension. “And to whom is this correspondence addressed?”

Amelia looked up from her writing, her face immediately closing off as it always did in her father’s presence. “It is only a story, Papa. Miss Waye asked me to write a letter from an ice princess to her friend.”

“An ice princess.” Marcus repeated the words with the sort of tone one might use to describe something mildly distasteful. “I was not aware that fantasy and frivolity had been added to the curriculum.”

Georgia felt heat rise in her cheeks but forced herself to remain calm. “Lady Amelia was struggling with the prescribed moral verses, Your Grace. Her hand was tense, and the more she worried about making errors, the worse her penmanship became. By giving her a subject that captured her imagination, I hoped to help her relax and write more naturally.”

“And has this… imaginative approach proven effective?”

There was skepticism in his voice, but Georgia thought she detected something else as well, something that resembled genuine curiosity about the results of her experiment.

“You may observe it, Your Grace.” Georgia gestured to Amelia’s letter, where neat lines of text covered nearly a full page without a single blot or correction.

Marcus moved to stand behind his daughter’s chair, and Georgia kept her eyes on his countenance as he read his child’s work. Amelia had written with surprising eloquence about her ice princess’s loneliness, her fear of her own power, and her joy at finding a friend who was not afraid of winter’s magic. The penmanship was indeed much improved, but more importantly, the words revealed depths of feeling and imagination that Georgia suspected the child was rarely allowed to express.

“The spelling is accurate,” Marcus observed after a long moment.

“Lady Amelia has an excellent vocabulary for her age,” Georgia replied. “She simply needed the right motivation to display it.”

“Motivation through fantasy rather than discipline.”

“Motivation through engagement rather than fear,” Georgia corrected gently, then immediately regretted her boldness when she saw his eyebrows rise.

For a moment, father and daughter remained frozen in tableau, Amelia with her head bowed over her letter, Marcus standing rigid behind her chair, Georgia watching them both with growing understanding of the gulf that separated them.

“Only until your hand forgets its mischief, my dear,” Georgia said suddenly, breaking the tense silence. “Then it shall write neat as a parson’s sermon.”

Amelia looked up with a shy smile, the first genuine smile Georgia had seen from her. “Papa says mischief is unbecoming.”

“Then we shall turn diligence itself into your mischief,” Georgia replied with a conspiratorial wink.

To her delight, Amelia actually giggled, a sound so surprising in the austere nursery that it seemed to hang in the air like unexpected music. The child’s face was transformed by that simple expression of joy, revealing the bright, engaging personality that had been buried beneath layers of fear and rigid expectation.

“Discipline is no jest, Miss Waye.”

Marcus’s voice cut through the moment like a blade, cold and sharp with disapproval. Both Georgia and Amelia immediately sobered, the brief lightness evaporating as quickly as it had appeared.

Georgia turned to meet his gaze directly, refusing to be cowed by his ducal authority. “And yet with a jest she remembers her lesson, Your Grace. That is worth something, is it not?”

They stared at each other across the nursery, she with her quiet defiance, he with his aristocratic displeasure, while Amelia watched nervously from her desk. Georgia could see the war being fought behind Marcus’s gray eyes, tradition and control battling against the undeniable evidence that his daughter had just displayed more enthusiasm for learning than she had shown in months.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.

“Continue,” he said simply, then turned and left the nursery without another word.

Georgia let out a breath she had not realized she was holding, her hands trembling slightly as the tension finally broke. Amelia was staring at her with something approaching awe.

“Papa never changes his mind,” the child whispered. “Never.”

“Perhaps he simply needed to see that learning could be joyful as well as dutiful,” Georgia replied, though privately she wondered if she had just won a small victory or set herself up for an even greater battle.

For the remainder of the morning, Amelia worked with an enthusiasm that was remarkable to behold. They moved from letter-writing to mathematics, where Georgia discovered that story problems about ice princesses distributing magical snowflakes made arithmetic far more engaging than abstract numbers. Geography became an exploration of the ice princess’s kingdom, with Amelia eagerly identifying countries known for their snowy climates and winter customs.

By the time they broke for luncheon, the child was chattering freely about her lessons, her pale cheeks flushed with excitement and her eyes bright with genuine interest. It was a transformation so complete that Georgia could hardly believe this was the same withdrawn, silent child she had met three days earlier.

As they sat down to their simple meal in the nursery, Amelia looked up from her soup with a question that stopped Georgia’s spoon halfway to her mouth.

“Miss Waye, do you think Papa was ever a little boy who liked stories?”

The wistful note in the child’s voice made Georgia’s heart ache. How desperately Amelia wanted to connect with her father, to find some common ground between them that went beyond duty and discipline.

“I truly believe your papa was indeed once a little boy,” Georgia said carefully. “And I suspect that little boy had dreams and stories of his own, just as you do.”

“Then why doesn’t he remember them?”

It was a question that went to the heart of everything Georgia had observed about the Duke of Ravensholme, his rigid control, his emotional distance, his apparent inability to connect with his daughter’s natural childlike joy.

“Sometimes,” Georgia said slowly, “when people are hurt very badly, they forget how to remember the happy things. It doesn’t mean those things weren’t real, or weren’t important. It just means they need help remembering.”

Amelia considered this gravely. “Do you think we could help Papa remember?”

Georgia felt tears prick at her eyes at the naked hope in the child’s voice. “I am of the opinion, my dear that is the most valuable instruction one could receive.”

The afternoon passed quickly, with Amelia displaying the same enthusiasm for her other subjects. They practiced French by having the ice princess learn new words to describe her magical powers. Italian became a study of words that sounded like winter wind and falling snow. Even deportment improved when Georgia suggested that Amelia practice walking as gracefully as a princess gliding across frozen floors.

By the time evening approached, Georgia felt cautiously optimistic about her progress with her young pupil. The key, she realized, was not to crush Amelia’s imagination but to harness it in service of her education. The child was intelligent, curious, and desperately eager to please, she simply needed to feel safe enough to allow those qualities to show.

But as the shadows lengthened across the nursery floor, Georgia found herself wondering about her next challenge. If she had indeed made progress with Lady Amelia, how would the Duke of Ravensholme react? Would he see his daughter’s newfound enthusiasm as a positive development, or would he view it as dangerous indulgence that needed to be corrected?

 Upon the morrow would bring new lessons, new opportunities, and undoubtedly new tests of her resolve. But tonight, as she listened to Amelia humming softly while she practiced her piano scales, actually humming, for the first time since Georgia’s arrival she allowed herself to hope that perhaps, just perhaps, she had found the key to reaching this lonely, wounded family.

The ice princess, after all, had found her friend. Perhaps there was hope for the other inhabitants of this frozen castle as well.