Chapter 1 

“Your Grace, forgive the intrusion at such an ungodly hour, but there is a woman at the door who insists she must speak with you immediately.”

The crystal tumbler in Eben Ashbourne’s hand remained perfectly steady despite the tremor that threatened to course through his fingers at Grimsby’s stammered announcement. The brandy within caught the amber glow of the library’s dying fire, casting fractured light across the leather-bound volumes that surrounded him like silent sentinels in the darkness of Winsleigh Hall. Outside, the December wind howled with a ferocity that matched the tempest perpetually raging within his chest and demanded entry to his carefully constructed sanctuary.

“A woman?” The Duke’s voice carried the same chill that had settled permanently in his bones these past ten years, each word measured and precise as a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “At this hour, in such weather? Surely you jest, Grimsby.”

The elderly butler, shifted uncomfortably upon the carpet, his weathered hands clasping and unclasping behind his ramrod-straight back. The flickering candlelight threw deep shadows across his lined features, emphasizing the pallor that had crept across his usually composed countenance. “I would never presume to disturb Your Grace’s solitude with frivolous matters, particularly not during… well, during this time of year, Your Grace. But she refuses most vehemently to depart, despite the storm’s fury and the lateness of the hour.”

Eben’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, the muscle there jumping with barely restrained irritation. Christmas Eve was but in a few days, and already the cursed season had begun its annual assault upon his carefully maintained equanimity. The very walls of Winsleigh Hall seemed to conspire against him during these final weeks of December, whispering of memories he had spent the better part of his life attempting to bury beneath layers of ice and indifference. The holly and ivy that the servants had dared to arrange throughout the lower floors despite his explicit instructions to the contrary seemed to mock him with their verdant cheerfulness, their presence a reminder of celebrations he had long since abandoned to the realm of childhood fancy.

“Then you shall inform this presumptuous creature that the Duke of Winsleigh receives no visitors at midnight, regardless of their sex or station,” he commanded, raising the brandy to his lips with deliberate slowness. The liquid burned a familiar path down his throat, though it did nothing to warm the perpetual winter that had taken residence in his soul. “Direct her to the nearest inn, provide her with sufficient coin for lodging if she lacks the means, and ensure she understands that Winsleigh Hall’s doors remain closed to uninvited guests.”

Grimsby’s discomfort deepened visibly, manifesting in the slight tremor of his lower lip and the way his eyes darted toward the library’s mahogany doors as though he expected the mysterious visitor to materialize within the sacred confines of His Grace’s retreat. “I attempted to convey precisely such a message, Your Grace, but she… she claims to know you personally. Indeed, she was most insistent that I deliver her name to you directly, stating with considerable conviction that you would wish to see her immediately upon hearing it.”

A harsh laugh escaped Eben’s lips, entirely devoid of mirth, the sound echoing hollowly in the book-lined chamber like the cry of some wounded creature lost in the darkness beyond the windows. “Know me personally? My dear Grimsby, I fear this woman has mistaken me for some other gentleman entirely. The acquaintances I maintain are exceedingly limited, and I can assure you with complete certainty that none among them would dare to present themselves at my door at such an hour without prior arrangement and explicit invitation.”

The fire in the grate hissed and popped, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney as though the flames themselves were growing restless with the tension that had begun to thicken the air like morning fog across the Yorkshire moors. Eben’s fingers drummed once, twice, against the arm of his leather chair—the only outward sign of the agitation that had begun to gnaw at the edges of his legendary composure.

“Nevertheless, Your Grace,” Grimsby continued with the dogged persistence that had made him invaluable during the darkest days following the late Duke and Duchess’s untimely demise, “she provided her name with such confidence, such certainty that you would recognize it, that I felt compelled to relay it to you exactly as she spoke it.” The butler paused, drawing in a breath that seemed to rattle in his chest like autumn leaves in a strong wind. “She said to tell you that Rosamund Hale stands at your door, seeking shelter from the storm.”

The crystal tumbler slipped from Eben’s suddenly nerveless fingers, its contents splashing across the carpet in a dark stain that would undoubtedly require the attention of the housemaids come morning. The sound of shattering glass seemed to reverberate through the library with the finality of a death knell, each glittering fragment catching the firelight as it scattered across the floor like fallen stars.

Rosamund Hale.

The name struck him with the force of a physical blow, driving the breath from his lungs. For a moment that stretched into eternity, the world around him seemed to tilt precariously upon its axis, the familiar confines of his library blurring at the edges as memories he had spent years locking away began to rattle their cages with increasing violence.

Rose.

His Rose, with her wild auburn curls that had never submitted properly to ribbons or pins, her eyes the color of summer storms, her laugh like silver bells carried on a warm June breeze. Rose, who had filled the gardens of Winsleigh Hall with her presence during those golden summers of his youth, who had known every secret path through the estate’s sprawling grounds, every hidden alcove in the ancient house’s labyrinthine corridors. Rose, who had been the daughter of his father’s head gardener, as far beneath his station as the earth was beneath the heavens, yet who had somehow become as essential to his existence as the very air he breathed.

Rose, who had vanished from his life as suddenly and completely as though she had been nothing more than a particularly vivid dream, leaving him to discover the meaning of true desolation at a very tender age.

“That is impossible,” he said, his voice emerging as barely more than a whisper, though it cut through the library’s silence with the precision of a rapier thrust. “Rosamund Hale is… she is long gone from this place, from this county, from this life entirely. Whoever stands at my door, whatever game they think to play, they are not her.”

But even as the words left his lips, he was rising from his chair with movements that spoke of barely controlled urgency, his long legs carrying him across the carpet with swift, predatory grace. The broken glass crunched beneath the polished leather of his Hessian boots, but he paid it no heed, his entire being focused upon the need to prove to himself that this was indeed some cruel jest, some twisted coincidence that would dissolve upon closer inspection like morning mist before the sun.

“Your Grace,” Grimsby called after him, his voice tinged with concern as he hastened to follow his master’s determined stride, “perhaps it would be wiser to…”

“To what?” Eben snarled, whirling to face the butler with eyes that blazed like winter stars in his aristocratically carved features. “To allow some charlatan to play upon memories that should have remained buried? To permit a stranger to invoke a name that has no business being spoken within these walls?” He straightened to his full, imposing height, every line of his powerful frame radiating the cold authority that had made him one of the most feared men in England’s House of Lords. “I shall confront this deception myself, Grimsby, and when I have exposed it for the fraud it surely is, I shall ensure that the perpetrator understands precisely how grave an error they have made in attempting to deceive the Duke of Winsleigh.”

The entrance hall of Winsleigh Hall stretched before them like a cathedral nave, its soaring ceiling lost in shadows that seemed to press down upon them with oppressive weight. The floor, polished to mirror brightness by generations of servants, reflected the flickering light of the wall sconces in wavering patterns that danced and shifted with each footfall. Above, the portraits of long-dead Ashbournes gazed down with painted eyes that seemed to follow their descendant’s progress, their expressions grave with the weight of centuries and secrets.

The great oak doors that served as the hall’s primary entrance stood like ancient sentinels, their iron hinges older than memory itself, their surface scarred by time and weather into a luster that spoke of endurance beyond mortal comprehension. These doors, which had withstood siege and storm, which had welcomed kings and turned away pretenders, now stood between Eben and the resolution of a mystery that threatened to shatter the carefully constructed edifice of his adult life.

“Open them,” he commanded, his voice carrying clearly through the hall’s vast space despite its low pitch, each syllable sharp with authority and barely suppressed emotion.

Grimsby hesitated for the briefest of moments, his weathered hands hovering over the massive iron handles as though he feared what might await them beyond the threshold. “Your Grace, are you entirely certain…”

“Open them now.”

The butler’s training overcame his reservations, and with movements that spoke of long practice, he lifted the heavy bar that secured the doors against the winter’s fury and drew them wide. The December wind immediately claimed the hall as its own, sweeping through the opening with a wail that sent the wall sconces guttering and filled the space with the scent of snow and pine and something indefinably wild that belonged to the Yorkshire moors in their winter dress.

And there, silhouetted against the swirling whiteness of the storm, stood a figure that drove all breath from Eben’s lungs and set his heart to hammering against his ribs with a rhythm he had not felt in ten long years.

She was not as he remembered her.

The gangly limbs of girlhood had given way to the curved elegance of womanhood, her form now possessed of the sort of feminine grace that could stop conversation in London’s most sophisticated drawing rooms. The wild auburn curls that had been her crowning glory remained, though they now fell in heavy waves past her shoulders, darkened by the storm’s moisture and whipping about her face like flames made liquid. Her eyes were exactly as he remembered them, that extraordinary shade of gray-green that reminded him simultaneously of storm clouds and summer seas, though they now held depths of experience that spoke of trials endured and hardships overcome.

But it was her voice, when she spoke, that completed his undoing.

“Eben,” she whispered, and the sound of his name upon her lips after so many years of silence was like a dagger thrust straight through his carefully armored heart. “I… I had nowhere else to go.”

For a moment that felt suspended outside of time itself, they stood frozen in tableau; he in the warm golden light of the hall, she in the wild darkness of the storm, the threshold between them yawning like a chasm that had opened between two different worlds, two different lives, two different souls who had once been as close as two hearts could be without sharing the same body.

Then training, breeding, and ten years of carefully cultivated emotional discipline reasserted themselves, and Eben drew the familiar mantle of ducal authority around him like armor against the weakness that threatened to flood through his veins and reduce him to the lovesick boy he had once been.

“I fear you are mistaken, madam,” he said, his voice emerging with the precise, clipped tones of the aristocracy, each word carved from ice and delivered with surgical precision. “I know of no Rosamund Hale, nor can I imagine what circumstances might have led you to believe that the Duke of Winsleigh would provide sanctuary to a stranger who appears uninvited at his door in the middle of the night.” His eyes, those pale blue orbs that had been compared by more than one London hostess to chips of Arctic ice, swept over her bedraggled form with apparent indifference, though his hands clenched into fists at his sides where she could not see them. “However, as simple humanity compels me to offer aid to those in distress, regardless of their presumption, I shall permit you to shelter here for this night only. In the morning, when the storm has passed, you will depart and trouble this household no further.”

The words fell between them like stones cast into a still pool, each one creating ripples of hurt that he could see spreading across her expressive features despite her valiant attempts to maintain her composure. Her chin lifted with the same stubborn pride he remembered from their youth, though her lips trembled slightly as she inclined her head in acknowledgment of his grudging hospitality.

“Your Grace is most generous,” she replied, her voice steady despite the tremor he could detect beneath its surface. “I am grateful for whatever shelter you see fit to provide.”

“Grimsby,” Eben commanded without taking his eyes from the woman who had just stepped across his threshold and into his carefully ordered life like a force of nature given human form, “see that the Blue Chamber is prepared for our unexpected guest. Ensure that Mrs. Campbell provides whatever refreshment and dry clothing might be required.” He paused, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly as he added, “and inform the staff that our visitor’s presence here is temporary and not to be remarked upon beyond these walls.”

“At once, Your Grace,” the butler replied, though his eyes darted between his master and the mysterious woman with a curiosity that spoke of questions he was far too well-trained to voice aloud.

As Grimsby hastened away to carry out his orders, Eben found himself alone in the entrance hall with the specter of his past, the silence between them heavy with the weight of unspoken words and half-forgotten dreams. The storm continued its assault upon the windows, but within the hall’s sheltering walls, the only sound was the soft whisper of her breathing and the thunderous beating of his own traitorous heart.

“I meant what I said,” he told her finally, his voice low and deadly serious, though he could not quite bring himself to look directly into those storm-colored eyes that had haunted his dreams for more years than he cared to count. “One night only. When dawn breaks, you will leave this place and never return. Whatever connection you believe existed between us is a figment of imagination or deliberate deception, and I will not tolerate attempts to trade upon fantasies or fabrications.”

She said nothing in response, merely stood there in her sodden traveling dress, her hands clasped before her like a penitent before an altar, her eyes never leaving his face despite the coldness she must have seen reflected there. When Mrs. Campbell, the housekeeper, appeared to escort her to her chamber, she went without protest, though Eben felt her gaze upon him until the moment she disappeared around the curve of the imposing staircase.

Only when he was certain she was beyond sight and hearing did he allow his carefully maintained facade to crack, his shoulders sagging beneath the weight of memories that pressed upon him like a physical burden. His hand rose of its own accord to press against his chest, where his heart continued its violent rhythm, each beat a reminder that the ice he had wrapped around his emotions was not nearly as thick or as permanent as he had believed.

Returning to his library, he found himself staring at the scattered remains of his brandy tumbler, the broken glass catching the firelight like tears frozen in crystal. Outside, the storm raged on, but within the confines of Winsleigh Hall, in the chamber where a woman named Rosamund Hale lay upon fine linen sheets beneath a canopy that had sheltered Ashbourne brides for generations, a different sort of tempest was brewing; one that threatened to sweep away ten years of careful control and leave nothing but devastation in its wake.

As the clock upon the mantelpiece chimed the hour of one, Eben poured himself another measure of brandy from the decanter on his desk, raised it to his lips, and acknowledged with the bitter taste of spirits upon his tongue that sleep would not come to him this night. For Rose, his Rose, regardless of what names she might now bear or what circumstances had brought her back to him, was once again beneath his roof, and the boy who had loved her with all the fierce, reckless passion of youth had not died as completely as he had believed.

Indeed, as he settled back into his chair and stared into the dying embers of the fire, the Duke of Winsleigh was forced to confront the uncomfortable possibility that some ghosts could not be laid to rest merely by the passage of time and the accumulation of bitter experience, and that some wounds, no matter how carefully tended, never truly healed—they merely learned to bleed in silence.

Chapter 2 

“Miss, I’ve brought you a tray and some dry clothes, though I fear nothing we have will fit quite properly, you being so much taller than our usual lady guests.”

Rose Hale accepted the kindly housekeeper’s ministrations with a gratitude that bordered on overwhelming, though she struggled to keep her voice steady as she offered her thanks for this unexpected mercy in what had seemed certain to be her darkest hour. Mrs. Campbell, a woman of comfortable middle years whose weathered hands spoke of a lifetime spent in service to great houses, bustled about the Blue Chamber with practiced efficiency, her movements betraying none of the curiosity that must surely have been burning within her breast at the appearance of an unannounced visitor in the depths of a Yorkshire winter storm.

The chamber itself was a testament to the Ashbourne family’s wealth and refined taste, its walls hung with silk the color of summer skies, its furnishings crafted from woods so fine they seemed to glow with their own inner light. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the carpet and filling the air with the comforting scent of burning oak that brought with it memories of other fires, other chambers, other times when she had felt safe and wanted and loved within these same walls.

“There now,” Mrs. Campbell murmured as she finished arranging the borrowed garments across the chair nearest the fire, her voice carrying the soft burr of Yorkshire that Rose remembered with sudden, painful clarity from her childhood years. “I’ve brought you a nightgown and wrapper that should serve, along with a morning dress that might do well enough once we’ve taken in the seams a touch. His Grace instructed that you’re to be given whatever comfort we can provide, and I’ll not have it said that Winsleigh Hall failed in its hospitality, regardless of the circumstances of your arrival.”

Rose nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak past the tightness that had lodged in her throat like a physical presence. The woman’s kindness was almost too much to bear after the harsh reception she had received from Eben—though she could hardly blame him for his coldness, could she? What right had she to expect warmth from the man whose life she had been forced to abandon without explanation, without farewell, without even the courtesy of a letter to ease the cruelty of her sudden disappearance?

When the housekeeper finally withdrew, leaving Rose blessedly alone with her thoughts and her grief, she moved slowly to the bathroom that had been prepared for her use, her limbs heavy with exhaustion and the weight of memories that pressed upon her like storm clouds gathering on a distant horizon. The water was warm and scented with lavender, a luxury she had not experienced in more years than she cared to count, and as she washed away the grime of her desperate journey, she allowed her mind to drift backward through the corridors of time to another December night, another storm, another moment when her world had tilted upon its axis and left her grasping for purchase on the shifting ground of her existence.

She had been really young then, young enough to believe that love could conquer all obstacles, that the differences in their stations were merely temporary inconveniences that time and determination could overcome. Her father, Thomas Hale, had been the most skilled gardener in all of Yorkshire, his knowledge of growing things so profound that the Duke, Eben’s father, had trusted him with the care of Winsleigh Hall’s legendary gardens, those acres of carefully cultivated paradise that had been featured in more than one book devoted to England’s finest estates. She had grown up among those gardens, had learned to tend roses and prune fruit trees and coax exotic blooms from reluctant soil, had spent her days in the sunshine and her evenings in the gardener’s cottage that had been her father’s reward for his faithful service.

But more than that, she had spent those golden years in the company of the Duke’s son, the boy who had been as drawn to the gardens as she was, who had sought her out day after day with an eagerness that had made her young heart sing with possibilities she had not dared to name aloud. Eben had been everything a girl could dream of in those days. He had treated her not as the servant’s daughter she was, but as his equal in all things that mattered, had shared his thoughts and dreams and fears with the sort of openness that spoke of a trust so complete it had taken her breath away.

They had been inseparable during those summer months, two young people discovering the world and themselves through the lens of a connection that transcended the artificial boundaries of class and circumstance. He had taught her to read Latin poetry in the ancient language of scholars, had shared with her the contents of his father’s library with the generosity of one who had never known want. She had shown him the secret places where wildflowers bloomed in hidden profusion, had taught him to identify birds by their songs and to predict the weather by the behavior of clouds.

And somewhere between the lessons and the laughter, between the shared confidences and the stolen glances, they had fallen in love with the sort of desperate intensity that belonged only to the very young and the utterly innocent.

Rose closed her eyes against the sting of tears that threatened to overwhelm her composure as she remembered the day her father had collapsed in the rose garden, his strong hands clutching at his chest while his face turned ashen with the pain that had seized his heart like a vice. She had held him as he died, had whispered words of love and comfort while life ebbed from his eyes, and in the space of a single afternoon, her entire world had crumbled around her like a house built upon sand.

The late Duke and Duchess, despite their genuine fondness for Thomas Hale and their recognition of his invaluable service, had not hesitated in their decision regarding his orphaned daughter. She was, after all, nothing more than a servant’s child, with no mother or father any longer, and while they bore her no ill will, she could not expect them to provide for her now that her father was no longer there to support her within their household. Within a week of the funeral, arrangements had been made for her to be sent to her aunt’s home in the industrial north, where she might learn a trade appropriate to her station and begin the process of building a life independent of the charity of her betters.

She had begged to be allowed to say goodbye to Eben, had pleaded with the Duchess for just one moment to explain her departure to the young man who had become so essential to her happiness, but propriety had forbidden such an indulgence. It would not do, the Duchess had explained with gentle firmness, for the Duke’s son to form unseemly attachments to those so far beneath his station, and the kindest thing Rose could do for him was to disappear from his life quickly and completely, allowing him to transfer his affections to someone more appropriate to his position and prospects.

The journey north had been accomplished in a hired conveyance, her few possessions contained in a single worn portmanteau, her heart breaking with every mile that carried her farther from the only home she had ever known and the only love she had ever experienced. Her aunt, Martha Thornby, had received her with reluctant duty rather than familial warmth, making it clear from the outset that Rose would earn her keep through work in the textile mill that employed most of the town’s residents, that she would be expected to contribute to the household expenses, and that any romantic notions she might harbor regarding her previous life were to be abandoned as swiftly and thoroughly as possible.

The years that had followed had been ones of grinding hardship and slowly eroding hope, her days spent in the suffocating atmosphere of the mill, her nights in the cramped quarters she shared with her aunt and three cousins, her dreams filled with memories of gardens and laughter and pale blue eyes that had once looked upon her with adoration. She had written letters to Eben during those first terrible months, pouring her heart onto paper with desperate eloquence, begging him to remember their love and find some way to bridge the gap that circumstance had forced between them, but no replies had ever come, and eventually she had been forced to accept that the Duchess had been right. He had indeed transferred his affections elsewhere and forgotten the gardener’s daughter who had once believed herself to be the center of his universe.

But her aunt’s death three months past had changed everything, had left Rose without income or shelter or any prospect of either, for Martha Thornby’s creditors had claimed every stick of furniture and every scrap of fabric in settlement of debts that had been accumulating for years. The cousins had scattered to relatives in other counties, leaving Rose entirely alone in the world with nothing save the clothes upon her back and the single letter she had discovered among her father’s effects; a letter she had read and reread until the creases threatened to part entirely, until every word was burned into her memory with the permanence of scripture.

“My dearest Rose,” it had begun in her father’s careful script, “if you are reading this, then I am no longer with you, and you are facing the future without my guidance or protection. I know that the path ahead will be difficult, that you will face hardships I cannot help you bear, but I want you to remember that you are not truly alone in this world. Should you ever find yourself without hope or haven, return to Winsleigh Hall and seek out young Master Eben. He is a good lad, and he cares for you more than propriety would allow him to demonstrate. The boy you knew will have grown into a man of honour, and I believe with all my heart that he will not turn you away if you come to him in genuine need.”

The letter had been her lifeline during the darkest moments of her journey south, when the coaching inn had refused her custom for lack of adequate funds, when the December storms had forced her to seek shelter in barns and abandoned cottages, when hunger and exhaustion had threatened to rob her of the strength necessary to continue her desperate pilgrimage. She had clung to her father’s words with the fervor of a drowning woman clinging to driftwood, had told herself over and over again that the boy she had loved would not have changed so completely that he would refuse to help her in her hour of greatest need.

But the man who had confronted her at the door of Winsleigh Hall bore little resemblance to the warm-hearted youth of her memories, and the coldness in his arctic eyes had been like a physical blow to her already battered spirit. This was not her Eben, not the gentle soul who had held her hand during thunderstorms and whispered poetry in her ear while they walked through moonlit gardens. This was the Duke of Winsleigh, a man carved from ice and duty and the sort of aristocratic pride that recognized no obligations beyond those dictated by breeding and social convention.

Yet he had not turned her away entirely, had granted her sanctuary for one night despite his obvious desire to be rid of her as quickly as possible. Perhaps there remained some small ember of the boy that had been buried beneath the frost of the man he had become, some tiny spark of remembered affection that had prevented him from casting her back into the storm’s fury without even the pretense of simple humanity.

As she donned the borrowed nightgown and wrapped herself in the silk wrapper Mrs. Campbell had provided, Rose found herself moving to the window that looked out over the gardens she had once known as intimately as her own reflection. The storm had begun to abate slightly, the wind’s howl diminishing to a plaintive whisper, and through the swirling snow she could just remember the ghostly shapes of the topiary animals her father had crafted then with such loving care, the elegant lines of the parterre that had been his masterpiece, the looming bulk of the hothouse where she had spent so many happy hours learning the secrets of exotic blooms and rare specimens.

Somewhere in those gardens lay buried the dreams of her youth, the bright hopes that had sustained her through five-and-twenty years of life, the memories of a love that had once seemed destined to overcome all obstacles and endure for all eternity. Tomorrow she would leave this place forever, would venture back into the uncertain world with no clear destination or purpose beyond the simple necessity of survival, but tonight—tonight she could allow herself to remember, to grieve, and to dream of what might have been if fate had been kinder to two young people whose only crime had been to love unwisely and too well.

The bed, when she finally sought its embrace, was softer than any surface she had known in ten years, the linens fine enough to have graced a queen’s chambers, the warming pans that had been placed between the sheets a luxury beyond her most extravagant imaginings. But sleep, when it finally claimed her, brought dreams of summer afternoons and whispered promises, of strong hands that had held her with infinite tenderness and eyes the color of winter skies that had once looked upon her with all the warmth of a July sun.

And in the morning, when pale December light began to filter through the chamber’s windows, Rose woke with the taste of tears upon her lips and the certain knowledge that whatever lay ahead for her in the cold world beyond Winsleigh Hall’s protective walls, she would carry the memory of this final night within the place she had once called home like a talisman against despair, a reminder that she had once been loved completely and without reservation, even if that love now lay buried beneath ten years of silence and the inexorable weight of circumstance.

The morning brought with it a summons she had both expected and dreaded; a request, delivered by a stern-faced footman whose livery bore the Ashbourne arms, that she present herself in His Grace’s study at precisely ten o’clock for a brief audience before her departure. Rose dressed carefully in the borrowed morning dress, its emerald silk a shade that reminded her painfully of the conservatory where she and Eben had shared their first tentative kiss, and made her way through corridors that were achingly familiar despite the passage of years and the changes that time had inevitably wrought.

The study, when she was finally admitted, proved to be a monument to masculine authority and ducal power, its walls lined with leather-bound volumes that spoke of generations of learning and privilege, its furnishings chosen for their ability to intimidate as much as to impress. Behind a desk the size of a small continent sat the man who had once been the center of her universe, though he looked up from his correspondence with the sort of detached politeness one might reserve for a tradesman come to settle accounts.

“Miss Hale,” he said, rising from his chair with the fluid grace of a predator acknowledging the presence of prey, his voice carrying all the warmth of a January morning on the Yorkshire moors. “I trust you found your accommodations adequate for your brief stay within these walls?”

“More than adequate, Your Grace,” she replied, dropping into the sort of curtsy her aunt had insisted she perfected during those early days in the mill town, when it had still seemed possible that she might find employment in a respectable household rather than the industrial nightmare that had ultimately claimed her youth. “Your kindness in providing shelter during such a terrible storm will not be forgotten.”

“Kindness.” The word fell from his lips with a sort of bitter amusement, as though he found the very concept somehow distasteful. “I prefer to think of it as duty, Miss Hale…the obligation of those blessed with fortune to assist those who find themselves in temporary distress.” His pale eyes swept over her with clinical detachment, cataloguing her appearance with the sort of thoroughness one might devote to assessing a piece of livestock. “However, as I indicated last evening, that duty extends only so far as providing immediate relief from life-threatening circumstances, not indefinite support for those who lack the means or inclination to provide for themselves.”

The words stung, though Rose had expected no better from this cold stranger who wore Eben’s face like a mask designed to deceive and disappoint. She lifted her chin with the pride that had sustained her through ten years of hardship and humiliation, meeting his arctic gaze with steady resolve despite the way her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird seeking freedom.

“I would not presume to impose upon Your Grace’s generosity for longer than absolutely necessary,” she said, her voice emerging with a steadiness that surprised her given the turmoil that churned within her breast like a storm-tossed sea. “Indeed, I am prepared to depart immediately, as soon as the roads are deemed passable for travel.”

“Are you indeed?” Something flickered in those pale depths, some emotion too quickly suppressed for her to identify, though it might have been surprise or possibly disappointment. “And where, might I ask, do you intend to go? What grand destination awaits the mysterious Miss Hale now that she has satisfied whatever curiosity brought her to darken my doorway in the depths of winter?”

The question hung in the air between them like a sword suspended by the thinnest of threads, and Rose felt her carefully maintained composure beginning to fray at the edges like fabric subjected to too much strain. How could she explain that she had nowhere to go, no prospects for employment or shelter, no resources beyond the few coins that remained from the sale of her aunt’s meager possessions left to her? How could she admit that coming to Winsleigh Hall had been an act of sheer desperation, the final throw of dice by a woman with no other options remaining to her?

“I… that is to say…” She faltered, the words sticking in her throat like thorns, her hands clasping together before her with sufficient force to turn her knuckles white beneath the borrowed gloves. “The truth is, Your Grace, that my circumstances are rather more complicated than I initially indicated.”

“Indeed?” He resumed his seat behind the massive desk, leaning back in his chair with the sort of languid grace that spoke of absolute confidence in his own authority and the security of his position. “Pray enlighten me, Miss Hale. What complications could possibly be significant enough to drive a woman of obvious breeding to seek assistance from a stranger in the middle of a December night?”

The irony of his words, referring to her as a woman of obvious breeding while simultaneously denying any previous acquaintance, was not lost upon her, though she lacked the luxury of pointing out his hypocrisy given her present desperate circumstances. Instead, she drew upon the reserves of strength that had carried her through years of grinding labor and systematic degradation, straightening her spine and meeting his gaze with all the dignity she could muster.

“My aunt, with whom I have resided these past ten years, passed away three months ago,” she began, her voice gaining strength as she continued despite the obvious skepticism she could read in his expression. “Her death left me without income or lodging, as her debts consumed the entirety of her estate and more besides. I have sought employment in every establishment within fifty miles of her former residence, but positions suitable for a woman of my education and background are exceedingly scarce, particularly for one who lacks references from previous employers.”

“And what, precisely, makes you believe that your education and background qualify you for positions above the common run of domestic service?” The question was delivered with surgical precision, designed to cut through pretense and expose the presumption he clearly believed lay at the heart of her appeal. “What credentials do you possess that might justify such elevated aspirations?”

Rose felt heat rise in her cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or anger she could not have said with certainty. The man before her knew perfectly well what her qualifications were, had indeed contributed to them during those long-ago summers when he had shared his tutors and his books and his world with a generosity that had seemed as natural to him as breathing. That he now chose to pretend ignorance of her capabilities was a cruelty she had not anticipated, even from one who had grown so cold and distant from the boy he had once been.

“I read and write in French and Latin as well as English,” she said, pride lending strength to her voice despite the obvious futility of her position. “I have studied history and literature, mathematics and natural philosophy. My father ensured that I received instruction in music and drawing, deportment and household management. I am well-versed in the care of children and the supervision of domestic staff, skilled in the cultivation of both ornamental and kitchen gardens, and possessed of the sort of discretion that makes me suitable for positions in the finest households.”

Silence stretched between them like a chasm, filled with tensions she could not begin to name or understand. His fingers drummed once, twice, against the leather inlay of his desktop—a gesture so achingly familiar that it drove breath from her lungs and set her heart to racing with memories of other conversations, other rooms, other times when those same elegant hands had traced patterns against her skin with reverent tenderness.

“Interesting,” he murmured finally, his voice carrying inflections she could not interpret, though his expression remained as impassive as carved marble. “And you believe these accomplishments, impressive though they may be, justify the extraordinary step of presenting yourself uninvited at the door of a duke’s residence in search of… what, exactly? Employment? Charity? Some combination of the two?”

“I believe,” she said, drawing upon reserves of courage she had not known she possessed, “that desperation can drive even the most proper individuals to acts they would never contemplate under ordinary circumstances. I came here because I had nowhere else to go, because the alternative was to die quietly in some ditch by the roadside, because even the slimmest possibility of assistance seemed preferable to the certainty of starvation and exposure.”

Something shifted in his expression then, some minute alteration in the set of his features that suggested her words had found their mark despite his obvious determination to remain unmoved by her plight. He rose from his chair again, moving to the window that looked out over the gardens where they had once walked hand in hand through summer afternoons that had seemed destined to stretch into eternity.

“I see,” he said, his voice softer now though no less distant, his hands clasped behind his back in a pose that accentuated the breadth of his shoulders beneath the superbly tailored coat that proclaimed his wealth and status to any who might doubt either. “And having delivered yourself from immediate peril through this… act of desperation… what do you propose should happen next? Do you imagine that I shall simply open the coffers of Winsleigh Hall to provide for your indefinite support? That I shall find you a position among my household staff out of some misguided sense of obligation to assist the unfortunate?”

The contempt in his voice cut deeper than any physical blow might have done, and Rose felt tears threaten despite her determination to maintain some semblance of dignity in the face of his disdain. This was not how she had imagined this conversation would unfold, though she supposed she had been foolish to hope for anything approaching warmth or recognition from the man who had become as cold and remote as the winter landscape beyond his windows.

“I had hoped,” she admitted with as much pride as she could muster, “that Your Grace might see fit to provide me with a character reference that would assist in my search for suitable employment elsewhere. Your reputation is such that a recommendation bearing your seal would open doors that might otherwise remain closed to one of my circumstances.”

“Would it indeed?” He turned from the window then, fixing her with that pale gaze that seemed to see straight through to her soul despite its apparent indifference to what it found there. “And what makes you believe that I would stake my reputation upon vouching for the character of a woman who is, by her own admission, a stranger to me? What assurance could I offer to prospective employers regarding your honesty, your competence, your reliability, when I know nothing of your history or your habits?”

The questions were reasonable ones, she supposed, though the deliberate cruelty of his continued insistence upon their lack of acquaintance made answering them almost impossible. How could she explain that he had once known her better than she knew herself, that he had praised her intelligence and admired her accomplishments, that he had declared her the finest person of his acquaintance regardless of birth or breeding? How could she invoke memories he seemed determined to deny without appearing insane or delusional?

“Perhaps,” she said carefully, “Your Grace might consider the alternative—that allowing me to starve by the roadside would reflect poorly upon your simple humanity and your reputation as a gentleman of honour and compassion.”

A harsh laugh escaped his lips, entirely devoid of humor though rich with bitter amusement at her presumption. “My dear Miss Hale, you mistake me entirely if you believe that idle gossip, regarding my charitable inclinations, holds any power to influence my decisions. The opinion of the world matters little to one who possesses the resources to ignore its censure with impunity.”

But even as he spoke the words, Rose detected something in his manner that suggested they were not entirely accurate, some hesitation or uncertainty that gave her hope despite the bleakness of her situation. Perhaps the boy she had once known was not entirely buried beneath the ice of ducal authority and aristocratic pride. Perhaps some small part of him remembered what they had once been to each other, even if he refused to acknowledge it openly.

“However,” he continued after a pause that seemed to stretch for eternity, “it occurs to me that there might be a solution to your difficulties that would serve both our interests without requiring me to compromise my principles or my reputation.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied her with renewed interest, as though seeing her clearly for the first time since her arrival. “My ward, Lady Eloise Ashbourne, is in need of a governess—someone capable of providing instruction in the accomplishments you claim to possess, someone who can prepare her for eventual presentation at court and marriage to a gentleman of appropriate station.”

Rose’s heart leaped with sudden hope, though she struggled to keep her expression properly composed lest she appear too eager and somehow damage this unexpected opportunity. “Your Grace’s ward?”

“My late cousin’s daughter,” he explained with the sort of detached precision that suggested the relationship held little emotional significance for him beyond duty and legal obligation, even though that was far from the truth. “She is ten years of age, possessed of a lively mind and an unfortunately willful disposition that has proven challenging for her previous governesses to manage. The position would provide you with lodging, sustenance, and a modest salary in exchange for your services, though you would be expected to maintain the highest standards of conduct and discretion at all times.”

“My cousin Edmund and his wife perished in a carriage accident three years ago while traveling to Bath,” he continued with the sort of careful precision that suggested the topic remained painful despite the passage of time. “Edmund was my father’s sister’s son—the only family member close enough in age to have been my childhood companion before… before circumstances changed the nature of such relationships. He married for love, much to the family’s initial dismay, though his wife proved herself a woman of remarkable character despite her modest origins.”

Eben paused, his eyes reflecting memories that carried both warmth and regret. “When word reached me of their deaths, I discovered that Edmund had named me as Eloise’s guardian in his will, despite our having grown somewhat distant during his marriage years. He wrote that he trusted I would understand what it meant to love someone society deemed ‘inappropriate,’ and that I would ensure his daughter never suffered for the circumstances of her birth or the choices her parents had made in following their hearts rather than familial expectations.”

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he added, “She has been in my care since she was seven years old; a bright, spirited child who reminds me daily of what Edmund and his wife sacrificed to claim their happiness. Perhaps that is why her welfare has become so important to me, and why I find myself… protective of those who serve her with genuine devotion rather than mere professional obligation.”

“I would be honoured to accept such a position,” Rose said quickly, scarcely daring to believe that fate had finally offered her a reprieve from the desperate circumstances that had driven her to this pass. “Your Grace may be assured of my complete dedication to Lady Eloise’s education and welfare.”

“May I indeed?” His smile, when it finally appeared, held no warmth whatsoever, being instead the sort of expression a hawk might wear when contemplating a particularly helpless mouse. “We shall see, Miss Hale. We shall see.” He moved to the bell pull beside his desk, tugging it with sharp efficiency before returning his attention to her with renewed intensity. “You will not reside within the main house, of course. The Dower House, which stands at the eastern edge of the park, will serve as your residence for the duration of your employment. Mrs. Campbell will see that it is made ready for your occupancy, and Grimsby will provide you with the key and such additional information as you may require.”

The dismissal was clear, though Rose found herself reluctant to leave despite the obvious conclusion of their interview. There was so much she longed to say, so many questions she burned to ask, so many memories she yearned to invoke in the hope of breaking through the wall of ice he had erected between them. But the appearance of Grimsby at the door, summoned by his master’s bell, made it clear that her time was at an end, that she must content herself with whatever small mercy had been granted her and hope that proximity might eventually thaw the frost that had settled upon the heart she had once known so well.

“Grimsby,” the Duke commanded without taking his eyes from Rose’s face, “please escort Miss Hale to the Dower House and ensure that Mrs. Campbell provides her with whatever necessities she may require to establish residence there. She will be assuming the position of governess to Lady Eloise, beginning immediately.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” the butler replied with the sort of professional aplomb that suggested he had long since learned not to question his master’s decisions, regardless of how surprising they might appear. “Will there be anything else?”

“Nothing at present.” The Duke’s attention had already returned to his correspondence, his dismissal as complete as though Rose had simply ceased to exist the moment he had finished speaking. “Miss Hale, I trust you will find the Dower House adequate for your needs. Should you require anything beyond what Mrs. Campbell provides, you have only to make your requests known through the appropriate channels.”

And with that, Rose found herself following Grimsby from the study, her heart hammering with a mixture of relief and disappointment that left her feeling somehow hollow despite the unexpected salvation she had just received. She had achieved her immediate goal, shelter, sustenance, and respectable employment, but at the cost of any hope that the man she had once loved might remember what they had shared during those golden summers of their youth.

As they walked through corridors that whispered with memories of laughter and love, past windows that framed gardens where she had once believed herself to be the happiest woman in all of England, Rose found herself wondering if proximity to the past she had lost might prove to be a blessing or a curse, a chance for redemption or merely a more exquisite form of torture than anything she had yet endured.

Only time would tell, she supposed, but for now she was grateful simply to have a roof over her head and honest work to occupy her hands, even if her heart remained locked away behind walls of ice that might never again know the warmth of spring.

Chapter 3 

“I find it curious, Miss Hale, that you should choose to spend your afternoons in a place so obviously neglected, when surely the warmth of the Dower House would provide more suitable accommodation for your leisure hours.”

The words fell upon the winter air like drops of ice water upon flame, causing Rose to startle violently from her contemplation of the dormant rose garden that had once been her father’s pride and greatest achievement. She had been so lost in memories of summer afternoons and the gentle hands that had taught her to prune and deadhead and coax reluctant blooms from stubborn stems that she had failed to notice the approach of the man whose voice now carried across the frost-touched grounds with all the warmth of an Arctic wind.

Turning slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs with a rhythm that spoke of both hope and terror, she found herself face to face with Eben Ashbourne for the second time since her return to Winsleigh Hall, though this encounter bore little resemblance to their formal meeting in his study three days prior. Here, in the garden where they had once been equals despite the vast differences in their stations, he appeared somehow larger and more imposing than memory had painted him, his tall frame was wrapped in a greatcoat of midnight blue that emphasized the aristocratic angles of his face and the pale intensity of his eyes.

“Your Grace,” she managed, dropping into a curtsy that felt awkward and forced after years of mill work that had stiffened joints once fluid with youthful grace. “I did not expect to encounter you in this part of the grounds.”

“Did you not?” His eyebrows rose with the sort of sardonic amusement that suggested he found her surprise either disingenuous or naive beyond bearing. “How extraordinary. I was laboring under the impression that I was free to walk upon my own property whenever and wherever the inclination might strike me, without requiring permission from temporary residents to do so.”

The words stung, though Rose supposed she deserved no better treatment from the man who had made it abundantly clear that her presence at Winsleigh Hall was both unwelcome and provisional. She had spent the past three days settling into her new role as governess to his young ward, a delightful child whose quick mind and affectionate nature had already begun to heal some of the wounds that ten years of hardship had carved upon her heart. Lady Eloise was everything a governess could hope for in a pupil; intelligent without being precocious, curious without being impertinent, possessed of the sort of natural sweetness that made teaching her a joy rather than a burden.

But even the pleasure of her new position could not entirely distract Rose from the painful awareness that she was living once again within sight of places that held such significance in her personal history, that every window of the Dower House looked out upon landscapes painted with memories of love and loss, hope and heartbreak. The gardens, in particular, drew her like a lodestone draws iron filings, their current state of elegant neglect serving as a metaphor for dreams that had been allowed to wither through lack of tending.

“Of course you are free to walk wherever you choose,” she replied with as much dignity as she could muster, though her voice emerged with less steadiness than she would have preferred. “I merely meant that I understood this portion of the grounds to be… less frequently visited by the family.”

“Less frequently visited,” he repeated, his tone suggesting that he found her euphemism somehow distasteful. “What a delicate way to acknowledge that these gardens have been allowed to fall into shameful disrepair through my negligence and indifference.” His pale gaze swept over the dormant beds, the untrimmed hedges, the greenhouse whose glass panels bore the cloudy appearance of years without proper cleaning, and something that might have been regret flickered briefly across his aristocratic features before being ruthlessly suppressed.

“They are still beautiful,” Rose said softly, unable to keep the wistfulness from her voice as she gestured toward the carefully planned vistas that even winter and neglect could not entirely rob of their underlying elegance. “The bones of the design remain sound, the plantings well-chosen for their enduring qualities. With proper care, they could be restored to their former glory.”

“Could they indeed?” He stepped closer, close enough that she could detect the faint scent of bergamot and sandalwood that clung to his person, close enough to see the fine lines that years and responsibility had etched at the corners of his eyes. “And what makes you so confident in your assessment, Miss Hale? Have you some particular expertise in matters horticultural that qualifies you to judge the potential of neglected landscapes?”

The question hung between them like a challenge, weighted with implications she dared not voice aloud. How could she tell him that she had learned everything she knew about gardens from the man who had created these very beds, who had planned every vista and selected every specimen with the sort of loving attention that transformed mere horticulture into high art? How could she explain that she had spent countless hours of her childhood working beside Thomas Hale as he tended these grounds, absorbing his knowledge like earth absorbs rain, until she could identify plants by their winter silhouettes and predict their spring performance with the accuracy of one born to the calling? How could she say all these things when he pretended he did not know her?

“I have always been interested in growing things,” she said carefully, choosing her words with the precision of one walking through a field strewn with hidden obstacles. “My… previous experience has given me some familiarity with the requirements of various species, the challenges of cultivation in this particular climate.”

“Previous experience.” The words seemed to taste bitter upon his tongue, and his eyes narrowed with the sort of suspicious intensity that suggested he suspected her of some deception he could not quite identify. “How mysterious you are, Miss Hale. How remarkably well-informed for one who has no particular connection to this estate or its history.”

The accusation implicit in his words sent heat flooding through her cheeks, though whether from embarrassment or anger she could not have said with certainty. Did he truly not recognize her, or was this continued pretense of ignorance merely another form of cruelty designed to punish her for the circumstances that had forced her departure ten years ago? The boy she had known would never have been capable of such calculated unkindness, but then the boy she had known bore little resemblance to the cold, suspicious man who stood before her now, studying her with the sort of detached interest one might reserve for an insect pinned to a collector’s board.

“I claim no connection beyond that which employment provides,” she replied, lifting her chin with the pride that had sustained her through years of humiliation and hardship. “Your Grace hired me to serve as governess to your ward, nothing more and nothing less. If my knowledge of horticultural matters offends you, I shall endeavour to keep such observations to myself in future.”

“Offends me?” A harsh laugh escaped his lips, entirely devoid of humor though rich with some emotion she could not identify. “You mistake the matter entirely, Miss Hale. I am not offended by your expertise; I am curious about its origins. There is something about your manner, your speech, your very presence here that strikes me as… familiar. As though we have met before, though I cannot for the life of me recall when or where such a meeting might have taken place.”

Rose felt her heart leap with sudden, desperate hope, though she struggled to keep her expression neutral lest she somehow damage this first crack in the wall of indifference he had erected between them. Could it be possible that some part of him did remember, despite his apparent determination to deny any previous acquaintance? Could the boy she had loved still exist somewhere beneath the frozen exterior of the man he had become?

“Perhaps,” she ventured carefully, “Your Grace encountered someone who resembled me at some point in the past. They say we all have doubles somewhere in the world, individuals who share our features though not our histories.”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, though his tone suggested he found such an explanation less than satisfying. “Or perhaps…” He paused, his gaze fixed upon her face with an intensity that made her feel suddenly exposed, as though he could see straight through to her soul despite the careful barriers she had erected around her heart. “Perhaps there are some things that cannot be entirely forgotten, no matter how much time passes or how circumstances change.”

The words hung in the air between them like a bridge half-built, offering the possibility of connection while remaining frustratingly incomplete. Rose longed to cross that bridge, to throw caution to the winds and remind him of summer afternoons and shared laughter, of whispered promises and stolen kisses, of love that had once seemed destined to transcend all obstacles and endure for eternity. But fear held her tongue. Fear of his rejection, fear of his anger, fear that acknowledgment of their shared past might cost her the tenuous security she had so recently achieved.

“Memory is a curious thing,” she said instead, her voice barely above a whisper though it carried clearly in the crystalline air of the winter afternoon. “Sometimes we think we remember things that never truly happened, while other times we forget things that were once the most important aspects of our existence.”

“Indeed.” His eyes never left her face, and she could see questions gathering in their pale depths like storm clouds on a distant horizon. “Tell me, Miss Hale, what is the most important memory you carry from your youth? What moment from your past do you treasure above all others?”

The question was like a physical blow, driving the breath from her lungs and setting her heart to racing with panic and longing in equal measure. How could she answer honestly without revealing everything she had been struggling so desperately to keep hidden? How could she tell him that her most precious memory was of a snowy December evening much like this one, when a young man with eyes like winter stars had pulled her into the shelter of the hothouse and kissed her with such tender passion that she had believed, for one perfect moment, that love truly could conquer all obstacles?

“I… that is to say…” She faltered, her carefully maintained composure beginning to crack under the weight of emotions too powerful to be contained indefinitely. “Some memories are too precious to be shared with strangers, Your Grace. Too personal to be offered up for casual examination.”

“Strangers,” he repeated, and this time there was no mistaking the bitterness in his voice, though whether it was directed at her or at himself remained unclear. “Indeed, I suppose we are that, are we not, Miss Hale? Perfect strangers who happen to find ourselves occupying the same small corner of Yorkshire during the most isolating season of the year.”

He turned away from her then, his attention apparently captured by something in the hothouse that had once been her father’s domain, though she suspected he was seeing not the present reality but some vision conjured from the depths of memory. His hands, she noted, had clenched into fists at his sides, and the rigid set of his shoulders spoke of a battle being waged within him between reason and emotion, duty and desire.

“The hothouse needs attention,” he said abruptly, his voice carrying across the garden with the sort of forced casualness that suggested he was struggling to maintain his composure as desperately as she was fighting to maintain hers. “The glass is clouded, the heating system obsolete, the interior choked with weeds and neglect.”

“It could be restored,” Rose found herself saying, though she had not intended to offer any such suggestion. “The structure remains sound, and with proper cleaning and maintenance, it could once again serve its intended purpose.”

“Could it indeed?” He turned back to face her, his expression unreadable though his pale eyes seemed to burn with some inner fire that had nothing to do with anger and everything to do with memories he could not quite bring himself to acknowledge. “And who, might I ask, would undertake such a restoration? I hardly think my current staff of gardeners possesses the expertise necessary to return such a specialized structure to its former glory.”

The implications of his words were not lost upon her, though she dared not allow herself to hope that he might be offering her the chance to return to work she had once loved more than life itself. The hothouse had been her sanctuary during those golden summers of her youth, the place where she had learned not only the secrets of cultivation but also the deeper mysteries of her own heart. To be allowed to tend it again, to restore it to the paradise it had once been, would be a gift beyond price—though she suspected he would extract a heavy toll for such generosity.

“Perhaps,” she said carefully, testing the waters of his intentions with the caution of one who had learned through bitter experience that hope could be more dangerous than despair, “Your Grace might consider allowing me to assess the hothouse’s condition more thoroughly. I have some experience with such structures, and I would be happy to provide recommendations regarding the most effective methods of restoration.”

“Would you indeed?” His smile, when it finally appeared, held all the warmth of a blade fresh from the forge; beautiful, dangerous, and capable of cutting deep despite its superficial attractiveness. “How generous of you to offer your expertise to a virtual stranger, Miss Hale. How remarkably selfless to volunteer for labour that lies well outside the scope of your official duties as governess.”

“I have always found that useful occupation helps to pass the long winter evenings,” she replied with as much dignity as she could muster, though she could feel heat rising in her cheeks at his sardonic tone. “And if my efforts might contribute to the beauty of an estate that has provided me with shelter and employment, surely that is reason enough to make the attempt.”

“Shelter and employment,” he mused, his gaze never wavering from her face despite the obvious discomfort his scrutiny was causing her. “Such practical motivations, Miss Hale. Such admirably pragmatic considerations. One might almost believe that gratitude alone drives your offer, were it not for the passion I detect beneath your careful words whenever the subject of gardens arises.”

The observation was far too accurate for comfort, and Rose found herself struggling to maintain her composure under the weight of his penetrating stare. How could she explain that gardens had been her first love, that the feel of soil beneath her fingers and the scent of growing things in her nostrils could transport her back to a time when the world had seemed full of infinite possibility? How could she admit that the chance to work once more with plants and flowers and all the green, growing things that made life beautiful was worth almost any sacrifice, any humiliation?

“I believe,” she said carefully, “that we all have subjects about which we feel more strongly than others. Topics that capture our imagination and engage our enthusiasm despite their limited practical application to our daily circumstances.”

“Indeed we do,” he agreed, though his tone suggested that her deflection had not fooled him for a moment. “The question, of course, is what happens when those subjects intersect with our professional responsibilities in ways that blur the boundaries between duty and desire, between obligation and inclination.”

The words seemed weighted with meaning beyond their surface content, and Rose found herself studying his face with the same intensity he was bringing to bear upon hers, searching for clues to the thoughts that lay behind his aristocratic mask. Was he speaking merely of her offer to restore the hothouse, or was there some deeper significance to his observations, some hidden connection to memories they both carried but neither seemed willing to acknowledge openly?

“I suppose,” she said slowly, “that such intersections can be either a blessing or a curse, depending upon how they are managed and what expectations accompany them.”

“A blessing or a curse,” he repeated thoughtfully, his pale eyes never leaving her face though she could see shadows gathering in their depths like clouds before a storm. “How remarkably perceptive of you, Miss Hale. How accurately you have identified the central dilemma that faces us all when past and present collide in ways that challenge our carefully constructed understanding of who we are and what we believe ourselves to want.”

The admission hung between them like a confession half-spoken, loaded with implications neither seemed prepared to explore fully, yet impossible to ignore entirely. Rose felt her breath catch in her throat as she recognized the pain beneath his carefully controlled exterior, the same sort of anguish that had been her constant companion during the long years of separation and loss.

“The past,” she said softly, her voice barely audible above the whisper of wind through dormant branches, “can be a treacherous foundation upon which to build future happiness. Sometimes it is wiser to focus upon what lies ahead rather than what has been left behind.”

“Can it indeed?” He stepped closer, close enough that she could see the fine lines that suffering had carved around his eyes, close enough to detect the faint tremor in his voice despite his obvious efforts at control. “And yet there are some things from the past that refuse to remain buried, Miss Hale. Some memories that surface despite our best efforts to keep them submerged, some connections that persist despite time and distance and all the obstacles that life places in their path.”

The words were like a key turning in a lock she had thought sealed forever, and Rose felt something inside her chest begin to crack open despite her desperate efforts to maintain the protective barriers she had built around her heart. Could it be possible that he did remember, despite his apparent determination to pretend otherwise? Could the love they had shared have survived ten years of separation and the bitter disappointments that had followed in its wake?

“Some connections,” she whispered, her voice catching on the words like silk snagging on thorns, “prove to be stronger than the forces that seek to sever them. Some bonds, once formed, can never be entirely broken, no matter how much time passes or how circumstances change.”

For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, they stood frozen in tableau, he with his hand half-raised as though he might touch her face, she with her eyes full of tears she dared not shed, while the winter wind swirled around them like a living thing intent upon keeping them forever suspended between acknowledgment and denial, between hope and despair.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the moment shattered like glass dropped upon stone, and he was stepping back with movements sharp enough to suggest physical pain, his expression once more settling into the familiar mask of ducal authority and aristocratic indifference.

“The afternoon grows late,” he said, his voice emerging with the sort of forced casualness that suggested he was struggling to pretend the previous few minutes had never occurred. “I should not keep you from your duties any longer, Miss Hale. Lady Eloise will be expecting her lessons to resume, and I would not wish to be responsible for disrupting her education.”

The dismissal was clear, though Rose found herself reluctant to leave despite the obvious conclusion of their conversation. There was so much more she longed to say, so many questions that burned upon her tongue like live coals, so many memories that pressed against the walls of her consciousness with increasing urgency. But his withdrawal had been as complete as it was sudden, and she recognized that to press further would be to risk losing even the tenuous connection they had managed to establish.

“Of course, Your Grace,” she replied, dropping into another curtsy that felt even more awkward than the first. “I shall return to my duties immediately.”

But as she turned to leave, his voice caught her at the garden’s edge, soft enough that she might have imagined it if not for the way the words seemed to resonate in her very bones.

“Miss Hale.”

She paused, not quite daring to turn around, her heart hammering against her ribs with a rhythm that spoke of hope and terror in equal measure.

“The hothouse,” he said, and she could hear something in his voice that might have been longing, though it was quickly suppressed beneath layers of control so thick they might have been forged from steel. “You may… assess its condition, if you so desire. Make whatever recommendations you see fit. I shall… consider them.”

And then he was walking away, his tall form disappearing among the skeletal trees that lined the path toward the main house, leaving Rose to stare after him with her heart in her throat and tears streaming down her cheeks despite her best efforts to contain them.

The hothouse beckoned to her then, its glass walls clouded with age and neglect but still somehow managing to catch the late afternoon light and throw it back in patterns that reminded her of summer afternoons and gentle hands and a boy’s voice whispering her name like a prayer. She moved toward it as though drawn by invisible threads, her fingers trailing along the door frame that she had once painted in shades of blue and green and gold, her eyes taking in the damage that time and weather had wrought upon what had once been a palace of growing things.

But beneath the neglect, beneath the weeds and broken panes and accumulated debris of ten years, she could still see the ghost of what it had once been, could still feel the echo of joy that had filled this space when love was new and the future seemed bright with promise. And as she stood there in the gathering dusk, surrounded by the remnants of dreams that had been allowed to wither through lack of tending, Rose Hale allowed herself to hope, just for a moment, that some things might yet be restored to their former glory, that some gardens might bloom again despite the harshness of the winter that had nearly destroyed them. She tried opening the door but it was locked and that was a sign that she had to leave.

The walk back to the Dower House passed in a blur of memory and longing, her feet carrying her along paths that seemed to remember her despite the years that had passed since she had last walked them. By the time she reached her new home, for she was beginning to think of it as such, despite its temporary nature, the sun had set completely, leaving only the cold brilliance of stars to light her way.

Inside, the fire that Lady Eloise’s nursemaid had built earlier in the afternoon still crackled merrily in the grate, casting dancing shadows across walls that seemed somehow less lonely than they had when she had first taken up residence. The child would be expecting her evening lesson soon, and Rose forced herself to focus upon her duties as governess rather than the tangled emotions that threatened to overwhelm her careful composure.

But as she prepared her materials for the evening’s instruction, she found herself humming softly under her breath—the same carol she had been singing in the garden when Eben had discovered her there, a melody that belonged to Christmas mornings and family gatherings and all the simple joys that had once made life worth living. The sound seemed to fill the small parlor with something approaching warmth, and Rose found herself smiling despite the tears that still threatened whenever she allowed her mind to drift back.

Tomorrow she would begin her assessment of the hothouse, would start the delicate work of cataloguing what could be saved and what must be replaced, of determining how much of the past could be restored and how much must be allowed to remain buried beneath the weight of time and circumstance. But tonight, she would tend to her duties as governess, would help a bright young girl with her letters and her sums, and would allow herself to believe, just for a few precious hours, that she had finally found a place where she might be allowed to stay, to grow, to perhaps even bloom again despite the harshness of the winter that had nearly destroyed her.