The heavy oak doors of the Harrington estate were thrown open just as Beatrice's carriage rolled to a stop.
She didn't even have time to smooth the skirts of her dark green traveling dress before a man practically tumbled down the marble steps. He was middle-aged, his face a splotchy, furious red, clutching a leather portmanteau to his chest like a shield.
"Out of the way!" he barked at the footman trying to assist him.
Beatrice stepped down from her carriage, her expression perfectly composed. "Mr. Finch, I presume?"
The man stopped, his wild eyes darting to her modest luggage and her severe, tightly pinned chestnut hair. "You're the replacement?" He let out a harsh, breathless laugh. "Turn back, girl. Tell the driver to take you straight back to London. They will eat you alive in there."
"I have a signed contract," Beatrice said evenly, adjusting her gloves.
"A contract with the devil," Finch spat. He leaned in, lowering his voice to a frantic hiss. "The Duchess is a tyrant. The legitimate heir is a spoiled, arrogant fool who couldn't translate a basic Latin primer if his life depended on it. And the other one..." Finch shuddered. "The bastard. He is a demon sent to torment me. He doesn't learn, he mocks. He dissects you. Run, Miss. Before they break you too."
With that, he shoved past her, tossing his bag into the carriage she had just vacated.
Beatrice watched him go. She didn't gasp. She didn't tremble. She simply picked up her valise and walked up the steps.
She knew exactly what she was walking into. The Harrington family's reputation was well-known in the drawing-rooms of polite society. A viper's nest of old money, cruel politics, and a highly publicized, deeply shameful scandal involving the Duke's illegitimate son.
Rule one, Beatrice reminded herself as a stiff-backed butler ushered her into the cavernous, freezing foyer. Be impeccable. Rule two. Be forgettable.
Why was she doing this? The answer was simple, folded neatly in her pocket: a letter from her younger sister, Clara. Clara, who was sweet, naive, and hopelessly in love with a young solicitor. But the solicitor's family required a dowry, something the orphaned Abbott sisters did not have.
The Harrington estate paid five times the standard wage for a governess. It was hazard pay.
Beatrice had long ago buried her own dreams of becoming a scholar. If she could survive this house for just one year, she would have enough money to pay Clara's dowry. Her sister would be safe, married, and settled. That was all that mattered. Her own heart was closed for business.
"Miss Abbott."
Beatrice turned. A tall, gaunt woman in a severe black dress stood at the top of the stairs. Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper.
"Welcome to the estate. I will be brief, as Her Grace the Duchess does not tolerate dawdling," Mrs. Gable said, turning on her heel. Beatrice followed her up the sweeping staircase.
"You are here to instruct Lord Arthur. He is the heir. His education is paramount. He is to be treated with the utmost respect."
"Understood," Beatrice said quietly.
Mrs. Gable paused at the end of a long, dimly lit corridor. Her nose wrinkled slightly, as if she had caught the scent of something sour. "The Duke's… other son, Mr. Harrington, will also be present in the classroom. The Duke insists upon it to keep up appearances."
Beatrice waited.
Mrs. Gable looked her dead in the eye. "You are to ignore him. Do not engage with his provocations. Do not offer him special attention. If he proves difficult, look the other way. We all do. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly," Beatrice replied.
It was a transaction. Give nothing, owe nothing. Survive.
---
By two in the morning, the massive estate was entirely silent.
Beatrice sat in her small, drafty room on the third floor, staring at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn't come. Mr. Finch had fled in such a hurry that she had no idea what the curriculum looked like, or what state the classroom had been left in. If she was going to be impeccable tomorrow morning, she needed to be prepared.
She slipped out of bed, pulling a thick, dark wool wrapper over her nightgown. Ensuring her hair was still severely pinned back, she picked up a single brass candlestick and stepped out into the dark hallway.
The library was on the ground floor. It was a cavernous room, smelling of old paper, cold leather, and beeswax. Moonlight filtered through the towering bay windows, casting long, eerie shadows across the rows of mahogany bookshelves.
Beatrice moved quietly, raising her candle to inspect the spines. She needed the Latin primers.
"If you are looking for the moral tracts, Miss, they are on the third shelf."
The voice drifted from the deepest shadows of the room. It was smooth, dark, and laced with a mocking edge that immediately made the hairs on the back of Beatrice's neck stand up.
"Though I wouldn't recommend them," the voice continued leisurely. "The author's grasp of ethics is embarrassingly fragile."
Beatrice froze. She did not gasp, nor did she drop her candle. She simply turned, her posture instantly stiffening into the unbendable wall she had cultivated for years.
A young man was lounging in a high-backed leather armchair, a heavy book resting on his knee.
Even in the dim candlelight, he was striking. He had hair as dark as spilled ink, falling slightly into his eyes. His features were sharp and aristocratic, but there was a bitter, cynical twist to his mouth that made him look older than his eighteen years. He wore no coat, just a deep burgundy waistcoat over a white shirt, his cravat undone and hanging loosely around his neck. He looked entirely too comfortable in the dark.
He looked her up and down. A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. He noted her severe clothes, her rigid spine, and the absolute lack of fear in her wide eyes.
"Ah," he murmured softly. "You must be the new warden. Tell me, did you pass the old one on the stairs? I believe he was crying."
Beatrice's lips pressed into a firm, serious line. "I do not concern myself with the emotional fortitude of my predecessors, sir. Only their syllabuses. Which, I notice, you are currently reading in the dark."
The boy's smile deepened. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his features. He closed the book, running a long, elegant finger over the embossed cover.
It wasn't Latin. Beatrice squinted in the candlelight. It was Rousseau. A banned, highly radical philosophical text.
"I find the dark improves the prose," he said smoothly. "What is your name, new warden?"
"I am Miss Abbott. And I presume you are one of my students, though your presence in the library at this hour suggests a severe lack of discipline."
He let out a short, sharp laugh. It was a harsh sound, devoid of any real humor.
"Discipline is for the heir, Miss Abbott," he drawled, leaning his head back against the chair. He watched her carefully. "I am merely the spare furniture. You will find that no one in this house cares what time I sleep, or what books I ruin."
He waited. Beatrice knew exactly what he was doing. He was testing her. He was waiting for the realization to hit her—that this was the bastard son everyone had warned her about. He was waiting for the pity to soften her eyes, or the disdain to curl her lip. He wanted her to look at him the way the rest of the world did: as a tragedy or a threat.
Beatrice looked at the boy. Then, she looked at the heavy, complex philosophical text resting easily in his hands.
"Then they are fools," Beatrice said quietly, her voice like ice water.
Nathaniel blinked. The mocking smirk faltered, just a fraction of an inch.
"Because a mind that can comprehend Rousseau in the dark is entirely too dangerous to be left uneducated," she continued, her tone completely even, devoid of any pity. She treated him as a simple fact. "Put the book back, Mr. Harrington. We begin Cicero at eight o'clock sharp."
She turned her back to him, her skirts swishing quietly against the floorboards as she moved toward the door. She had established her boundary. She had survived the first test.
She didn't hear him move.
One second she was walking toward the exit, and the next, a shadow fell over her.
He was suddenly right in front of her, moving with a silent, terrifying grace. Before she could step back, his hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist.
Beatrice's breath hitched. Her eyes went wide, startled by his sudden, overwhelming proximity. He was taller than she expected, towering over her in the dim light. The heat of his hand seeped right through the wool of her sleeve.
But true to her nature, Beatrice did not shrink away. She locked her gaze directly onto his. She pressed her lips together into a severe, unyielding line, stiffening her spine until she felt like an iron rod. She refused to break.
Nathaniel looked down at her. His dark eyes were burning with an intensity that made the air in the room feel dangerously thin. He was searching her face, looking for the crack in her armor.
"You aren't trembling, Miss Abbott," he whispered, his thumb brushing lightly against her pulse point.
"I am not a leaf, Mr. Harrington," Beatrice said coldly, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. "Let go of my wrist."
He didn't move. He leaned in closer, until she could smell the faint scent of ink and cedar on his clothes.
"Every tutor comes into this house thinking they can fix this family," Nathaniel said softly, his voice a low, rough murmur. "Or they think they can survive it. Which one are you?"
"I am merely an employee," Beatrice stated.
A slow, devastating smile curved his lips.
"Liar," he breathed. "I saw your face when you looked at that book. You're just as starved for it as I am." He tilted his head, his gaze dropping briefly to her lips before meeting her eyes again. "I think, Miss Abbott, that you are going to be my favorite warden yet. And I am going to make it very difficult for you to remain invisible."