"My brother was supposed to be the Duke," Richard said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low gravel. "He was groomed for this. He understood Parliament, tenant laws, and social expectations. I was a cavalry officer. I knew how to command a regiment in Spain. I did not know how to manage a thousand-acre estate. When Arthur died of a sudden fever, I was pulled from the front lines and shoved into a title I despised."
He took a sharp breath, the old bitterness rising like bile. "Then I brought Eleanora here. She... she loved it. She loved the balls, the politics, the girls. She was the light in this massive, freezing tomb of a house. When she died, she took all the air with her."
Richard looked away, staring into the hearth. "I don't hide because I don't care about my daughters, Miss Miller. I hide because every time I look at Clara, I see Eleanora's eyes. Every time Abigail speaks, I hear Eleanora's cadence. They are ghosts haunting me in broad daylight. And I have absolutely no idea how to be a father to them without her."
The confession hung in the air, heavy and raw. He waited for the pity. He waited for the soft, useless murmurs of sympathy he despised from his peers.
Instead, Josephine reached across the desk. She didn't touch him, but she pulled the stack of ledgers toward herself, opening the top one.
"My father was a drunk," Josephine said quietly.
The stark, blunt admission snapped Richard's attention back to her.
"He died in a tavern brawl when I was nine. My mother worked herself into an early grave in a textile mill to keep us fed. She coughed up blood for a year before she finally stopped breathing in the cot next to mine." She looked up, her gray eyes locking onto his. There was no sorrow in them, only a fierce, tempered steel. "Grief is not a uniquely aristocratic condition, Your Grace," she continued, her voice steady and relentless. "It does not care about your title or your estate. It guts you just the same. But here is the brutal truth: the dead do not need you. The living do."
She tapped a sharp fingernail against the leather cover of the ledger.
"You can sit in this room and drink yourself into a stupor, mourning the life you thought you were going to have," Josephine said, leaning forward slightly, "or you can sign this requisition form, buy your daughter a chemistry set, and learn how to exist in the life you actually have. Your choice."
Richard stared at her. He felt exposed, stripped of his title, his wealth, and his defenses. This woman, with dirt under her nails and a tragic past of her own, had just walked into his fortress and dismantled it with a few brutal, honest sentences.
He looked at the requisition form. He looked at the inkwell. Slowly, Richard reached for his pen. He dipped the nib in the black ink, the scratching sound loud in the quiet room. He signed his name at the bottom of the page with a sharp, aggressive flourish.
He slid the book back toward her. "Three pairs of work gloves," Richard said, his voice dropping to a soft, dangerous murmur. "If they ruin another silk dress, it comes out of your wages."
A tiny, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of Josephine's mouth. It was the first genuine smile he had seen from her, and it hit him squarely in the chest.
"Understood, Your Grace," she said, gathering the books. She stood up, moving toward the door.
"Miss Miller," Richard called out before she could turn the handle. She paused, looking back over her shoulder. "Tomorrow," Richard said, his grip tightening on his empty glass, "have Bates set an extra place for dinner. I will be joining you and the girls in the dining room."
Josephine's eyes widened a fraction, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing her features. Then she offered a single, respectful nod.
"I will inform them to wash their hands thoroughly," she said. And with that she was gone, leaving the library feeling inexplicably warmer than it had been in years.
Silverware clinked against fine bone china. It was the loudest sound in the sprawling, cavernous dining room. Richard sat at the head of the long mahogany table, staring at his plate of roasted pheasant. To his immediate right sat Abigail, dissecting her meat with surgical precision. Next to her was Clara, who kept sighing dramatically as if the act of chewing was a tragic burden. Beside Clara was Harriet. Harriet was currently attempting to feed a piece of carrot to a very large, very ugly toad concealed inside the pocket of her pinafore.
At the opposite end of the table sat Josephine. She wore the same dark green wool gown from the night before, her posture impeccable. She wasn't staring at him; she was steadily eating her dinner, completely unbothered by the suffocating tension in the room.
It had been 2 years since Richard had taken a meal in this room. He usually ate off a tray in his study, buried behind ledgers and letters. His sudden appearance had thrown the girls into a state of suspicious paralysis.
"Harriet," Josephine said, not looking up from her plate. "If that amphibian touches the damask tablecloth, you will be laundering it yourself tomorrow morning by hand."
Harriet froze, her hand hovering over her pocket. She slowly withdrew her fingers, leaving the carrot behind. "His name is Barnaby. He's hungry."
"Barnaby eats insects, not root vegetables," Josephine replied calmly. "You may catch him a fly after pudding. Eat your peas."
Richard watched the exchange, utterly fascinated. No shouting, no tears—just a bizarre, factual negotiation. He cleared his throat. Three pairs of eyes instantly snapped toward him, wide and guarded.
"I understand," Richard began, his voice rough from disuse in this particular setting, "that a delivery arrived from London this afternoon."
Abigail's grip on her knife tightened. "It was the educational materials Miss Miller requested, sir." The 'sir' was tacked on like a reluctant afterthought.
"A chemistry set," Richard specified. He looked at Josephine, who finally met his gaze down the length of the table. "I trust you know how to use it, Miss Miller. I would prefer Ashborne Manor remained standing through the winter."
"I am adequately versed in basic chemical reactions, Your Grace," Josephine answered, a faint glimmer of amusement in her gray eyes. "We begin with simple compounds tomorrow, assuming Lady Abigail completes her algebraic equations before breakfast."
"I finished them 3 hours ago," Abigail countered instantly, her chin jutting out. "They were elementary."