The shrill, horrified voice cut through the damp afternoon air like a shattered glass pane. Richard paused, leaning on the wooden handle of his pickaxe. He wiped a streak of sweat and dirt from his forehead with the back of his wrist.
Standing on the immaculate stone terrace, staring down at the lawn with an expression of profound nausea, was Lady Agatha Lynnfield. She was Eleanora's aunt—a formidable, sharp-tongued woman who viewed strict social hierarchy as a religion. She wore a pristine lilac traveling gown, clutching a parasol as if it were a weapon.
"Good God, Richard!" Lady Agatha gasped, pressing a lace handkerchief to her chest. "Have you lost your mind? What is the meaning of this spectacle?"
Richard sighed, his breath pluming in the cool air. He hoisted himself out of the trench, his boots leaving thick, wet clumps of mud on the pristine lawn. "Good afternoon, Agatha," Richard said, his tone perfectly even. "We are fixing the drainage on the west wing. The foundation was rotting."
Lady Agatha's eyes darted wildly, landing on the girls. Abigail's hem was ruined. Clara's hands were black with soil. Harriet looked like a swamp creature. Finally, her gaze snapped to Josephine, who was calmly rolling up the parchment map, completely unfazed by the sudden aristocratic intrusion.
"You allow your daughters to roll in the dirt like common laborers?" Lady Agatha demanded, her voice rising in pitch. She pointed a trembling, gloved finger at Josephine. "And who is this creature? Where is Miss Finch? I demand to know why your household has descended into absolute savagery!"
"Miss Finch resigned," Richard replied, stepping deliberately between Lady Agatha and his daughters. The casual, relaxed demeanor he had possessed a moment ago vanished, replaced by the cold, unyielding authority of a duke. "This is Miss Miller. She is the girls' governess."
Lady Agatha sneered, raking her eyes over Josephine's plain, mud-splattered wool dress. "A governess? She looks like a scullery maid! Richard, this is unacceptable! I heard whispers in London that you had gone mad with grief, but I refused to believe it until now. Eleanora would be weeping in her grave to see her daughters treated like ditch diggers!"
The mention of Eleanora's name hung in the air, heavy and sharp. A week ago, it would have paralyzed him; it would have sent him reaching for the brandy. Now, Richard just felt a cold, protective rage.
Before he could speak, Josephine stepped forward. She didn't cower. She met Lady Agatha's furious glare with cool, gray-eyed indifference.
"Grief does not mandate uselessness, my lady," Josephine stated, her voice rich and steady, carrying easily across the lawn. "Lady Eleanora raised intelligent girls. I am merely ensuring their minds do not rot away in drawing rooms, listening to idle gossip. Lady Abigail just calculated the exact hydraulic pressure needed to save this estate thousands of pounds in masonry repairs. What did you accomplish this morning, aside from ruining a perfectly good carriage ride with your shouting?"
Lady Agatha turned a deep, mottled shade of purple. She gasped, staggering back a half-step. "Insolence! Richard, you will dismiss this impertinent wretch immediately! If you do not, I will write to the archbishop! I will tell the entire ton that you are unfit to raise these girls!"
Richard didn't blink. He reached down, slowly picking up his discarded linen coat from the grass. "You will do no such thing, Agatha," Richard said softly. The quietness of his voice made it infinitely more terrifying. "Because if you speak a single word against Miss Miller or my daughters, I will personally ensure your husband's investments in the East India Company are tied up in parliamentary inquiries for the next decade. Do we understand each other?"
Lady Agatha stared at him, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. She recognized the look in his eyes: it was the look of a man who commanded regiments, a man who destroyed enemies without a second thought.
"You... you are a monster," she whispered, turning on her heel. She fled back toward the carriage, her lilac skirts rustling furiously.
Richard watched the carriage tear down the gravel drive, kicking up dust in its wake. Silence settled over the lawn, save for the gentle trickle of water in the newly dug trench. He turned around.
Abigail, Clara, and Harriet were staring at him. They weren't afraid. They looked at him with a sudden, fierce reverence. He hadn't just tolerated them; he had defended them. He had chosen their dirt and their chaos over polite society.
"All right," Richard muttered, aggressively rolling his sleeves up higher. "Let's finish this trench before it rains."
The girls scrambled back to work with renewed, frantic energy. Josephine walked over to the edge of the trench, handing him the heavy iron pickaxe. When their hands brushed, the brief contact sent a jolt of raw electricity straight up Richard's arm. He looked at her. Her hair was falling out of its pins, and a smudge of dirt marred her cheek. She was the most magnificent creature he had ever seen.
"You threatened to ruin her husband's investments," Josephine murmured, her voice meant only for him. "That was incredibly tyrannical, Your Grace."
"I am a duke, Miss Miller," Richard replied, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. "Tyranny is occasionally included in the job description."
Josephine smiled—a real, breathtaking smile that reached her eyes. "Well, it was highly effective."
She stepped back, turning her attention to Harriet's mud dam. Richard gripped the pickaxe, his heart hammering against his ribs in a harsh, frantic rhythm that had nothing to do with manual labor. He was terrifyingly, irretrievably falling in love with a woman who had no respect for his title, and for the first time in years, he finally felt alive.
Rain battered the heavy library windows, a violent rhythm swallowing the midnight silence of Ashborne Manor. Richard sat behind his desk, cravat loose, waistcoat unbuttoned. A single oil lamp cast trembling yellow light over scattered estate ledgers. He wasn't reading; he was staring at his hands.
His palms were raw. Three large blisters had formed at the base of his fingers, the skin angry from hours gripping the heavy iron pickaxe. It hurt—a sharp, stinging pain flared every time he flexed. Richard closed his fists tightly, welcoming the bite. It was a tangible, physical ache—real, unlike the suffocating numbness that had defined his existence for 2 years.
The heavy oak door pushed open, whining faintly. Josephine stood on the threshold. She wore a simple white cotton nightgown beneath a faded gray shawl. Her hair, usually pinned with severe military precision, tumbled freely in a dark, heavy wave. She held a brass candlestick, the flame illuminating the tired shadows beneath her eyes.
She froze. "I apologize," Josephine murmured, her voice thick with sleep. She took a step back. "I thought you had retired. I came for a book. Clara's snoring is particularly aggressive tonight."
"Leave the door, Miss Miller," Richard said. His voice was a low scrape in the quiet room. "You are welcome to the library."
Josephine hesitated, glancing at the shadows, then at him. Slowly, she stepped inside, leaving the door ajar. She walked to the far wall, her bare feet silent on the Persian rug, and began scanning a shelf of Greek histories.
Richard watched her. Without the severe wool dress and the armor of her governess persona, she looked smaller, softer, and incredibly dangerous to his precarious state of mind.