"I didn't mock you." He looked at her, his gray eyes intense and unwavering. "I worked alongside you. I froze in that stable. I shoveled manure. I saw what you deal with every single day, Jane. I saw you holding this crumbling stone together with nothing but your own will. I saw you."
Jane swallowed hard, refusing to let the sudden treacherous warmth in her chest show on her face. "And now you've seen it. You've had your fun. You can sell the timber, sell the books, and go back to Mayfair. Just give me a week to pack my things."
Thomas stiffened. "You are not leaving. I am not your servant."
"No," Thomas said, his voice deadly serious. "You're the only honest person I've met in 2 years."
The following week was a study in psychological warfare. The dynamic of Fenwick Hall had shifted violently. The Duke's London staff, a highly trained, silent army of footmen, valet, and maids, took over the daily operations. Mrs. Gable was relegated to baking bread, while a French chef dominated the kitchen. Sarah was retired with a generous pension, replaced by brisk, efficient young women who sneered at the dust in the corners.
Jane found herself a ghost in the home she had run for 5 years. She had no duties, yet she was not a guest. She was a fixture, trapped in the strange limbo Thomas had created by refusing to let her leave. She spent her days in the estate office, stubbornly refusing to yield the ledgers to the Duke's severe-looking accountant, a Mr. Finch.
On a rainy Tuesday afternoon, Jane was hunched over the desk, her fingers stained with ink, trying to balance a column of figures related to the tenant farms. The door opened without a knock. Thomas walked in. He was dressed in riding clothes, tall leather boots, fitted breeches, and a dark riding coat damp with rain. He smelled of wet wool and the outdoors. For a split second, Jane's heart did a painful stutter step. Remembering the stable hand, she forced her eyes back to the page.
"Your grace! Mr. Finch is not here."
"I didn't come to see Finch," Thomas said. He pulled up a wooden chair and sat down opposite her, ignoring the layer of dust on the seat. "What are you working on?"
"The Miller Farm," Jane replied curtly, not looking up. "Their roof caved in during the snowstorm last winter. My uncle refused to pay for the repairs. They are withholding rent until it's fixed, as is their right."
Thomas reached across the desk and pulled the heavy ledger out from under her hands.
"Hey," Jane protested, reaching for it.
Thomas held it out of her reach, his eyes scanning the cramped numbers. He frowned. "They've been paying half rent for a year. The cost of the roof is three times what they owe."
"Then fix the roof, your grace," Jane said, her voice dripping with cynical sweetness. "Or evict them and let the farm rot completely. Those are your choices."
Thomas closed the ledger with a heavy thud. He looked at her, his expression unreadable. "You enjoy this, don't you? Pushing me, reminding me of my obligations."
"Someone has to."
"I cancelled the timber assessment," he stated quietly.
Jane froze. The ink on her quill dripped onto the blotter. "You... You did?"
"I read your notes in the margins of the land survey," Thomas said, leaning back in the chair. "You were right. Stripping the West Ridge would cause a landslide by spring. It would ruin the lower pastures. The agents in London only saw the immediate profit. They didn't calculate the long-term devastation."
Jane stared at him, genuinely shocked. She had fought that battle for 6 months, screaming into the void of the London offices, and he had just stopped it.
"And the books?" she asked, her voice smaller than she liked.
"The library remains untouched," Thomas said. "I have no need for a few hundred of pawned leather." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, bringing his face closer to hers. The air in the small office suddenly felt very thick. "I am not my father, Jane," he said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that always made her skin prickle. "I am not your uncle. I am not trying to destroy this place. I am trying to save it."
"Why?" Jane asked, her cynicism flaring up as a defense mechanism. "It's a money pit in Yorkshire. You hate it here. You said so yourself when you were Tom."
"I hated the idea of it," Thomas corrected. "I hated the burden. But then I came here. I saw the reality." His eyes dropped briefly to her lips before meeting her gaze again. "And I found things here worth keeping."
Jane's breath caught. She pushed her chair back, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floorboards. She needed distance.