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Her voice was calming, and he noticed again that peculiar lack of an accent. Everyone on their staff had a regional Devon accent, as far as he was aware. She had none.

“I suppose that you are correct,” he managed to say after tearing his focus from her eyes and the unusual quality of her voice.

“I must confess that I do not know much of infants.” His lip lifted at the corner in an ironic smile.

Her eyes brightened and, blushing, he schooled his face to neutrality.

“Infants are like weather-vanes, my grandmother used to say,” the young woman replied, her green eyes holding his. “And sometimes, the stormy weather that they respond to is in our own souls.”

The words intrigued him. The thought of stormy weather in his soul disturbed him.

In some way, it was as though a terrible storm had been raging inside him since the time of his cousin’s death.

His helplessness and fear, shock and pain, were like the raging thunder and rain of a wild summer downpour.

He pushed the thought away. It was a silly notion.

“Perhaps that is so,” he managed stiffly.

The young maidservant said nothing. Her gaze held his. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, the noise filling his ears. Her eyes were so mesmerising, and their expression called to him, making him want to confess more. He looked away, his cheeks flushing awkwardly.

“You did a good job in moving the nursery,” he said, coughing to clear his throat and return to his formal tone. “I trust you will continue in the same diligent manner.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she replied.

Peter turned away and walked out into the hallway, his eyes focused on the wall outside.

He drifted past where the men had been pushing the dresser.

There was noise from the Green Room, where they were clearly still working.

He did not stop to look in. He walked down the cold hallway to the drawing room.

When he got there, he sighed in relief. A fire was burning in the grate, and someone—Mr Harris, he presumed—had drawn the velvet curtains over the windows. It was warm and comforting, and he breathed out. He felt in need of refuge.

The new maidservant had discomforted him.

He could not get those green eyes out of his thoughts.

Her slender form, her long, oval face, and her thick, glossy hair played through his mind.

Altogether, in combination with that strange, neutral voice, she captivated him in ways that nobody else had for a long time.

Even before his cousin’s death, he had found high society repellant—overly formal, restrictive and uninteresting—and had socialised with few others outside his immediate family.

He walked across the room to the fireplace, staring into the flames. He had been only briefly into the nursery where Thomas was accommodated in the Devon house—this was the first time he had really looked at him since their arrival. It always unsettled him.

It is just that, he told himself firmly. Just seeing the baby again. It couldn’t have been the maidservant and her enchanting green eyes. He could not be so interested in someone on his own staff.

A voice, middle-pitched and authoritative, echoed in the hallway. Peter tensed.

“... Anna? Bring my things to the drawing room, please. I will sew here.”

He recognised the voice at once. His elder sister, Millicent, had arrived at the manor a day after he had, along with her husband Edmund.

He had not seen Millicent in several years—outside brief exchanges in London—and it felt strange to be sharing a house with her.

She was five years his senior, and she seemed to assume instant control wherever she went, including at the family’s ancestral home, which felt wrong because he was the earl.

“Yes, my lady,” a woman’s voice replied to Millicent’s request.

“And if you could...Oh! Peter!” Millicent had stepped through the door, and her hazel-eyed gaze fixed on him. “I thought you were occupied in your study.”

“My business is concluded for the day,” Peter said a trifle formally. He did not feel comfortable with his sister dictating anything about him, including where she did and did not expect him to be.

“Ah! Well! How grand! Then I can discuss matters about the house-party with you. I am so glad you have time.”

“Millicent...” Peter began a little desperately.

He did not want to think about the house-party.

It was Millicent’s terrible idea. Designed to bring him out of himself—her words—and keep him aware of what was happening in society, Millicent’s house-party consisted of more than twenty guests and was planned to take place over three weeks.

He did not like the idea of twenty strangers lodged at the Brentdale estate.

He did not like the idea of a three-week house-party.

And he especially did not like the fact that his sister was planning all of it without consulting him.

Though I expect that is all my own fault, he thought with some irony. He was the one who evaded discussing it whenever he could.

“You have time now. You just said so,” Millicent said insistently.

Her hazel eyes narrowed just a little. She had a squarish face, like his own, with the same high cheekbones and chiseled nose and with their father’s dark brown hair.

Her mouth was a little fuller than his own, and her eyes were entirely their father’s.

She had a firm chin and somehow altogether more intensity about her.

She was also quite short, whereas he was tall.

She drew herself up to her full height, which was not particularly imposing but nevertheless had the desired effect.

“What is it, Millicent?” he asked wearily. He gestured her to a chair, and she sat down. He took a seat opposite her.

“We will be housing the guests in the west wing,” Millicent said instantly. “I believe there are enough rooms between the west wing and the three in the east quarters.”

“Millicent...” Peter began. Until recently, Thomas had been housed in the west wing, and he did not like the thought of the poor baby being disturbed at night when the guests returned late from balls and parties. But, with the baby safely moved, he realised slowly, there was nothing to stop her.

“What, brother?” Millicent asked firmly. “If you have an objection, inform me.”

Peter sighed. “The roof leaks, Millicent,” he said, feeling exhausted. “In at least two of the rooms.”

“What? Well, then! We shall have it fixed. How long have you let this place fall into neglect, Peter?” She chided.

Peter made a face. “I have been in London for a year, sister,” he said slowly.

“The house has not fallen into neglect. Two rooms have slightly leaky roofs. Given the fact that they face the side where the storms come from, that is unsurprising. They were built two hundred years ago,” he added, feeling the need to support his argument.

Only his sister could make him feel so defenseless.

Millicent shrugged. “We have the means to hire the best craftsmen. They will be hired, and by the time the guests arrive the day after tomorrow, the house will be fit for them. All the rooms,” she added, one brow raised.

“The day after... sister!” Peter gaped at her. She had not once hinted that the party would commence so soon. “Is it truly supposed to be then?”

Millicent looked surprised. “The day after tomorrow is Friday,” she reminded him, as though that made it all make sense. “I thought that it would be pleasant to have the ball on Friday, so that the guests have two days to recover and spend on lighter entertainments before our next event.”

“Which is what?” Peter asked a little nervously.

“A garden party, of course. It’s summer. Do try to enjoy it?” Millicent asked, her eyes wide.

Peter sighed. “I commend your effort,” he added, not sure what else to say.

There was somewhere within him a box of pleasantries that seemed to open whenever there was nothing left to say.

When he reached the point where he was talking with meaningless polite phrases, he knew that he was too tired to express anything else.

“Thank you!” Millicent smiled, as though the words were genuinely pleasing. “I am so glad to hear it.”

Peter sighed again. “I think I will retire to bed, sister,” he said after a moment. “I feel unwell. The storm,” he added, waving a vague hand at the window as if the state of the weather explained his sudden sickness.

“Oh! Of course, Peter. Of course, we will miss your presence in the dining room,” she added politely.

“Thank you, sister,” he managed to say. He stood and went to the door.

In his chamber, he sat down heavily on the bed. He truly was exhausted, and, though he had made up the sickness as an excuse, he really did feel unwell. He shut his eyes, relaxing for the first time all day.

As he lay there, an image of the maidservant in the nursery drifted into his thoughts.

Her green eyes watched him thoughtfully, that strange calm anchoring him despite all the uncertainty and upheaval around him.

He pushed the thought away, his mind drifting.

As he fell into an exhausted sleep, the tempests within his soul merged with the rhythm of the falling rain and that watchful green gaze.

His last thought before dreams claimed him was that he had not seen someone so unusual, so intriguing, in a long time.