Page 18 of Charming the Headmistress (Spinsters and their Suitors #3)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

E leanor poured the tea herself, grateful for the clink of porcelain and the slight steam rising from the pot—both distractions from the inexplicable flutter in her chest. Her pulse was misbehaving, fluttering in an odd, unhelpful rhythm.

She hadn’t planned this. She hadn’t planned for him.

But Lord Camden, with his warm voice and even warmer gaze, had a habit of toppling her expectations.

She handed him a teacup. He took it carefully, their fingers brushing for the briefest moment. The contact lasted less than a breath, but the sensation lingered and sent a strange warmth traveling up her arm like the spark from a hearth.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter now, as though they’d stepped into some pocket of the day meant only for them.

He looked around the office while she stirred her tea. His gaze took in the tall windows, the wall of books, the slightly crooked stack of ledgers, and the watercolor painting of the school done by a former pupil. Then his eyes returned to her. “This room suits you.”

She arched a brow. What had he seen and learned from her about the way she kept her office? She had never felt the need to examine the way she kept her office, but suddenly she felt the scrutiny. “Cluttered and a little severe?”

A smile curved his lips. “No. Full of thought. Ordered but not rigid. Slightly intimidating, in a very accomplished way.”

She laughed, the sound surprising herself. “You do have a way with words, my lord.”

“I usually wield them for mischief,” he said, cradling the cup between his hands. “But I’m trying to reform.”

“Your niece’s influence?”

He paused, then looked directly at her. “Yours, I suspect.”

The words slipped beneath her skin, settling somewhere deeper inside her. She took a sip of tea to hide her smile. The idea that she had influence over Miss Moreland was understandable and acceptable. The idea that she had any influence whatsoever over the Marquess of Camden was absolutely absurd.

His gaze wandered again, this time settling on the bookshelves. “You seem to have an impressive collection.”

She was grateful for the swift change in topic that kept the heat away from her cheeks. “Thank you. I’ve read most of them.”

He studied her for a moment. “Ah, but that’s not quite the same as liking them. What do you read for pleasure, Miss Langford? When no one’s assigning chapters or asking for a report?”

A smile tugged at her lips. Would it be terribly improper to admit her love of reading when she had an afternoon to indulge in the hobby? “Gothic novels, I admit.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Gothic novels?”

She nodded. “The gloomier the castle, the better. I enjoy a good ghost and an improbable inheritance.”

He chuckled. “Tragic heroines in nightgowns fleeing down candlelit corridors? I wouldn’t have guessed it.”

“And you, my lord?” It was clear that he was versed in many books, especially if he could so easily peg her favorite genre with such accuracy.

“Poetry,” he said easily. “And travelogues. Not the practical kind—more the ones full of brooding thoughts and wistful descriptions of foreign hills.”

“Ah,” she said, sipping her tea with mock solemnity. “So, you romanticize landscapes while I romanticize grief. It’s good we’ve found balance.”

He laughed, warm and unguarded. “That it is.”

The conversation drifted easily between them—from books to the unpredictability of spring weather, to childhood memories.

“I once tried to build a kite,” he said, lounging slightly in the chair. “I was seven. Thought I’d impress the village children. It flew straight into the vicar’s chimney.”

Eleanor grinned. “Did the vicar forgive you?”

“Not for weeks. It was a particularly colorful design. My mother made me apologize every Sunday.” There was a teasing smile on his lips that Eleanor found particularly endearing.

It was hard to tell if Lord Camden was being accurate in his memories or elaborating for the sake of a good story to tell.

“I once fell into a pond,” Eleanor offered. “Trying to rescue a duckling.”

He blinked, a sudden concern etched over his features. “Was the duckling at least saved?”

“It swam away quite happily while I flailed in the muddy water.”

“You deserve a hearty congratulations, I am sure, for rescuing the little creature."

“I confess the moment of heroism was quickly lost in the moment. If only I had taken off my bonnet before trying to rescue it. I fear I have never had so nice a bonnet as the one that was ruined that day."

They both laughed.

When he asked what her favorite baked good was, she blushed. “Lemon cream buns,” she admitted. “From Mrs. Delaney’s bakery. The kind with the crisp sugared top and soft filling.”

He looked delighted. “An excellent choice.”

“Don’t tell the girls. They think I exist on tea and stern looks. I should hate to have my secret known.”

“Your secret is safe with me.” He chuckled. “But I must say that you surprise me, Miss Langford.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought I had you figured out, but I find I must renegotiate some of my previous beliefs.”

“Oh?”

“You seem to have everything put together. You are impossibly composed whenever we meet, and you run this place very efficiently.”

“I fail to see how those are negative things or why you would need to amend such thinking.”

“Because you care for something as frivolous as a childhood bonnet.” He picked a sandwich from the tea tray and ate it.

She gaped at him, in mock offense. “You would not think it frivolity had you seen the bonnet with your own eyes, Lord Camden.”

“And, you like lemon cream buns and rescuing ducks and perhaps you’re not nearly as composed as you pretend to be.”

She flushed, laughing despite herself. “Lemon cream buns are hardly a scandalous indulgence.”

“Unless one doesn’t admit to liking it,” he said with a smug smile.

“I feel I should set an example for the girls. It is the easiest way to keep order.”

“That is fair, Miss Langford,” he said.

Time slipped by. They spoke of travel, of school days, of the oddities of village life.

“Do you miss London?” Eleanor asked, refilling the teapot more out of habit than need.

“Sometimes,” Camden said, settling back in his chair. “I miss the libraries. And Hyde Park in spring. But not the noise. Or the expectations.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed you found it a strain. You seem perfectly capable of charming a room.”

“Ah, but you’ve never seen me flee one.” His grin flashed. “I’m quite skilled at vanishing into corners.”

She laughed softly, surprised by how easily she enjoyed his company. “So you’re an expert in escape as well as charm.”

“I try to be versatile.” His gaze drifted to the window, where the sunlight angled over the bookshelf. “That view would make a fine sketch, wouldn’t it? All that new green and the edge of the hills beyond—it looks like it ought to be captured.”

She glanced at the window, then back to him. “Do you sketch?”

He gave a small, almost sheepish smile. “I used to paint, actually. A very long time ago.”

“What were your favorite subjects to paint?”

“Hills. Rivers. Faces, sometimes.” He looked down at his teacup, turning it slowly in his hand. “It never came easily. But I liked the stillness of it. The way you could disappear into the page.”

“And why did you stop?”

A pause. “Life got busy. Other things became more urgent. Then it didn’t feel like there was time for it anymore.”

Eleanor studied him for a moment. “You might try again. Helena clearly has a gift—and she must have inherited it from someone.”

His gaze flicked to her, warm with something unspoken. “Perhaps.”

Somehow an hour passed without either of them noticing. She had laughed more than she had in ages, her shoulders lighter, the corners of her mouth aching slightly from smiling.

When he stood to leave, she walked him to the door, her heart unexpectedly heavy.

She extended her hand. “Thank you for the visit. And the company.”

He took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he turned it and pressed a kiss to the back of it. The touch was soft. Unhurried. And completely devastating.

Her breath caught.

He looked up, holding her gaze for just a moment longer than necessary. The air was charged between them.

“Until next time,” he said, then he stepped back with a quiet bow and exited the room.

When the door closed behind him, Eleanor remained still.

She couldn’t name the exact moment things had shifted. Was it when he took her basket? When he steadied her? When he kissed her hand?

Or had it started before that—when he bought Helena the sketchbook, or asked after her favorite sweet, or laughed with that warm, unguarded sound?

Or here, over tea, when he saw her—truly saw her?

She didn’t know. But something had changed.

She was falling. Not all at once—but in slow, undeniable steps.

And for once, she didn’t want to stop it.

In fact, she rather liked it.

Later that afternoon, needing a breath of air between lessons, Eleanor walked along the gravel path that curved behind the school’s main hall.

The sky was overcast, the scent of rain still clinging to the hedges.

Beyond the hedgerow and the low stone wall, the south garden stretched wide, bordered by budding rosebushes and tangled lavender still waiting to bloom.

To her surprise, she came upon Miss Moreland seated alone on a weathered bench nestled against the southern wall. The girl's sketchbook was open on her lap, her pencil moving with practiced precision. Her expression, usually guarded and wary, was soft in concentration, her posture slightly relaxed.

Eleanor didn’t speak. She didn’t want to startle her or intrude on the rare sense of peace surrounding her. Instead, she slowed her steps, letting the gravel crunch gently beneath her boots as she approached.

Miss Moreland looked up as Eleanor neared. The look wasn’t sharp or challenging—just observant. Present.

“I won’t interrupt long,” Eleanor said quietly, pausing a respectful distance away. “I was just taking a short walk. It’s a good place to think.”

Miss Moreland gave a faint nod, her hand hovering over the sketchbook as if uncertain whether to close it.

Eleanor caught a glimpse of a corner of the drawing—an arched section of ivy-covered wall with delicate shading along the stone, more accurate than anything she herself could attempt.

“It’s lovely,” she said simply. “You have a gift.”

There was no response, but the girl didn’t shrink away. She simply resumed her work, as if Eleanor’s presence, for once, wasn’t something to guard against.

“Carry on,” Eleanor added softly. “I’ll let you finish in peace.”

She turned, making her way back toward the building, but with a quiet smile she couldn’t quite suppress.

The next day, as Miss Moreland arrived for her check-in, Eleanor greeted her with a gentler tone. She gestured to the same chair.

Miss Moreland sat. A nod.

“I wanted to ask—what do you prefer to be called here?” Eleanor said carefully. “Would you rather I address you as Miss Moreland … or Helena? It’s up to you.”

There was a pause. The girl’s gaze dropped to her hands, fingers tightening slightly around the edge of her book. For a heartbeat, Eleanor thought she might not answer.

Then, softly, barely more than a whisper: “Helena.”

Eleanor smiled, a warmth spreading through her chest. “Helena, then.”

And that was all. But it was enough.