Chapter 7
Roman leaned in with sudden intensity, his torso jerking forward. This closing of distance only served to deepen the sharp crease between Windsor’s eyebrows.
“If I fall, Benjamin will be stripped of his final safeguard.”
“I see. And the Preston legacy would be swallowed whole by the royal court.”
Roman finally gave a slow nod of comprehension before sinking back into his seat, his features twisting into a disgruntled scowl.
“I’ll never understand why the world of the high-born has to be so damn convoluted. If someone is your enemy, you should just be able to beat them into submission. Instead, everyone wears these plastic smiles while stabbing you in the back. It’s enough to drive a man mad trying to sort friend from foe. Wouldn’t you agree, Marquess?”
It was a grievance that perfectly mirrored Roman’s blunt, unfiltered temperament. To a man who met naval skirmishes with a grin, the suffocating layers of aristocratic duplicity must have felt like a cage.
Windsor offered no verbal agreement; he simply held out a hand. Roman sighed, shook his head, and deposited a thick sheaf of reports into his palm.
Despite the rhythmic jolting of the carriage, Windsor sat with a spine as straight as a blade, his focus dropping to the documents.
Roman provided the briefing.
“We’ve conducted a thorough background check on Miss Jacqueline Somerset. As of now, there’s no evidence of any communication between her and the court. It’s likely the Crown is still weighing its options.”
The casual air he had worn moments ago vanished, replaced by the clipped, professional tone of an aide-de-camp.
“She was a top-tier graduate of Bristol Girls’ Boarding School and carries an impeccable reputation. While her father’s financial ruin prevented her from ever making a formal society debut, she is undeniably cultured and highly educated. In my estimation, she is more than qualified for the role of governess.”
Roman Miller had been Windsor’s direct subordinate during his years at sea and was the solitary confidant Windsor had brought with him to Preston Manor.
Though he occasionally lacked the rigid decorum expected of a soldier, he was exactly the kind of man one would trust to hold the line in a crisis. If not for that stubbornly relaxed attitude, he would have been the quintessential subordinate.
“Still, it’s quite a shock to see an earldom vanish so abruptly. The world is a fickle place. She was once a lady of high standing, yet here she is, reduced to domestic service. Quite the fall, isn’t it?”
Roman threw the question out as if baiting for a response, but Windsor’s expression remained an unreadable mask. Accustomed to his superior’s stoicism, Roman pivoted the conversation without missing a beat.
“We’ll keep a sharp eye on Miss Somerset. It won’t be long before His Majesty attempts to sink his claws into her.”
“The question is the timing. I would prefer Benjamin’s studies not be interrupted for long.”
“A month or two at the most, surely? No governess has managed to turn down a royal summons yet. Regardless of how glowing their credentials are, they all fold the moment the King speaks. Was Miss Somerset the twelfth candidate? Or perhaps the thirteenth?”
The carriage slowed to a crawl before coming to a complete halt. Roman exited first, transitioning instantly into his formal persona—one hand holding the door open, the other tucked precisely behind the small of his back.
Windsor caught the quick transformation and gave his aide a dry, fleeting look. Tucking his long legs beneath him, he stepped out onto the gravel.
“The ninth one actually tried to abduct Master Benjamin—though she didn’t get very far.”
Windsor adjusted the buttons of his frock coat, his brow twitching as if wondering when Roman’s chatter would finally cease.
He walked toward the manor with a heavy, purposeful gait. William was already standing at the threshold to receive them.
“Welcome home, my lord. Lord Roman, it is good to see you again.”
Roman surveyed the foyer with an exaggerated look of boredom, giving the butler a casual nod.
“How are things, William? Still as quiet as a tomb in here? It honestly feels like a grave—”
“KYAAAAAH!”
The sentence was severed by a piercing shriek that tore through the manor’s oppressive silence.
Windsor and Roman traded a sharp look. William, visibly rattled, turned toward the sound and stammered.
“Master Benjamin is upstairs on the second floor…”
“What did you say?!”
Roman’s eyes widened in alarm. Windsor’s face darkened instantly. Both men were haunted by the same memory: the ninth governess, acting as an agent for the King, trying to steal the boy away.
Without a second thought, the two men sprinted forward. It was a shocking breach of noble etiquette, but no one present would have dared to criticize the Marquess.
By the time they hit the grand staircase, Roman had the lead—but as they reached the landing, Windsor surged past him with predatory speed.
Still a monster, Roman thought, clicking his tongue as he watched Windsor disappear around the corner. It seemed the years away from the front lines hadn’t dulled his commander’s lethal physical edge.
Windsor made a straight line for Benjamin’s quarters. Rounding the final corner, he found a maid collapsed on the floor.
Her hands were pressed over her mouth in a gesture of pure shock, her eyes fixed on the open doorway. A tray of tea and shattered porcelain lay forgotten at her feet.
Damn it.
Windsor suppressed the profanity. He had been a man of rough language at sea, but since inheriting the title of Marquess of Preston, he had maintained a veneer of perfect refinement.
Unexpectedly, Jacqueline’s face flashed in his mind—those piercing emerald eyes that had looked at him without fear.
He had been told she hadn’t been contacted by the King.
He had grown complacent. It was a rare lapse in judgment, but he never imagined a crisis would erupt within her very first day. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he stormed into the room.
“Move!”
Windsor cleared the cowering maid in a single stride and burst through the door—only to stop dead. Two pairs of eyes fixed on him: one pair a defiant green, the other a startled, clear brown.
Blink. Blink.
“My lord, what is the—!”
Roman arrived a breath later. He pushed past the maid and stumbled into the room, only to fall as silent as Windsor.
“Uncle.”
Benjamin, who had been sitting on the floor, stood up slowly. As the reality of the situation dawned on him, a look of profound embarrassment washed over the boy’s face.
He pulled his shoulders in, tucking his chin against his chest, his small fingers twisting the fabric of his trousers.
Seeing the boy’s distress, Jacqueline rose as well. She stepped forward with quiet grace, positioning herself like a shield between Benjamin and the Marquess.
Windsor’s gaze drifted from the boy to settle heavily on her.
“What is the meaning of this?”
Roman, finally processing the scene before him, could only gape in stunned silence.
Windsor locked eyes with Jacqueline. Her gaze remained steady, the fire in her emerald eyes undimmed.
His attention then shifted to the wall behind her—now a chaotic, vibrant explosion of clashing colors.
Windsor pressed his fingers to his temples, drawing himself up to his full, intimidating height.
“Explain yourself, Miss Somerset. If I am not mistaken, this morning’s curriculum was intended to be a lecture on the classical principles of art. Have I been misinformed?”
“Not at all, Lord Preston. Your memory is quite sharp.”
Jacqueline squared her shoulders, tilting her chin up with a touch of unmistakable pride.
“The artistic history of this kingdom moved from realism to impressionism, eventually arriving at the Fauvism we see today. While there are nuances, those are the three pillars. I felt that showing Benjamin the soul of the movement would be infinitely more effective than a dry lecture, so we engaged in a practical application.”
“A practical application, Miss Somerset?”
Windsor’s voice dropped to a dangerously low register, vibrating with a cold, hollow resonance.
“Precisely, my lord. As you are aware, experience is the cornerstone of true learning. One can explain how to sit a horse a thousand times, but it means nothing until one takes the reins. Art is no different. I believed that experiencing the raw energy of Fauvism firsthand would be far more beneficial than mere words. My school placed a high premium on such hands-on methods.”
“And am I to understand, Miss Somerset, that your definition of ‘practical application’ involves using the walls of this manor rather than a canvas?”
Jacqueline glanced back at her handiwork. The wall, once sterile and dull, was now a riotous, colorful mural. A small, satisfied smile touched her lips.
“Doesn’t it finally look like a room meant for a child?”
“Miss Somerset.”
At the sound of Windsor’s warning tone, Benjamin flinched. The boy’s gaze dropped to the floor, looking as though he wished the earth would swallow him whole.
“Lord Preston, perhaps we should continue this conversation in private? A debate between a guardian and an educator is best kept away from the student’s ears.”
At her bold suggestion, Windsor’s brow furrowed. Jacqueline maintained her smile, casting a pointed look toward Benjamin.
Only then did Windsor truly see the boy—huddled behind her, his shoulders slumped in anticipation of a blow, his lips pressed together so hard they had turned white.
Sensing her intent, Windsor took a slow, grounding breath and turned his back to them.
“Fine. Report to my study in thirty minutes, Miss Somerset.”
“Thirty minutes? Not right now?”
Jacqueline blinked, her confusion genuine. Without looking back, Windsor replied curtly.
“Given that your dress is currently ruined by paint, I suspect I would find it difficult to remain objective. For the sake of a civil discussion, I suggest you make yourself presentable first.”
“I see. Very well, Lord Preston.”
Windsor exited without another word. The maid, finally regaining her senses, began frantically gathering the broken tea set.
Madam Ritz stepped in, dispersing the crowd of curious servants and delivering a sharp rebuke to the girl who had screamed.
“To lose your composure over such a trifle! How many times must I remind you—a servant of this house must remain unshakable, regardless of the circumstances!”
“Forgive me, Madam Ritz.”
Roman took one last, bewildered look at the colorful wall before following Windsor down the hall. He leaned in and whispered,
“She’s certainly a firebrand, isn’t she?”
“She was highly praised by her peers and mentors alike—it makes me wonder what happened during those missing three years. Did her family’s ruin change her character? Or has she simply decided she has nothing left to fear?”
Windsor shot him a look so icy that Roman immediately fell silent, knowing better than to push his luck.
The silence lasted until they reached the privacy of the study. Standing before the heavy oak desk, Roman’s expression turned grim.
“An invitation has arrived from the palace.”
Windsor’s eyes went cold—a ruthless, predatory light that Roman recognized from their days at sea.
Roman held a deep, quiet respect for the man before him. He had served under many commanders, but none possessed Windsor’s iron-clad rationality.
He remembered a patrol ship encountering a merchant vessel besieged by ten pirate ships. While the crew had been paralyzed by fear, Windsor had remained an island of calm.
Despite the crew’s pleas to wait for backup, Windsor had taken the helm.
The image of that single ship systematically tearing apart a fleet of ten was burned into Roman’s mind—a feat that defied logic, a victory born of cold, calculated brilliance.
