"Mr. and Mrs. Croft should arrive soon," Lady Eleanor commented, causing Charles to spin from the window he'd been gazing out of, "And Miss Croft with them," she added as she poured the tea.

"Do not remind me," Charles growled in his throat as he joined his mother, he knew she understood his frustration.

"Lavinia seems to be a lovely girl, a beauty by no doubt," said Lady Eleanor, Charles refrained from snorting.

"She's eyeing your title, dear mother," said Charles turning to the lady beside him.

"You have a duty to the family, Charles," Eleanor said quietly, focused on adding sugar to her tea.

"I have a nephew," Charles pointed out.

"Yes I am sure John and Caroline would like to see William inherit a title, but not at the expense of your happiness, my dear." This time, Charles snorted.

"That is not something that can be restored, Mother," he stated morosely, "I do not want a wife, and therefore I will have no children."

"Charles," Lady Eleanor began, setting down her tea and leaning towards him, "After your brother died..."

"You do not need to speak of something that pains you so much," Charles admonished with sincere gentleness, taking hold of the hand she held out to him.

"I need to see you married," Eleanor repeated, her eyes misty. Charles shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

"Are you forcing me to promise you something?" he asked quietly.

"No," Lady Eleanor admitted slowly. Charles considered her a moment before giving her hand an affectionate squeeze.

"I will do my best," he promised as he stood and left her, already feeling like a liar.

Since arriving three days ago, Charles' feet always seemed to head in one direction: his study. The study was a warm and comfortable room, each generation had added to it's collection of books, oddities and souvenirs. Charles' own saber now rested above the fireplace, he couldn't bare to have it too far from hand. The room was towards the back of the house on the second story with an impressive view of the land and the river from a wall of windows on the north side of the room. It was always silent, a space reserved for the master of the house, and no one else unless by invitation. Charles never intended to extend one.

He entered the room and immediately felt himself relax. The smell of old leather, pipe tobacco and book paper met him, as well as the sound of a fire crackling in front of his favorite chair. This is where a man could think. This is where a man could be alone.

But as his eyes landed on the precious throne he found that it was already occupied by another - by the very same maid who'd found him so frightening just a few days before. He stopped dead in his tracks, utterly bewildered. To find a woman in his sacred study, and this particular one no less, sitting in his very favorite chair to blast it all.

But for whatever fool headedness he took care not to move, found that he was even holding his breath as if she were a deer he might frighten away. It was the maid from before, the soft one, something in his mind recalled and he should take care not to have her fainting again, but he shook his head at his own nonsense. There was a simple reason for his reluctance to scare her, Charles found her darling.

The girl sat in the deep leather chair with her feet tucked up underneath of her as she held a book in her hand. Charles recognized it as a first edition of the romance of the forest, written entirely in Italian. Although a maid would never be able to decipher Italian, she probably had an inkling of what the book was worth. So, she was a thief then. A beautiful one, that foolish piece of his mind observed. What pieces of hair had fallen from her cap were golden, and the memory of those blue eyes had him wanting her to look at him again.

But a thief nonetheless he argued with himself, frustration taking hold. A woman had intruded upon his sanctum to steal from him, and she would pay, no matter how lovely.

"You are not supposed to be here," he growled, his strange attraction to her making him speak harsher than strictly necessary.

She jumped up in an instant, going white and clutching the book to her chest. Charles wondered if she would faint for fear of his scarred face again. Her eyes certainly held terror now.

"I am truly sorry," she was saying as quickly as she could all the while backing away from him. Charles stepped towards her to close the gap.

"Are you stealing from me then?" he accused in that voice that was too harsh. She stopped her retreat as an expression of puzzlement flashed over her features.

"Stealing?" She repeated, Charles looked pointedly at the book she still held. She seemed to remember it for the first time.

"You're holding a book worth one hundred times your salary, madam," he continued, though that harshness was lessening now.

"I wasn't stealing it, sir," she protested too steadily to be lying, "It was one of my father's favorites," she explained glancing at the book and running a thumb across its cover, "Reading it always reminds me of him," she finished and when she looked up at him again Charles saw sadness in those eyes. Perhaps she was telling the truth...

"You read Italian?" he asked, his voice dropping it's usual growl altogether. Her forehead crinkled at him as if she was still unsure of him, her gaze left him self conscious.

"I do," she answered, and Charles noticed for the first time that this housemaid did not speak like a housemaid. He studied her for a moment before replying.

"Though I speak the language, I must confess I've never had the patience to read it," he replied, almost as if they were in the midst of a friendly conversation at a dinner party rather than maid and master. He looked up to find her smiling at him, actually smiling and it dazed him.

"It is more beautiful in Italian," she insisted, her face holding the look of, was it, almost... fondness? He shook his head at the lunatic thought.

"Would you read it to me?" he asked, a request that surprised them both. She looked at him again as if she was unsure of him.

"Please," he added. Charles knew then that he was losing his mind.

She nodded, opened the book to a passage towards the end and began reading. Her voice was strong, clear and pleasant and the language seemed to belong on her tongue as she read. Charles barely grasped the meaning of the words, he was so captivated by the sound of her voice, the movement of her lips, the passion in her expression. It was as if she truly felt what the writer was attempting to describe, and so could make him understand it as well. A strange calm settled over him as she continued, lilting through another stanza. He couldn't remember a moment since returning home that his mind had been so at rest as it was listening to this golden-haired house maid read to him in Italian. He could not rip his gaze from her.

"Sir Charles?" he heard her say, very much in English. He was jolted out of his trance, realizing she had ceased reading. Suddenly uncomfortable, Charles cleared his throat and turned away from her, back towards his desk on the other side of the room. Perhaps it would be safer over there.

"You are correct," he answered without looking at her, for he could not seem to look at her in that moment, "It is much more beautiful in Italian."

"Is it a favorite of yours, Sir Charles?" she asked, and he turned back to face her before answering. What was she doing, just standing there, asking him a simple question, suddenly unafraid of him?

"It is not," he admitted with a small smirk, "Many generations of my family have added to the collection you see here and in the library for over a century," he explained, glancing around at the bookcases ladened with volumes he had never cared to read.

"Then I would suggest you add it to your reading list," she replied with that smile of hers again, looking at him so oddly, even from across the room. She didn't drop her eyes, didn't back away. She smiled at him, a secret hinting around her mouth.

What was he doing thinking about her mouth? Charles scolded himself, snapping out of his reverie to reply.

"I shall inquire after a copy in English next time I am in town," he confirmed with a nod of his head in her direction. She seemed to take this as her cue to leave him, for she crossed the space between them to press the book into his hands.

"I apologize for disturbing you, Sir Charles," she said with a bob of a curtsy, before she offered up one more of those little smiles. Charles still had not formed a response by the time she turned to go, but just as she reached the doorway he called to her.

"You are welcome to these books whenever you have a wish to read," he said, a feeling of fullness in his chest as he waited, hoping she would accept his offer. She seemed hesitant at first, but then...

"The chair as well?" she teased, her mouth giving a little twist. He laughed aloud, shocking them both.

"The room is yours, madam," he replied, a grin spreading across his face.

She smiled in return before disappearing into the corridor. Charles stared after her, wondering what on earth had come over him. To allow anyone, let alone a female servant, free access to his favorite room in the house... and the odd little thing had made him laugh, actually laugh. Charles felt a softness in his chest that had long been dead, and felt an ease that she seemed to leave in her wake steal over him... he must be going mad indeed.