"Just you wait, Leticia," boasted Miss Lavinia Croft to her intimate friend Miss Leticia Staunton, "He may have seemed indifferent to me in London, but just a few weeks here and I'll have a proposal from Sir Charles for sure!"

Sarah nearly rolled her eyes in disgust at the raven-haired beauty as she, Lottie and another maid, Ginny, bustled around the room unpacking Miss Croft's extensive wardrobe.

Guests had begun arriving that morning, Broadcroft was hosting a fortnight hunting party, and the house nearly buzzed with activity. The Crofts were only the third family to arrive, Leticia's mother, father and two older brothers, Mr. Hugh Staunton and Mr. Stephen Staunton, were the first followed by an older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Ollerton who were accompanied by their nephew, Mr. Nicholas Young. Lady Eleanor was still expecting Mr. and Mrs. Allen along with their daughter Miss Mary Allen and their son Mr. Edward Allen as well as Mr. and Mrs. Stewarts and their three children, Miss Fredricka, Miss Henrietta and Mr. Frances Stewart and finally a Mr. and Mrs. St. Vincent who were blessedly childless.

Sarah wiped a stray wisp of hair off her forehead, lending only half an ear to the girls' chatter over the very eligible young men in the hunting party. Her thoughts drifted instead to her own Season in London, just two years before. Before everything had shattered. Her father had spared no expense, Sarah had enjoyed every moment. The young men had been dashing and flirtatious, the intrigue just as beguiling. She missed London sometimes.

"Now that his brother is gone, God rest his soul, Sir Charles inherited everything and will also inherit his uncle's estate in Norfolk," oozed Leticia, before Lavinia burst into a fit of giggles that rang in Sarah's ears.

Richard. They'd encountered the Amesbury family only once in their stay, Sarah had been at the height of her entertainment, so her intended's cold indifference had not seemed to matter. And had not Richard always been that way? She'd preferred Charles then, just as she did now. Sarah blushed at her own thoughts, the heat rising to the very tips of her ears. Charles thought she was maid, and had never considered Sarah as anything but a sister, she reminded herself. And to think so poorly of the dead - she was surely not in her right mind this morning.

But he'd been so sweet yesterday afternoon, giving her access to his only sanctuary in the whole house, though she knew he coveted the solitude. She'd seen a glimpse of him, the Charles she'd loved as a girl, and longed to coax him out of the darkness that seemed to hang onto him still. Sarah frowned as she recalled his uncertainty, his gruffness - and her own longing to comfort him. What was wrong with her? She shook her head at her own foolish heart. had not he been perfectly clear the last time they'd spoken? had not it crushed her heart beyond mending? Yet the moment he'd laughed it had all come rushing back to her in a flood of intense affection, an affection that had always been reserved for one Charles Amesbury.

She was no longer a girl, she reminded herself firmly, and in just a few short months she would come into her inheritance and be able to live on her own. She couldn't bear the thought of begging the master of Broadcroft to marry her now, it nearly made her sick to picture his rejection. No, she would stay silent on the topic of her identity. What harm could it really do him? Sarah could remain close, but he'd never have to turn her down, or suffer her admiration which he had so loathed before.

But she did so want to hear him laugh again...

"Sarah!"

She was called from her inner turmoil by the sound of the housekeeper, Mrs. Green, calling her name through the bedroom door. Sarah glanced once at the two debutante's still absorbed in their own conversation before following Mrs. Green out into the corridor.

"I don't know what you've done, child," the middle aged woman, said, her voice thick with anxiety, "But the master has asked for you," she finished, her brows creasing together in bewilderment.

"For me?" stuttered Sarah, her heart picking up speed at the idea of Charles wanting her company.

"He wants you to read to him," said the housekeeper, now propelling Sarah in the direction of the study, "Didn't even know you could read," she muttered under her breath.

"But, Mrs. Green - the house is in uproar!" Sarah protested, suddenly nervous. What if he'd discovered her secret? What if he knew who she was?

"Sir Charles himself has asked for you," the lady repeated with stronger emphasis, "You will do as you're asked, and I will make due without you," she declared, finally stopping her herding as they reached the door to the study.

"Wait a moment," Mrs. Green muttered just as Sarah reached for the door. The good lady drew out a handkerchief and wiped none too gently at a smudge of soot along Sarah's cheek. Her blush deepened as she prayed Charles did not recognize her true identity. With a curt nod Mrs. Green urged her to open the door and step inside.

The room was just as before, a silent oasis within the roar of visitors at Broadcroft, Sarah felt her shoulders relax ever so slightly at the emptiness of the room, away from the crush just outside the door.

"Ah, Sarah, so you've come," Charles got up from his desk to greet her. She felt paralyzed - why did he know her name? Had he already guessed who she was? Did he remember her?

"Your name is Sarah? Sarah Jennings? That's what Mrs. Green called you," Charles explained, uncertainty making him frown ever so slightly. Sarah felt herself breath a heavy sigh of relief.

"Yes," she squeaked, "Yes, my name is Sarah, sir. Mrs. Green said you wanted to see me," she added, leaving the explanation for her presence hanging between them. Charles nearly smiled, and her heart thudded in her chest as to break a rib as he came to a stop just in front of her.

"I was hoping you could read to me, Sarah," he spoke with confidence, but his eyes were uncertain as he waited for her to answer. Sarah tamped down the memories of their shared childhood and smiled instead.

"Of course," she answered politely, "But I thought you were going to find a copy for yourself in English?"

"I was informed it was more beautiful when heard in its original Italian," he retorted, one eyebrow raising over the other, as he stood holding the book out to her. Sarah grinned without thinking, and reached for the volume he offered.

"As you wish," she answered, her anxiety over the past and the hunting party melting.

Charles motioned her to the chair they'd argued over just yesterday before returning the work at his desk. Sarah took her seat, tucking her legs up under herself and leaning into the chair. She hesitated before beginning, watching him from her spot across the room as he sorted through letters, papers and ledgers, scratching a figure here, a signature there. But then Charles glanced up, a question on his brow.

"Have you suddenly forgotten how to read Italian, Sarah?" he asked with a mischievous smirk, she nearly giggled, but began to read.

They spent the afternoon in that way, just the two of them, locked up tight in a different world than the rest of the house. Sarah's voice lilted through the stillness, rising and falling with the poem, each becoming more and more comfortable in the other's presence as the shadows stretched long across the floor. Every once in awhile Sarah would look up to find Charles watching her, chin on his hand, a strange look in his eye. She tried to ignore it, to pretend that she truly had was Sarah Jennings, and it seemed almost true to even herself. When the clock on the desk struck the five o'clock hour, both Charles and Sarah looked up.

"It will be dinner time soon," Sarah commented with a sigh as she closed the book and looked to her companion. He was studying her again, lips closed together, and only nodded in response. Sarah stood and rubbed at her eyes before returning the book to Charles' desk.

"There are quite a lot of people out there, are there not?" he asked, tired rubbing at his eyes.

"There are," she answered with a nod.

"I suppose I should go and see to them," he said with a sour scour, Sarah laughed softly, Charles looked up at her quickly and she felt herself go still.

"Will you come again tomorrow afternoon?" he asked quietly, and Sarah wondered where all his previous gruffness had disappeared to.

"You are the Master of Broadcroft, sir," she answered, "I will come back if you wish." She meant her answer to be light, but Charles' eyes grew sad at the mention of his title and Sarah wondered if he was thinking of Richard.

"Then I will see you tomorrow, Sarah."