Charles reined in his horse as he reached the top a hill that overlooked the road leading up to Broadcroft. The river lay to the north, but was too far away for the sound of rushing water to reach him. The tenant farms stretched out in all directions, their cottages resting just a few miles from the Great House itself.

Broadcroft was nestled in the windy highlands of Northern England, with craggy rocks and brush making up most of the landscape. The estate's old orchard was nearly impossible to spot, it had become so run down over the years. Charles imagined there were several things that needed tending to, but he'd yet to make a tour to assess them all. He'd brought his own steward, Brian O'Connell, a former sailor under him in the Navy. O'Connell was trustworthy, and had already delivered Sir Charles with a detailed report of the estate and was not a pleasant assessment. The cottages, grounds and outbuildings were in need of maintenance as well as several flood walls closer to the riverbank. Charles knew he would need to begin acting as the master of Broadcroft, he just could not resign himself to it yet.

His ride this very morning had been to escape the endless squawk of the guests that his mother had allowed to overrun Broadcroft. He knew what she was about, trying to parade a flock of London debutantes. Charles had spent most of his time in London trying to avoid them, yet here they were in his very home. He knew his mother only intended to help, to throw him in the way of a woman who might win his heart. But what his mother had not yet realized was Charles lacked such a thing to won, and pity the woman who bound herself to him in search of it.

The war had changed so much about him, Charles knew he hardly had anything left to offer a wife and he was in no need of an heir. No, he would simply live out the rest of his days hidden away at Broadcroft and Caroline's son William could inherit. He saw no flaw in this course, but his mother was obviously still unsatisfied as made obvious by the flood of guests. Perhaps it also had something to do with his youngest sister's arrival sometime this week. Amelia was eighteen, and had her eyes wide for a husband. She'd stayed behind in London another week with the Stewarts, but should be arriving with the party either today or tomorrow.

Thoughts of her arrival drew his eye to the road, and he noticed a single rider leaving behind a cloud of dust. Blast these guests and how they could push him from his own home. Charles had been out for several hours, and had purposefully missed the morning meal as to avoid the swarm a little longer. But he should return, for there was nothing to be done but to endure the guests until he could slip away to his study.

An image of golden hair and deep blue eyes came to his mind without prompting. Sarah would be there, in his study, that very afternoon. He couldn't account for the longing to be with her, but he had quite given up denying it existed. Charles had immediately plotted a way for her to return to his company, so she would have opportunity to read, he'd told himself at first. But yesterday afternoon, as she'd nearly been swallowed up by that chair before the fire he'd had the fleeting thought that it was her chair now.

It was foolish, he knew. Sarah was a maid, in his house and any kind of friendship between them would be impossible. But that didn't keep him from thinking of her last night through the formal meal, instead of entertaining Lavinia in conversation. And then there was the trouble with her statement the day before, 'You are the master of Broadcroft' she'd said, as if to remind him that she had no choice in the matter. Perhaps she hated him, perhaps she didn't want anything to do with Italian poetry and a large leather chair so long as it involved him. Perhaps his scarred face still scared her and she was merely doing her duty.

Charles growled at himself in disgust and turned his horse back to the house. He'd asked her read, nothing more he reminded himself. If the girl was truly miserable he would release her from the task that very afternoon. Then he would find another way to survive the next two weeks.

Nearing the house, Charles passed by the stables and recognized one of the horses therein. Henry must've come, he thought to himself as he continued up to the house after leaving his own animal. A very old friend, Henry would be much needed respite from the bloodthirsty misses about. He was handsome and worked to be charming, and women fell over themselves to have his attention. And perhaps Henry's company would break whatever spell the golden haired housemaid had cast over his senses. Yes, it would be good to have Henry about.

Charles walked through the gardens to enter at the back of the house so as not to be detected, but just before he passed the shrubbery he heard a small yelp. Looking about Charles' eye landed on one of the footmen, Robin who'd apparently cornered a maid. Charles thought nothing of it, though it was taboo, he cared little of the servants' romances so long as they remained discreet. Kissing in the middle of the garden in broad daylight was less than discreet, but Robin was young, so Charles should allow some leniency.

But then the squeal came again, and his head turned involuntarily to see that the maid was Sarah. Charles felt a pang of jealousy, maddest of notions before he realized that Sarah was beating her fists against the much larger footman's chest, arms and head in an attempt to ward him off, it would seem. A murderous rage overcame Sir Charles in that moment, and he probably would've shot poor Robin if he'd his gun about him. Beating the boy to a bloody pulp would do well enough he'd decided as he stormed across the garden in their direction. But in just a moment Sarah had ducked under the footman's arms and scurried away.

Robin was none so lucky.