In Which My Calculated Helplessness Becomes Genuine Helplessness
We relive the day in the Earl's POV
The clock in the library struck four as I carefully arranged the final details of my performance. Fabric swatches scattered just so—not too orderly, but not complete chaos either. Architectural plans spread across the makeshift desk with one corner artfully crumpled as if I'd fallen asleep mid-review. The remains of bread and cheese positioned to suggest a man too consumed by work to bother with proper meals.
I surveyed my handiwork with satisfaction. The picture of an overwhelmed earl, desperately in need of rescue.
It wasn't entirely fabricated, of course. I had been working—genuinely reviewing plans and costs, trying to make sense of restoration priorities. But I could have managed it all perfectly well. Had managed far more complex projects than this.
The truth was, I wanted her to see me as someone who needed her. Not just her expertise, but her. Because God help me, I did need her—in ways that had nothing to do with cracked plaster or rotting timbers.
I'd realized it watching her at dinner last night, the way she listened when I spoke about the house's history. Not the polite attention of a hired consultant, but genuine interest. As if she understood that buildings held the souls of the people who'd lived in them.
And then later, in the library, when she'd looked up from Mother's account books with those dark eyes bright with curiosity... I'd wanted to kiss her so badly my hands had actually trembled.
Hence this morning's theater.
I arranged myself in the chair, head pillowed on the blueprints, and closed my eyes. The waiting was torture. Every sound in the corridor might be her footsteps. Every minute that passed was another minute I couldn't watch her face, couldn't hear her voice with its mix of sharpness and hidden warmth.
When her voice finally came—"My lord?"—I had to force myself not to smile.
The gentle nudge of her fan against my shoulder sent heat racing through me that I prayed didn't show on my face.
"LORD THORNCROFT."
I startled awake with what I hoped was convincing disorientation, blinking up at her. Sweet Christ, she was beautiful. Even in that practical gown—especially in that practical gown—with her hair pinned severely and her expression stern. She looked like a governess about to deliver a well-deserved lecture, and I wanted to pull her into my lap and discover if that prim mouth would soften under mine.
"Lady Margot! You're early."
The way she raised that eyebrow should not have been so arousing. "I'm precisely on time. You're unconscious."
I scrambled to my feet, letting my hair remain disheveled. Women seemed to like that—the rumpled, vulnerable look. Not that I was manipulating her. Much.
The conversation proceeded exactly as I'd hoped. Her crisp disapproval of my "planning," her practical questions about workmen and oversight. And then—perfect—her assumption that I was incompetent to manage alone.
"I've taken the liberty of providing my own oversight," I said, puffing up like a proud fool.
The look she gave me suggested she thought me about as capable as a golden retriever. It should have been insulting. Instead, it made me want to prove just how capable I could be—preferably by demonstrating my expertise in areas having nothing to do with architecture.
When I showed her my fountain sketches, watching her try to be polite about my "imaginative" ideas, I had to bite back a grin. She was so determined to be kind while clearly thinking me a hopeless romantic dreamer.
If only she knew the kinds of dreams I'd been having about her.
"You counted the cracks," I said, genuinely amazed despite my performance. Seventeen. She'd counted seventeen cracks in the plaster and noted their exact locations.
"Of course I counted them. How else would we know how many to repair?"
The simple practicality of it, the thoroughness, the way her mind worked—it was devastatingly attractive. I'd known beautiful women, charming women, accomplished women. But I'd never known a woman who could make careful attention to detail seem like seduction.
"You're rather magnificent, Lady Margot."
The flush that rose in her cheeks nearly undid me. For a moment, her composure cracked, and I saw something vulnerable underneath—as if no one had called her magnificent in a very long time.
Then the workmen arrived, and I had to focus on not staring at her like a besotted fool while she transformed into a general marshaling her troops.
Watching her direct the men was... educational. The way she moved with quiet authority, how she listened to their expertise while clearly retaining final decision-making power. She wasn't trying to prove anything, wasn't performing competence. She simply was competent, and it showed in every gesture.
When Hartwell stepped forward—a man who'd been skeptical of my ability to organize a proper restoration—I saw his face change as she spoke. Within minutes, they were corresponding about structural priorities as if they'd worked together for years.
I might have arranged this morning's chaos, but her effect on my craftsmen was entirely genuine. And utterly arousing.
"You'll be staying out of the way," she told me, and I had to shift my position to hide my body's reaction to her authoritative tone. "And once I'm properly settled in the steward's quarters—which I will be doing today, Lord Thorncroft—we can establish a more efficient workflow."
Steward's quarters. Not bloody likely.
"Hmm?" I said, looking up from my fountain sketch with calculated vagueness. "Did you say something about flowers? Excellent idea for the morning room!"
Her stare could have melted stone. I maintained my innocent expression while internally congratulating myself on my performance. There would be no steward's quarters today. Or tomorrow. If I had my way, there would be no steward's quarters ever.
As we walked through the wing, I found myself watching the way she moved—economical, purposeful, with an unconscious grace that made my mouth go dry. When she knelt to examine the crack in the plaster, her skirts spread around her on the dusty floor, I had to look away before I did something irretrievably stupid.
Like fall to my knees beside her and kiss her until she forgot all about proper accommodation and professional boundaries.
"You truly care about this, don't you?" I asked instead, my voice rougher than intended.
The way she looked up at me, surprised by my tone, made my chest tight. "Of course I care. A house like this... it deserves to be restored properly, not just made fashionable."
Beautiful, brilliant, and passionate about craftsmanship. I was absolutely doomed.
During luncheon, when she tried again to mention the steward's quarters, I smoothly redirected to Mother's account books. The frustration on her face was almost worth the effort it took to ignore what she was actually saying.
"More wine with dinner, Lady Margot? I think you'll find the '98 vintage pairs beautifully with our discussion of load-bearing walls."
"We're not having dinner together."
"Aren't we?" I let my smile turn innocent. "I assumed we'd need to review the day's progress. Very thorough discussion required."
The truth was, I needed any excuse to keep her near me. Dinner, reviewing progress, discussing mysterious account books—I'd invent reasons if necessary. The thought of her retiring to some distant part of the house, of losing these moments of connection, was unbearable.
As the afternoon wore on, I began to understand the fatal flaw in my plan. I'd staged needing her help to draw her in, to make myself indispensable to her sense of purpose. But somewhere between her counting cracks and directing workmen, between her passionate defense of proper restoration and her grudging amusement at my fountain obsession, the performance had become reality.
I didn't just want her help with Raventhorn Hall. I wanted her. In my house, in my life, in my bed. I wanted to wake up every morning to her sharp observations and fall asleep every night to her quiet breathing beside me.
The realization should have been terrifying. Instead, it was oddly liberating. For the first time in years, I knew exactly what I wanted.
Now I just had to figure out how to convince her she wanted it too—without scaring her away in the process.
That evening, after she'd retired to her temporary quarters (definitely temporary, if I had anything to say about it), I found myself in the library again, staring into the fire and planning my next move.
Mrs. Hathaway appeared with her usual silent efficiency, setting a brandy at my elbow.
"How did the first day progress, my lord?"
"Magnificently," I said, taking a sip. "Lady Ashbourne has the men eating out of her hand already. Hartwell looked positively smitten."
"And yourself, my lord?"
I glanced up to find her wearing that knowing expression she'd perfected during my childhood. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, my lord, that you've been grinning like a fool since this morning, despite the fact that your carefully arranged chaos has been replaced with terrifying efficiency."
I couldn't deny it. "She's remarkable, Mrs. Hathaway."
"Indeed she is." The housekeeper's expression softened. "Though I suspect the steward's quarters may prove... unexpectedly problematic tomorrow."
"Problematic how?"
"Oh, structural concerns. Water damage. Perhaps a family of rather aggressive mice." Her eyes twinkled. "Quite uninhabitable, I'm afraid."
I raised my glass in a small salute. "You're a treasure, Mrs. Hathaway."
"So I've been told, my lord. Will there be anything else?"
"Yes," I said, settling back in my chair with renewed determination. "Send word to the kitchen. I want tomorrow's meals to be exceptional. If Lady Ashbourne is going to be trapped in luxurious guest quarters for another day, she might as well enjoy the compensation."
"Very good, my lord."
As her footsteps faded down the corridor, I stared into the flames and smiled. Tomorrow would bring new opportunities to prove my indispensability. New chances to watch her work, to make her laugh, to slowly, carefully chip away at those walls she'd built around herself.
I'd staged this morning's helplessness to draw her in. But now, God help me, I was genuinely helpless. Completely at the mercy of a woman who counted cracks in plaster and made restoration sound like poetry.
And I'd never been happier to admit defeat.
✨ He thought he was pretending. He was wrong.
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Tomorrow on Substack:
📍 Chapter 11 — Back in Margot’s POV.
One crumbling staircase, two personal boundaries ignored, and a very unexpected dinner guest.
She came here to save a house.
He’s hoping she’ll stay to ruin his life—in the best possible way.
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