Chapter 7

Ophelia’s gaze swept across the room, but there was no sign of this so-called physician.

Just as she was about to ask where he was, another servant hurried in.

‘Lord Sergei, the doctor has just arrived.’

Her father’s grin widened. ‘Lia, go welcome your new tutor.’

Ophelia stared at him.

Was this man a doctor or a magician?

He’d clearly cast some spell on her father.

Since when did a lady of her rank personally greet a guest at the door?

But Lord Sergei had spoken.

Which meant she had no choice.

Suppressing an irritated sigh, Ophelia turned on her heel and followed the servant outside.

Elise was optimistic. ‘Lady Ophelia, if Lord Sergei values this physician so highly, he must be truly remarkable! This time, you’ll surely be cured.’

Ophelia wasn’t convinced.

They crossed the courtyard and stepped into the front garden of Château de Volkov.

A breeze rustled through the silver birches, the scent of autumn clinging to the air.

Then, the servant stopped abruptly.

Ophelia followed his gaze.

There, standing beneath the slender branches of a silver birch, was a man dressed in white.

The dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting flickering shadows across his figure.

He held himself with an effortless grace, a faint smile playing at his lips as he looked at her.

For a split second, Ophelia felt the world tilt.

The dream.

Sixteen years. The same recurring dream.

A man in white, dark hair flowing in the wind, standing alone amidst a flurry of snowflakes—each one outshone by the brilliance of his presence.

She couldn’t remember the faces in that dream, but this man—this one standing under the birch tree—somehow reminded her of it.

What was it about him?

Elise’s sharp intake of breath jolted Ophelia back to reality.

She halted, narrowing her eyes at the man her father had placed so much faith in.

The distance made it difficult to see his face clearly, but Ophelia had spent years around the musicians of Nocturne, honing an instinct for artistry and beauty.

And even from here, she could tell—this doctor’s looks put Lucian’s to shame.

The man stepped forward, bowing with effortless elegance. ‘Gideon Garnett, at your service, Lady Ophelia.’

Ophelia was supposed to return the courtesy.

But she didn’t.

She was staring at him—no, through him.

The damn dream lingered at the edges of her mind, something she couldn’t quite grasp.

It wasn’t until Elise nudged her, whispering urgently, that Ophelia blinked back to the present.

She cleared her throat. ‘Lift your head. Let me have a proper look at you.’

Elise choked on air. The servants stiffened. One of them went visibly pale.

Ophelia realised, belatedly, how incredibly rude that must have sounded.

But Gideon, unfazed, complied.

His head tilted up, revealing a face so striking that, for a brief moment, even the wind seemed to pause.

He smiled, the corner of his lips curving just slightly—calm, composed, entirely in control.

Ophelia had been right. He was breathtaking.

A servant hurriedly leaned in, voice lowered in a frantic whisper. ‘Lady Ophelia, Lord Sergei instructed you to welcome Dr Garnett.’ He emphasised the title.

Doctor Garnett.

Ophelia’s eyes gleamed with defiance as she appraised the man standing before her.

Her father wanted this stranger as her tutor? Ridiculous.

‘What exactly do you think you can teach me?’ she asked, arching a delicate brow.

At sixteen, Ophelia should have been studying abroad, attending one of Europe’s most prestigious private schools.

But her health had kept her in Valdoria.

That, and the incident at the school—one her mother still refused to speak of.

Not that it had stopped her education.

She had private tutors in music, literature, history, languages, diplomacy, court policies, fashion, etiquette—the full list of skills required of a marquess’s daughter.

She wasn’t a prodigy in any of them, but she knew enough.

And now her father was forcing yet another tutor on her? Not if she had anything to do with it.

A shrewd gleam entered her eyes.

If she played this right, she could send him packing before the day was over.

She let her voice turn spoiled, bratty, deliberately insufferable. ‘Well? Speak up, Dr Garnett. What makes you think you have anything to offer me?’

Ophelia had expected outrage. Maybe even a flash of arrogance.

Any man with a reputation like his would surely have an ego to match.

And what better way to send him packing than to prick at that pride?

She thought she’d played the part perfectly—haughty, dismissive, an unbearable little rich girl.

No self-respecting physician would tolerate it.

He’d storm off before sunset, and that would be the end of it.

Except Gideon Garnett didn’t storm off.

He didn’t look insulted. Or annoyed. Or even remotely bothered.

He just looked at her. Calm. Patient. A hint of amusement curling at the edges of his lips, as though he had all the time in the world.

‘Lady Ophelia,’ he said, his voice as smooth as silk, ‘what would you like to learn?’

She blinked.

He wasn’t serious, was he?

Fine. Two could play this game.

‘First aid,’ she said, crossing her arms.

‘Of course. That’s not a problem.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Stream of consciousness writing.’

A pause. Then, without missing a beat—‘Certainly.’

Her fingers tightened around the folds of her dress. ‘Street photography.’

‘I’m not an expert,’ Gideon admitted, ‘but I know the basics.’

She was running out of ideas. ‘Juggling?’

That damn smile didn’t waver. He didn’t even flinch. Just kept looking at her with the kind of indulgent patience adults reserved for children throwing tantrums.

Heat pricked at her skin.

She was sixteen, not six. She should’ve outgrown childish antics like this.

But she wasn’t about to let him win.

‘Palmistry,’ she tried one last time.

To her surprise, he nodded.

Ophelia frowned. ‘I thought you were a doctor.’

‘I am.’

‘And you read palms?’

‘As well as tarot cards.’

She let out a short, disbelieving laugh. ‘That’s convenient. Sounds like you’re making it up as you go.’

He didn’t respond to that. Just waited.

Ophelia hesitated, then lifted her hand. ‘Alright, then. Let’s see if you actually know what you’re doing.’

Her hand hovered in the air between them, a challenge hanging in the space.