Читать книгу The Governess and the Earl - Ann Lethbridge - Страница 6

HER stiff demeanour reproved him. Perhaps greeting her half-dressed had been a bad idea, but he’d been in the middle of convincing Jonathon to eat.

The real puzzle was why, when she’d walked into his study, had he experienced a rampant surge of desire?

Hair the colour of wheat in late summer and eyes of celestial blue were common enough. Nor was she exceptionally pretty. Her sharp little nose gave her face an inquisitive bent. A you-can’t-hide-anything-from-me face.

Yet all the time she talked he couldn’t stop looking at her full lower lip. A mouth that spouted practical governess things had no right to make a man think of kisses. The tilt of her head when she pronounced her opinion—a very decided opinion for a woman who could not yet have reached her thirtieth birthday—made her oddly fascinating.

But it was her eyes that drew his gaze over and over again. Intelligent, far-seeing eyes. When untroubled, they deepened to the blue of a calm sea. Disturb the surface and they glittered like sapphires in sunlight.

She intrigued him. Such interest hadn’t been fired by any woman for years. It was not a good thing. He should give her a month’s wages and let her go. Women had caused nothing but trouble in his life … misery.

He gave her a sidelong glance as they walked side by side to the dining room. She looked impassive, but her inner disquiet washed up against him like gentle surf on a shallow beach: eddies of unquiet water beneath a calm steady rhythm.

She hid her nervousness, but not well enough to fool him.

He made her afraid. And why would he care? As long as she managed Jonathon satisfactorily he had no need to see her at all. Indeed, having sworn off all female company since Maria’s death, why did he now find himself leading this one to his dinner table?

Because there was more to her than met the eye. He needed to uncover her secrets before entrusting her with his son.

They entered the dining room, where they found Trenton waiting. As instructed, the butler had set two places opposite each other at one end of the long formal table. The butler had suggested the breakfast room, a smaller, less intimidating space. Coward that he was, Brand had discarded it as too intimate, too cosy. He did not want physical closeness with this woman. He merely wanted his curiosity satisfied.

His body responded instantly to the thought of another kind of satisfaction this woman.

He really should have had a tray sent to her room.

He helped her into her seat. She accomplished the manoeuvre with grace and an ingrained pride one didn’t expect in a governess. He’d always thought them meek little things, all fluttering handkerchiefs and apologies.

When Brand was seated, Trenton poured them each a glass of wine, set the first course on the table and withdrew.

Brand raised his glass. ‘To my son’s success.’

She acknowledged the toast with an inclination of her head. ‘To Jonathon.’ She sipped the wine. The ruby liquid stained her delectable lips, making him want to lick them clean.

Years of deprivation were taking their toll, he supposed, though he had never been bothered much before. He shifted in his seat, seeking a more comfortable position.

Her lashes lifted, and he found those blue eyes studying him warily.

‘What did you want to ask me, Mrs Drake?’

Shadows clouded her gaze while she apparently considered the risk. His anticipation was heightened as she inhaled a breath, her high breasts lifting deliciously beneath the drab brown gown. His body tightened.

‘I couldn’t help but notice your son is so very fair.’

‘While I am as dark as a gipsy.’ A harsh laugh broke free at her clumsy attempt to pry. ‘He has his mother’s looks. A constant reminder, you might say.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘Don’t be. I’m not.’

Shock flittered across her face, as he’d intended. She wouldn’t go there again.

He placed slices of roast beef on her plate, then added some buttered parsnips and aspic.

He passed her the gravy boat. ‘You didn’t stay with the Blackstones very long, I notice?’

A slight hesitation stilled her hand, then she poured gravy on her meat. ‘We had a difference of opinion.’ She cut the meat into small pieces. ‘About my responsibilities.’

He cocked his head on one side. ‘Is it not for the employer to choose?’

A delicate colour washed her cheekbones. She shifted slightly. ‘Not if the employer is wrong.’

‘You have strong opinions on this matter?’

‘I do.’

‘It does you credit.’ Her quick glance suggested she didn’t believe him, nor did she offer further explanation. No matter. Eventually she would be an open book.

She popped a small piece of meat in her mouth. A look of enjoyment crossed her face. No meat at Mrs Blackstone’s table? The thought of her being provided with inadequate sustenance brought forth unexpected anger. He kept his expression mild while she chewed and swallowed. He found himself watching the movement of her elegant throat, noticing the pulse-beat in its hollow—a strong beat he could almost hear.

‘I hope will find something of interest at Merrivale to occupy your free hours, Mrs Drake. The nearest town is four miles away.’

‘I have heard much about the beauty of the moors. I shall enjoy exploring them.’

‘If you value your safety, you will stay close to the house.’

‘I will consider your advice.’

‘I do not say it merely as advice.’

She bridled. ‘A command?’

‘A warning.’

Blast her, she looked unconvinced. Women like her—independent, free-thinking women—required explanations. ‘Our weather is unpredictable. When storms arise on the moors there is very little shelter. You will heed me in this. I have no wish to comb the countryside for a woman without the sense of even a peahen.’

She glared at him.

‘Nor,’ he continued, ‘will I endanger the men of my estate in undertaking a search.’

Eyes wide, she absorbed this statement. ‘As you wish.’

Was this the sort of difference of opinion she’d had with her previous employer? If so, the Blackstones had missed the fact that Mrs Drake hated to inconvenience others. A necessary attribute in a governess, he assumed.

‘I presume there is a village nearby?’ she asked.

‘Hutton-Le-Hole. It boasts an inn and a haberdasher.’

‘And a hostelry with a carriage for hire? In case I should need to visit York?’

It was wrong to expect a young woman to live in complete isolation. Maria had hated it. But the thought of Mrs Drake coming and going at will clenched his gut.

‘If needed, you may request use of my carriage.’ A way to keep her under his eye.

Trenton removed the covers, then returned with dessert.

‘I hope you don’t mind if we have what I call a country dinner, Mrs Drake?’ Brand asked. ‘I don’t find the need for several courses.’

‘I have eaten my fill,’ she said, her plate clean, her expression contented. Her look was of the sated kind, and very sensual.

He’d like to see her expression after lovemaking if she looked this tempting after a good meal. His body hardened as his mind’s eye filled with luscious images of pale limbs and long blonde hair.

He gritted his teeth. What he had intended as pleasant conversation with an intelligent woman, and perhaps the seduction of information, was turning into a test of his control. And she had told him very little. He’d allowed her to sidestep his questions for the enjoyment of watching her eat.

‘You will try dessert or risk disappointing Cook,’ he said.

‘I shouldn’t,’ she said.

He helped her to some blancmange. ‘Why on earth not?’ He poured himself another glass of wine.

‘Will you not join me?’ She delicately swallowed a spoonful of the sweet pudding.

‘I helped Jonathon eat his earlier,’ he admitted, dragging his gaze from her throat to her watchful face. ‘He likes it with plum jam, and got more on me than he did in his mouth.’

An odd expression crossed her face. Surprise? More disapproval?

‘You think it wrong for a father to feed his child?’

‘I admire your devotion.’

Her demeanour, her uncomfortable expression, said otherwise. ‘He hasn’t been eating well since his nurse left.’ Hell. Why explain? He answered to no one.

She put her spoon down in her empty bowl. ‘Might it have been wise to keep her until he was comfortable with a replacement?’

The dry fear rising to choke him had his fingers clenching around his glass. ‘Not at all.’ The words rasped in his throat.

‘I see.’

She saw only what rumour had painted on his canvass. Let her believe what she liked. He took a deep draught of his wine and set down his glass. ‘If you are finished, we will adjourn to the drawing room.’

A crease formed between her brows. An urge to soothe it away had him reeling.

‘I thank you for dinner,’ she said, ‘but I fear I am tired from the journey. And besides …’

What new blade would her tongue wield? Fascinated, he waited.

Her gaze slid to a point over his shoulder, then came back to rest on his face. ‘In future I will either take my meals in the schoolroom, with Lord Jonathon, or in my chamber.’

A slow burn rose up his neck. A set-down, by God. ‘Then I will bid you goodnight.’

She rose and headed for the door. He leaned his head against the chair-back and watched the sway of her skirts. Sensual, enticing—and out of bounds.

He swallowed a groan of frustration.

At the door, she turned. ‘I notice a footman stands in the corridor outside Jonathon’s room. Does he stay there all night?’

The hair on the back of his neck rose. ‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

He straightened. Gazed at her. She looked innocent enough. ‘A simple precaution, Mrs Drake. Goodnight.’

She bobbed a curtsey. ‘Goodnight, my lord.’

She went out and closed the door.

Brand heaved a sigh. The time had passed quickly in her company. Too quickly. The rest of the night loomed long and empty.

He got up and headed for his study. Hopefully his accounts would keep his mind off the lovely but untouchable Mrs Drake.

Two rooms formed Sarah’s new domain as governess. The schoolroom, containing desks and shelves of books, and, adjacent to it, a small parlour where meals were served to student and teacher in the day. That room was also assigned as her private sitting room at lessons’ end. A typical arrangement in most noble households.

When Sarah entered the parlour at seven the next morning, she discovered not only her charge, sitting on a pile of books at the breakfast table, but also his father with a blob of porridge on his cheek and a harried look on his face.

An elderly gentleman hovered beside the sideboard.

‘Good morning,’ Sarah said. ‘Am I late?’

Lord Ralston glanced up like a drowning man hoping for rescue. ‘Not at all. Jonathon is an early riser.’ He tousled the boy’s hair. ‘Isn’t he, Wister?’