Читать книгу A Lady's Luck - Ken Casper - Страница 10

It was rare for Devon to be called out of her classroom in the midst of a lesson. She prayed it wasn’t to learn of tragedy. Her mother’s health was fragile, but surely Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin would come in person to inform her if something had befallen Lady Kestler. Could it be about her brother? Nolan had become a mystery to her of late.

“She has a visitor,” Heather whispered, almost in awe, as she looked up from her desk, where she’d been tapping away at her computer keyboard a moment before. “She said for you to go directly in.”

“Who is it?” Another VIP, no doubt. Maybe a Member of Parliament on an inspection tour or dropping off his daughter for the first time.

“You’ll see.”

Devon wondered at her friend’s dramatic secrecy. Judging from the impish grin on her pixie face, the surprise would not be an unpleasant one.

Before approaching the headmistress’s open doorway, however, Devon paused to adjust her frock, to make sure her belt was straight and to smooth out any wrinkles. As a matter of habit she ran her hands through her shoulder-length hair, and only then knocked on the headmistress’s office doorframe and entered.

Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin was standing in the center of the room, talking to a man Devon was sure she’d never seen before. With his back to her, she saw only that he was tall, an inch or two over six feet, with impressively broad shoulders. When he turned it was his face, however, that instantly captured her attention.

He was clean-shaven with even, well-proportioned features, a slightly cleft chin and the hint of a dimple in his right cheek, His full lips had a sensual quality that seemed poised on the brink of a smile.

“Ah, Devon, there you are,” Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin said in a pleasant greeting.

As she drew closer, Devon noticed the man’s eyes were dark blue. They seemed the perfect complement to his tan complexion and medium-brown wavy hair. In fact, everything about him seemed perfect. She understood Heather’s smile now and had to control one of her own.

“Allow me to introduce you,” the headmistress went on. “This is Mr. Brent Preston, the American I mentioned in the staff meeting, who asked to visit our school.”

Devon remembered now. A businessman who’d asked for an appointment because he expected to be transferred to England and was looking for a school to which he could send his young daughters.

“Mr. Preston,” the older woman continued, “may I present the Honorable Devon Hunter.”

It was unusual for Sybil to introduce Devon by her title. Despite the difference in their ages and backgrounds, they were normally on a first-name basis in private. In more formal settings, such as this one, Devon became simply Miss Hunter.

She extended her hand. “Mr. Preston, I’m very pleased to meet you. Welcome to Briar Hills Academy.”

His hand was large, warm and dry. She felt a slight tug as they shook. Or maybe it was her imagination. Pleased as she was to be meeting him, she had to wonder why she was here. Sybil normally handled visitors on her own without involving the teaching staff.

“Mr. Preston is acquainted with your brother,” the headmistress informed her, as if reading her mind.

The mention of Nolan wasn’t as welcome as it might once have been, but Devon did her best not to show it.

“I saw him over the New Year,” Brent said in a deep voice that was distinctively American. She didn’t fancy herself an expert on foreign accents, but she was quite certain his was what was referred to as a Southern drawl. It was fluid and mellifluous. “He had a horse running in the Gulf Classic in Florida.”

Devon tilted her head to one side. “Did he win?”

Brent chuckled softly. “Actually, he lost. By a nose. To my sister.”

“Your sister?”

“She’s a professional jockey.”

This time Devon had to laugh. “I hope he was a good sport about it.”

“A perfect gentleman,” Preston replied, showing even white teeth.

“And these are his daughters,” Sybil said, placing her hands on the shoulders of the two girls. “Rhea and Katie.”

Devon looked from one eight-year-old to the other, then folded her hands casually in front of her.

“Not fair dressing alike, girls,” she said. “One of you could at least spill a bit of your breakfast porridge on your shirtwaist to make it easier.”

The girls giggled.

One asked, “What’s porridge?”

“Oatmeal,” their father answered.

“Yuck—” her sister wrinkled her nose “—I hate oatmeal.”

Devon was keenly aware of the man watching her. She liked the way his daughters looked up at him and how the one on the right—Katie?—placed her hand in his. They clearly adored the man, and he, Devon suspected, doted on them. Seeing happy families always brought bittersweet emotions. Her own father had been anything but sentimental. When he wasn’t criticizing her, the best she could hope for was that he was mute.

“They’ve never been to an English primary school,” Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin explained, “and are interested in seeing how it differs from theirs in America. Since Mr. Preston knows Lord Kestler, I thought perhaps you would like to show them around.”

“I’d be delighted,” Devon replied.

Brent was entranced. The young woman who’d entered the room was nothing short of beautiful, with dignity and charm to match. She had an oval face, cream-white flawless skin, delicately rosy cheeks and coffee-colored eyes that sparkled with intelligence and, he perceived, a hint of mischief.

When they’d been introduced and she’d placed her hand in his, he’d had an instant impulse to raise it to his lips and kiss it. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that way before. It wasn’t, after all, an American custom, and he wasn’t even sure it was an English one, but somehow the intimacy it implied was enormously appealing.

Then he thought about Marti and felt a twinge of guilt. After exchanging a few more words with the headmistress, they left the office. Devon led them around a corner to a newer wing of the building that hadn’t been visible from the front.

“How old are you, girls?” she asked the twins, who were practically skipping along beside her.

“Eight,” Rhea responded.

Devon nodded, then thought a moment. “Your school system in America is different from ours. Let me see. You’re in the third grade. Is that correct?”

Katie nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, ma’am.”

“We start a year earlier than you, so here you would be in the fourth, but I expect what you would be learning would be about the same.”

“Do you teach a particular subject, Miss Hunter?” Brent asked.

“English grammar and reading. At elementary four—your third grade—we’re learning about nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs.”

“We are, too,” Rhea cried out.

“Shh.” Her father put a finger to his lips. “Not so loud. We don’t want to disturb the children in class.”

As they walked the corridors and Devon invited him to peek into classrooms through door windows or stand at the threshold of computer-filled labs, observing young ladies flicking their fingers over keyboards and mice, Brent found himself drawn more and more to the viscount’s younger sister in a way he hadn’t been drawn to a woman in a long time. He asked appropriate questions, all the time trying to figure out how to bring up the one subject that had brought him there. Apollo’s Ice.

She had saved her own classroom until last. When they arrived there, she took them inside and presented them to a group of twenty girls, all of whom were about the twins’ age. She had just completed her introductions when a bell rang out in the hallway.

“Recess.” Devon turned to the twins. “Why don’t you join the girls for their break in the assembly area downstairs—it’s too wet to go outside right now.”

The twins didn’t need a second invitation. They rushed out the door with the other girls and disappeared from sight.

“Do you get to see your brother very often?” Brent asked, using the interruption to change the subject.

“I very rarely go to London,” she replied, “which is where he spends most of his time when he’s not traveling. On the occasional weekend—” she placed the accent on the last syllable of the word “—when I’m able to get home to see my mother in Abbingvale, the timing always seems to be off, and he’s not around.”

“I thought perhaps you shared his love of horses and joined him at races,” Brent observed.

For a moment she glanced at him quizzically, as though she were aware of his hidden agenda, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Indeed I love horses and still ride when I’m home, but for me racing has never been the passion it’s become for him.”

So much for getting information from her about Apollo’s Ice, Brent realized. But his interest by this point was no longer equine based. He reminded himself that his response to her was both natural and, with Marti gone, permissible, which made him wonder how he could find a way to spend more time with this young woman, the Honorable Devon Hunter.

Devon asked him questions about the girls’ school until another bell sounded. The girls filed in, not as loudly as the kids back home probably would have, but with no less enthusiasm. His daughters followed, decidedly more boisterous.

They bounced up to him, faces eager. “The kids want to know if we can come back tomorrow and sit in class with them,” Rhea announced to their father. “They said Miss Hunter is really, really nice.”

Only young children could make friends within a matter of minutes, Brent thought. He was willing to bet it was Rhea who had led the way. Katie wasn’t unfriendly or any less eager to join in groups, but she wasn’t as unconditionally gregarious as her sister. Rhea was impulsive, Katie more reflective. He suspected Katie would prove the stronger personality in the long run.

“It’s not up to me, girls.” He wanted to give both of them a big hug for solving his dilemma. “Perhaps…” He glanced over at Devon.

“We have visitors sit in from time to time,” she said, seemingly as agreeable with the idea as they were. “We must first get permission from the headmistress, of course.”

“Yay! We’re going to school.” They clapped their hands.

“It’s not certain yet, girls,” their father warned.

“There are two extra seats against the back wall,” Devon told them. “You may take those for now and watch, if you like, whilst your father and I confer with Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin.”

While Devon spoke privately with her assistant, Brent reminded the girls to remain quiet in class and to speak only if they were spoken to by the teacher. A minute later, he and Devon left the room as the lesson recommenced.

“Funny,” he said as they walked down the corridor toward the headmistress’s office, “I can’t recall them ever being that enthusiastic about going to school back home.”

Devon laughed. “Foreign intrigue.”

Speaking of foreign intrigue, he was falling under the spell of that laugh and wanted to hear more of it.

“Their mother…” she started tentatively, obviously seeking information. She was probably expecting him to say his wife had decided to stay home, maybe with other children, or that they were divorced.

“She died a few years ago.”

Her shock and discomfort were palpable. “I’m so, so sorry. It must be difficult for them…for you…” Her words trailed off. A moment passed. “What about sleeping arrangements?”

Startled, he glanced over before he realized she’d intended only to change the subject. He hoped she couldn’t read the thought that had instantaneously shot through his head.

“Hotel accommodations,” she clarified, her pretty face tinged with pink. “You’re staying in London, I presume.”

“Oh…um…” He suddenly felt like a clumsy teenager. “I didn’t know how late we’d be finishing up here and figured this would be a good chance to see Oxford, so I booked us into the Sword and Shield for the night.”

“Good choice,” she said with a nod. “Many parents visiting their children stay there. It’s not especially grand, but it’s convenient and I’m told quite comfortable.”

“If you don’t already have plans, Miss Hunter,” Brent said, as they drew closer to the headmistress’s office, “we’d very much like you to join us for dinner.”