The Governess and the Earl

‘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?’