The Governess's Secret Baby

Chapter Five (#uf5b15403-1535-5ccd-bf52-6d0179233e7b)

Grace’s heart almost seized in her chest. She twisted to look over her shoulder, then scrambled to her feet to face the Marquess, who filled the open doorway. How long had he been there? What had he heard? Her thrill at hearing Clara speak faded, to be replaced by anxiety. She could barely remember what she had said out loud and what she had thought.

‘I did not see you there,’ she said.

‘Evidently.’

Her heart began to pound as he continued to stare at her, frowning.

‘You shall have a fire up here tomorrow and Mrs Sharp will show you where there is furniture and so forth in storage. You may make use of anything you need to make these rooms comfortable for you and for Clara.’

He does not seem to think of Clara as an unwanted burden. He accepts her as though she is truly his niece.

‘Thank you, my lord.’

He looked at Clara and his expression softened. ‘You are a clever girl, saying my name. Will you say it again? For me?’

‘Unc’ Nannal,’ Clara whispered.

Ravenwell beamed. ‘Well done, poppet. Now, where’s my goodnight kiss?

Clara toddled over to the Marquess, her arms stretched high, and he swung her aloft, kissing her soundly on her cheek. Her arms wrapped around his neck and she kissed him twice, firstly on his left cheek and then—crooning softly and chubby fingers stroking—she kissed him on his scarred cheek. Ravenwell’s gaze flicked to Grace and then away. He turned from her, Clara still in his arms.

‘Come.’ His voice was gruff. ‘Let Uncle Nathaniel see your new bedchamber.’

He strode from the room, leaving Grace to ponder that scene. She had thought Clara was scared of her uncle but—picturing again her first meeting with Clara, she now wondered if her daughter’s reluctance as she bumped down the stairs and dragged her feet across the hall was not wariness of the Marquess, but of Grace. The stranger.

That will teach me not to make assumptions.

A chastened Grace hurried from the room to join Ravenwell and Clara in the child’s bedchamber, which adjoined Grace’s.

Grace froze by the door. Here, a fire had been lit—presumably by the elusive Alice—and the room had taken on a warm glow. A rug lay before the fire and there, stretched full length, was Brack. He lifted his head to contemplate Grace and his tail thumped gently on the floor. Twice.

‘I do not think...’

Grace’s objection drifted into silence as Clara squirmed in her uncle’s arms.

‘Brack! Brack!’

The Marquess placed her on the floor and, squealing, she rushed over to the dog and launched herself on top of him, wrapping her arms around his neck as his tail continued to wag.

Grace watched, open-mouthed.

‘You do not think...?’ Ravenwell’s voice had a teasing note she had not heard before.

‘It does not matter. Clara is clearly fond of Brack.’

‘And she is not scared of him, despite his size.’

Grace bristled at his emphasis on she. ‘No, but I did not know he was friendly when I first saw him.’

‘That is true. And as you said earlier, you will soon become accustomed to the dogs.’

‘I will try.’

Watching Clara with Brack warmed Grace’s heart and she could not help smiling at the sight. She turned to the Marquess to comment on Clara’s delight but, before she could speak, the good humour leached from Ravenwell’s expression and he averted his face. It was only a fractional movement, but she did not miss it.

‘Come, Brack.’

He stalked from the room.

* * *

Nathaniel sought the sanctuary of his book room. He stood by his desk, staring unseeingly at the surface, tracing with his forefinger the pits and scratches that had accumulated over the years, pondering his gut reaction to Miss Bertram.

Specifically, to Miss Bertram’s smile.

Clara needed a governess. That was an irrefutable fact.

Grace Bertram had appeared on his doorstep at a time he was beginning to fear he would never find anyone willing to move to Shiverstone Hall and care for his niece. The alternative—moving back to Ravenwell Manor—had begun to haunt him. So, despite his reservations, he had offered Miss Bertram the post, secured her behind a door marked Employee in his mind and banished any thoughts of her as a female. She was as welcome or as unwelcome as any woman taking that post. Her looks were...must be...immaterial.

And then she had smiled. And the memories had swarmed up from the depths of his mind, overwhelming him with images from his past: the flirtations, the fun, the laughter.

Memories of how life had used to be.

Unwanted memories of pretty girls who would smile spontaneously at him.

An aggravating reminder of his world before he chose this reclusive life.

With a muttered curse, Nathaniel hauled his chair from under his desk, sat down and pulled a ledger towards him. He flipped it open and forcibly applied his mind to business until it was time to dress for dinner.

He always dined at six and he always—despite dining alone—dressed for dinner. It was the one custom he continued from his former life, allowing him the illusion he was still a gentleman. He contemplated his appearance in the mirror as he wound his neckcloth around his neck and tied it in a neat knot. Would Miss Bertram think he made this effort on her behalf?

And if she does, why should it matter? You are not answerable to her. You are answerable to no one.

The pit of his stomach tangled into knots as the evening ahead stretched before him. Something about the thought of sitting at the table with her, eating and talking, fuelled his vulnerability. But he was sure, once the meal was underway, those knots would untangle. Miss Bertram had already demonstrated a welcome lack of disgust at his scars and that would help him become less self-conscious.

And those memories that glorious smile of hers had awoken? They were just that. Memories. They could wield no power over him as long as he banished them from his mind.

He tugged a comb through the knots in his hair—the winds out on the fells had, as usual, played havoc with it. Should he ask Sharp to cut it? He ran his hand over the side of his face, feeling the now-familiar roughness, as though twists of rope lay beneath the surface. His hair helped to hide the worst of the ravages the fire had wrought, particularly into the hairline where some of his hair had not grown back, but it could not completely conceal it, so it served little purpose.

The sound of his bedchamber door opening jolted him from his musings.

‘Sorry, milord,’ Sharp said. ‘I thought, with the time...’

‘No, do not apologise,’ Nathaniel said. ‘I am late, but I am going down now, so you may continue.’

It was Sharp’s custom to tidy Nathaniel’s bedchamber and bank up the fire when Nathaniel went downstairs to eat his dinner.