Page 56 of The Governess and the Rogue

“Precisely my point,” James said. “It’s hardly enough time to get to know a person. Not sufficient for marriage.”

“No?”

“And she’s not altogether your type, is she?”

Jack fixed his brother with a warning glare. “What is my type, James?”

James returned Jack’s gaze, undaunted. “You used to prefer them rather less quiet in their allurements.”

Quiet?

Jack was tempted to laugh.

Beatrice Layton was anything but quiet.

She walked ahead of them, arm and arm with Hannah, her spine straight and her slim shoulders squared—unbent, unbroken—despite everything life had thrown at her. Despite what Jack had thrown at her.

Admiration rose in his breast. It was coupled with an unmistakable warmth.

“Perhaps I’ve grown up,” he said.

Chapter Eighteen

It was dark by the time Lord and Lady St. Clare’s lavish traveling coach entered the gates of their vast Somerset estate. Beasley Park, it was called. At one time the childhood home of their mother, it was now the primary residence of the viscount and his family.

Bea had learned much about its history during the long drive to Somerset. Lady St. Clare—or rather, Hannah—had told Bea all. She was a kindly lady, with a gentle aspect and a solicitous manner.

Unlike her husband.

In comparison to the warmth of his wife, Lord St. Clare might have been carved from a block of ice. He said little during the journey, and smiled even less. His expression was closed off. Reflective. As though he were attempting to solve a vexing puzzle. When he wasn’t looking at Jack, he was looking at Bea, the vaguest suggestion of a frown etching his brow.

Bea felt the unhappy weight of his scrutiny too many times to count during their journey. It was an unpleasant reminder of the deception she and Jack were perpetrating.

A deception that had been meant to end hours ago on the Southampton docks.

Bea dared another glance at Jack from beneath her lashes as the coach came to a crunching halt on the estate’s graveled drive. He was on the velvet upholstered seat across from her, his hardened countenance nearly as unreadable as that of his older brother.

His leg was paining him, Bea suspected. And he was angry at having his plans thwarted by his family. Not to mention the fact that, but a few seconds before his brother had appeared on the docks, she’d had the temerity to suggest the ludicrous possibility that they might turn their fake engagement into a real one.

Bea inwardly winced to recall it.

If only she could have a moment to speak with Jack alone, she was certain the two of them could sort everything out. And they must sort things out, and soon, before the situation got any worse.

A footman opened the carriage door. Lord St. Clare descended first so that he could hand his wife down. Jack climbed out after her, ignoring his brother’s offer of help.

A retinue of liveried servants emerged from the house under the command of a stately gentleman who appeared to be the butler. “The bags, Alfred,” he was saying. “And you, Duncan, see to that trunk.”

Amid all this activity, Jack turned and extended his hand to Bea.

Bea took it gratefully, allowing him to assist her down from the carriage. “Jack,” she said under her breath. “What are we going to do?”

“I’m trying to think of something,” he muttered back.

Bea gripped tight to his hand. “Think faster.”

In that same moment, four children of various sizes hurtled from the house, bounding down the torchlit steps and across the drive. There were two boys in short pants and two girls in pinafores and hair ribbons. None appeared to be any older than twelve, and the smallest among them—an auburn-haired little imp—might have been as young as six.

Three large dogs galloped along with them; a wolfhound, and two scruffy coated mongrels of dubious origin. Their jubilant barks intermingled with the children’s equally excited shouts and squeals.