Page 66 of The Governess and the Rogue

“Alive and returning to Somerset? To farm, I daresay. How excessively exciting.”

“Some might say you’ve had enough excitement.”

“Some don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“You crave more of it?” Bea flourished her hand. “More danger? More death on the battlefields of far-off lands?”

“I enjoy feeling alive,” Jack said. “Don’t you?”

“I am alive,” she replied. “Enjoyment isn’t guaranteed.”

“So you’ve said. You do what you must to survive. This included.”

This.

Her throat tightened. She supposed it had been about survival. At least, initially. That’s why she’d agreed to his proposition, to save herself from the ignominy of being sacked mid-voyage and left destitute—or worse. But there had been more to it even then. Bea wasn’t too proud to admit it, if only to herself.

Jack Beresford was, and would always be, a hero in her eyes.

He was the only person in memory who had ever come to Bea’s rescue. The only one who’d willingly stood between her and the harsh forces of the world that had been chipping away at her defenses, day by day and year by year, since she’d first struck out on her own at the age of seventeen.

No one else had ever defended her. Had ever seen to her comforts, or cared a single jot if she was too cold.

That there had been a time limit on it all didn’t negate what it meant to her.

“I daresay you think it unwise of me to have agreed to such a ruse,” she said. “The risk is great. More so for me than it is for you.”

“But you took it anyway,” Jack said. “Why?”

Bea didn’t have to search her mind for the answer. It was staring her straight in the face. “Perhaps,” she said, “you and I aren’t so very different after all.”

* * *

Jack uttered a dry chuckle. Her assertion was comical on its surface. And yet… She wasn’t entirely wrong. “No,” he acknowledged. “We’re not, are we?”

“Rather strange,” she said.

He regarded her in the morning sunlight that filtered through the trees. “Rather nice, actually.”

A delicate blush seeped into Bea’s cheeks. She was wearing the shawl he’d given her. It softened her appearance. And there was something about her hair too. It wasn’t in its usual severe coil of tightly secured plaits. It was in a loose knot at her nape, with stray tendrils left to frame her face. Sitting beside him, here at Beasley, in the clear light that glittered off the trickling stream⁠—

She looked beautiful.

She was beautiful.

After his interview with James last night, Jack had lain awake in his room for hours, thinking about her. He’d imagined her at his side during the hectic week to come, meeting his family, and accompanying him to the ball. He was used to having her with him, as his ally and friend. She made him feel strong. Capable. As though he had something worthwhile to stand for. To fight for.

But she hadn’t agreed to any of this.

The swell of her full skirts was brushing up against his leg. He took a fold of the worn gray wool between his fingers. It wasn’t the same as taking her hand. Certainly not the same as kissing her. But it was better than nothing.

“Forgive my complaining,” he said. “I rarely get maudlin.”

“Not at all,” Bea said. “You’ve certainly heard me complaining about my situation enough.”

“Mine isn’t nearly so dire—except to my pride.”

“Yes, well… families can be difficult,” she said. “Or so I’ve observed during my years as a governess. I expect it’s different if the family is your own.”