Page 19 of The Lady’s Deception

Her lips parted, a question clearly poised on their soft curves. But she merely said, “Yes, sir. Good night.” And with a shallow curtsy, she was gone.

As soon as the door shut behind her, he flung himself into the chair she had abandoned and was rewarded with a sharp jab to the ribs. Muttering an oath under his breath, he groped beneath his arm for the object that had attacked him: the corner of a book. When she’d risen, the slim folio of botanical prints had slid into the groove between the arm of the chair and the seat and lodged there, awaiting its victim.

He tugged it free and flicked his hand to toss the book onto the table. Halfway through the motion, however, he paused, then slapped the volume onto his knee where it wobbled for a moment before coming to rest.

Damn, but he was tempted to reach for that decanter now, though he was torn between drinking from it and smashing it to pieces. Instead, he leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

Despite his exhaustion, sleep was no closer than it had been an hour ago.

With a sigh, part weary resignation, part bitter laugh, he opened the book and began to flip idly through the collection of pictures. Where a boy had once seen fantastic landscapes, and a randy young man had once discovered the rounded swell of a woman’s breast, or the pouting curve of her lips, he now saw nothing but flowers, leaves, and vines. And yet there was still more than enough in its pages to call Rosamund to mind. Her soft blue eyes in the petals of one bloom, her barbed words in the thorns of another.

What did he care whether she mourned her father or feared her brother or missed her childhood home? Whether her head still ached from Bell’s first-ever strike, or whether Molly had stuffed that same head with nonsense about him?

His absolute and only concern was whether Miss Gorse was a suitable governess for his sisters. And if his past record was anything to judge by, his concern was likely to be both warranted and short-lived. He would wonder how things were getting on, mean to inquire, let himself be distracted from his responsibilities, and that would be the end of it. In a matter of months, she would be gone. If she didn’t trust him enough to lay her life’s story at his feet, then she was…wise.

And surely wisdom was a desirable quality for a governess to possess.

Chapter 8

Rosamund was an eejit, just as Daphne had said.

How else to explain what she’d revealed to Paris Burke? She’d mentioned her brother. She’d named the county in which she’d lived. How easily he could use that information against her. And if he discovered the truth, would he send her away? Back to Charles? Back to Lord Dashfort?

How else to explain lying awake until nearly dawn, listening for his footsteps on the stairs, the creak of the door to the bedchamber adjacent to hers, the squeak of his bedstead as he lay down upon it? Waiting and wondering and worrying, until every inch of her ached with awareness of how near he was. Not because she feared having him so close, but because she…oh. Oh, dear. Because she didn’t.

And how else to explain sleeping through the start of lessons?

She hadn’t known the exact hour, of course, until she’d gone up to the attic, walked across the makeshift schoolroom, and peered through the dirty window at the distant clock. But she could tell from the expressions on Daphne’s and Bell’s faces that she was late.

When she turned away from the window, Bell glanced furtively at the plaster at her temple and then to the floor. Daphne slid a book from the stack on her desk and pretended to be absorbed in it.

No use in asking herself how a proper governess would handle such a situation. A proper governess wouldn’t have overslept. “Thank you for waiting patiently,” she said. “Now, if you’ll—”

“Paris told us to.” Daphne explained, a petulant note in her voice.

“You—you’ve seen your brother this morning?” Was he not still asleep?

Bell nodded. “At breakfast.”

“He said he had an appointment.” Was it her imagination, or did Daphne sound unhappy?

“And that we were to let you sleep as long as you needed. On account of—of—” Bell’s gaze flicked once more to Rosamund’s brow.

Automatically she shot up a hand to hide the injury from prying eyes, flinching when she brushed against the tender spot. Paris’s touch had been infinitely gentler. She hardly knew what to make of such kindness. It would be unwise to let herself need it. “I appreciate your solicitude, and his, but I’m perfectly fine.”

The words were very nearly true. The bleeding had stopped, though she hadn’t taken the time to remove the court-plaster. The bruise looked a good deal worse than it felt. Even her headache was mostly gone, and what lingered could not entirely be attributed to a wayward cricket ball.

Clearing her throat, she worked up the courage to ask the question she’d been unable to give voice to last night. “He was not unduly harsh when he reprimanded you?”

“Reprimanded us?” Daphne screwed up her face in obvious puzzlement.

“You mean about yesterday?” Bell shook her head. “Paris didn’t scold us, miss.” Tension she hadn’t known she was holding eased from Rosamund’s shoulders. “He just reminded us that all cricket players, whether batting, fielding—”

“Or bowling,” Daphne added with a significant look.

“—must keep their eye on the ball.” Bell glanced at Daphne. “Always.”

Focus. Singleness of purpose. Excellent advice. She would do well to take it, rather than allow herself to be distracted by an untoward interest in…people and matters that were none of her concern. If Mr. Burke chose to discipline his sisters in a manner altogether different from her own brother, that was certainly his prerogative. And if he chose to treat all the members of his household with a surprising degree of kindness and generosity, it was still no excuse for her to slacken in her duty. “We will begin this morning with mathematics,” she said in her best governess voice. “If you would kindly tell me where you left off in your lessons…”