Page 32 of The Lady’s Deception

Her demeanor changed instantly, although not for the better. She jerked her head in a single nod that made the bedraggled feathers atop her hat sag lower.

“My sisters and I are most pleased—”

She spoke over him in a clipped voice. “I am most severely displeased, Mr. Burke.”

Though he knew she had cause, the strength of her reaction took him aback. “I apologize for missing our meeting, ma’am, but I—”

“Without even the courtesy of a note informing me you’d filled the post. And with whom, sir! Why, when I first saw her, I took her for a scullery maid, and even then, I could scarce believe my eyes. To entrust your dear sisters to someone so slatternly and neglectful of her duties?”

“You cannot mean Miss—”

“Then, to hear your sisters address her as Miss—”

“Gorse.” They spoke the name together, her voice sharp with disgust, his uplifted on a questioning note.

Her lips, her entire face, pursed. “Wherever did you find such a person, Mr. Burke?”

It behooved a barrister to be skilled at disguising his surprise. He managed to keep his reply between his teeth until he could speak it with the necessary detachment. “I regret most sincerely that I was not in touch sooner about the matter. Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Fitzhugh.”

His unwillingness to explain only increased her affront. She stiffened, setting the feathers in motion once more. “Well!”

But Paris remained unmoved, though his thoughts were spinning. “Good day, ma’am.” This time, he lifted his hat, and the rain that had collected on the brim spilled between them, spattering her skirts. She fixed him with a glare that conveyed without question her opinion of him. Then again, who could approve of the sort of man capable of hiring a perfect stranger off the streets of Dublin to serve as governess to his sisters?

As she turned and marched away, he bit his lip to quell the laughter determined to rise in his chest. If that laugh escaped, it would sound mad enough.

Christ above. He’d wondered at Mrs. Fitzhugh, sending him a governess with so little experience. Sending the woman alone to meet him in a part of town where the women who walked unaccompanied were generally members of quite another profession. But he’d tucked his concerns away behind the knowledge of Mrs. Fitzhugh’s sterling reputation. Behind his own selfish needs.

When he finally succeeded in swallowing the laugh once and for all, it turned into something more akin to a growl. He’d suspected Rosamund of not telling the entire truth. But this? This chance meeting with Mrs. Fitzhugh was proof of the extent to which he had been duped. As soon as he reached Merrion Square, he ought to summon the demon that had been prowling about the corners of his mind all day and dispel it. Dismiss her.

But hardly had he turned in the direction of home when he caught a glimpse of several pairs of ladies’ shoes in the window of the cobbler’s shop across the way. His mind was quick to conjure the memory of Rosamund’s delicate slipper, ruined beyond repair by a desperate journey.

Where had she come from if not Mrs. Fitzhugh’s agency? Why had she been at King’s Inns Quay? She’d said she was looking for him, hadn’t she? Certainly she’d said she was a governess…

Three days had made his memory of that evening no clearer. Was it possible he had assumed…? And she, fleeing something—no, someone—had let him?

People often misunderstood the law as a search for truth. But any barrister worth his salt knew that the truth was sometimes an inconvenience. Less likely to ensure justice than a story, carefully constructed and conveyed. A lie, as laypeople were wont to call it.

In a courtroom, one side put together the pieces of a broken vase in a way that made it look whole and appealing, all the while hoping it wouldn’t leak. The other side held it up to the light to reveal its cracks.

As the bustle of Grafton Street flowed around him, he stood, savoring the remembered taste of Rosamund’s lips, despite his best intentions, and trying to decide which side he was on.

Chapter 12

The morning after the kiss, Rosamund woke with a weight on her chest. Embarrassment at her wanton behavior like a hot stone pressing against her heart, like a—

Eileen stretched, lifting herself from Rosamund’s breastbone and lightly touching her paw to Rosamund’s chin.

No. No, she wasn’t embarrassed. She tested the thought as the kitten stretched, one soft paw chasing the smile that settled over her lips. Well, maybe a little embarrassed. But not sorry. Why should she be? Why shouldn’t she like Paris Burke? He was witty and passionate about his work and easy-going with his sisters and—

That unaccustomed spasm of defiance gave way almost immediately to a more familiar emotion: doubt. He used his wit and his work and his careless manner to hold himself apart from everyone. Had she really let herself imagine that he would let down his guard if she touched her lips to his? And why in heaven’s name did she care if he did? Anything might be hiding behind his handsome, sardonic mask.

Worse yet, perhaps nothing hid behind it. Maybe that was simply who he was.

A shaky breath left her. Eileen, who liked neither the movement of Rosamund’s chest beneath her nor the ruffling of her fur, jumped to the floor.

The fact of the matter was, Rosamund did care. For Daphne and Bell, who were bright and eager students—though surely she had learned more from them than the other way around. And for their brother, who intrigued her and challenged her and made her want to kiss him again.

He ought to dismiss her for her spectacular errors in judgment. But she didn’t think he would. Partly because he didn’t seem the sort who relished going to the trouble of dismissing servants. And partly because she suspected he liked having her there—and not just because it relieved him of caring for his sisters. Despite her inexperience, she felt certain his had not been the kiss of an indifferent man.