Page 5 of What Lies Beneath

“Harry eat dinner too?” she asked, gazing at her father with eyes of the same strange glinting silver as her grandfather.

Pip’s heart plummeted at the idea of the icy woman sharing a table with them but to his great relief Mrs Harris stepped into the breach.

“It wouldn’t be proper for me to eat with you, Miss Ottilie, but I shall see you again at bedtime. Now you enjoy your time with your father and be a good girl.”

“Yes, Harry,” Tilly said, looking rather crestfallen as she watched Mrs Harris gather up the books they had been reading.

“Say thank you to Mrs Harris, love,” Pip said, determined he behave just as he ought and give the woman no further reason to despise him.

“Thank you, Harry.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Ottilie,” the woman said, giving the girl a warm smile before turning to Pip. “My lord,” she said, her face suddenly devoid of any scrap of warmth, her tone cool.

Pip smiled inwardly, aware he had been dismissed. “Mrs Harris,” he said, inclining his head, as he carried his daughter out of the room.

Chapter 1

Five years later…

It was noted by this correspondent that Lord W has been seen much in the company of Miss P of late. One wonders if bride number four is soon to say yes. One must admire the young lady’s fortitude, for his lordship seems to have a good deal of misfortune with his wives.

―Excerpt of an advert in the Daily London Conversation.

5th August 1850, Montagu House, St James’s, London.

“Check!”

Regina Harris regarded her charge with amusement. The exquisite Miss Ottilie Barrington was as perfect as she was imperious. It was her grandfather’s doing. Well, her looks were his, at least. She had the same fine bone structure and glinting silver eyes as the intimidating Marquess of Montagu, but her temper was all her own. The trouble was that her father spoilt her dreadfully and all Regina’s hard work could only do so much to set her straight. Still…

“That’s not check,” she told the girl placidly.

“Yes, it is!” Tilly objected. “It is, look.”

Biting back a smile, Regina listened to her explain how it was she had all but won. “No, child,” she said, shaking her head. “You are wrong. Figure out why.”

“I am not wrong!” Tilly exclaimed, surging to her feet and looking as though she would upend the board in a fit of pique.

Regina quirked an eyebrow at her. Tilly flushed.

“I beg your pardon, Harry,” she said meekly and sat back down again, studying the board with an expression of intense concentration.

Regina smiled, pleased. Of course it would be better if she did not lose her temper quite so readily, but still, she had reined it in, and that was progress. At eight years old, she was still just a child after all, and Regina did not ascribe to the view that children ought to be seen and not heard. To be fair, neither did Tilly’s father. Though Regina still did not entirely trust the earl, whose beauty, title, and wealth made it all too easy to get whatever he wanted in life, she could not deny the fact he was a doting papa. He never treated his daughter any differently because of her illegitimacy and seemed to feel genuine remorse for the stigma she bore because of his behaviour. It might be too little too late, but she had to admit he was not the vile libertine she had believed him to be upon arriving in Monmouthshire all those years ago.

Five years, she thought, still unable to believe such a vast amount of time had passed. It was so much that she even dared to go out and about in town these days. Except for Cordelia and Wrexham, everyone believed Miss Genevieve Hamilton was dead, and that suited her just fine. She was content in her position, and if she sometimes felt a pang of envy when she looked at the fine ladies who came to visit the earl or his parents when they were staying at Montagu House, well, it was a small price to pay for her freedom and safety.

Smiling as she watched Tilly studying the board with a frown of intense concentration, Regina reached for her teacup and froze with it halfway to her lips, as she noticed the earl watching her. Startled, she did not know what to do for a moment, feeling colour scald her cheeks. Had she done something wrong? Was her hair falling out of its pins? Had she spilled her tea? A quick assessment assured her all was well, but still he gazed at her. Regina looked away, unsettled. Her skin prickled, the sensation that his gaze had touched it physically, like a caress, making her heart do a peculiar leap in her chest.

She told herself sternly to pack it in. Men like the Earl of Ashburton did not find their governesses attractive. Certainly not when they went to so much trouble to look as unappealing as possible. Though that was not as true as it had once been. After so long, Regina felt safer now and had given up using the egg wash to dull her hair. She had even treated herself to a few gowns that fit her properly, though the cut was severe and covered her to her neck. There were no bright colours either, quite inappropriate for her position, but there was a charcoal grey, a dark blue, and a dove grey she saved for special occasions. Today she wore the charcoal grey and felt certain there was nothing about it the earl could find the least bit appealing. As he was in the process of finding a wife, she’d had plenty of opportunity to see the kinds of women he preferred, and she certainly had nothing in common with them. She dismissed the event as being out of character. Probably she had imagined it, and he had been woolgathering and staring into space, not at her at all.

Still, she could not help but look up, studying him as he frowned down at whatever paperwork he was perusing. Lord, but it ought to be against the law for a man to look so beautiful. She could only pity all the young debutantes that would no doubt lose their hearts to him to no avail. Thank heaven she was immune to such nonsense. As she watched, he made a fierce slash with his pen across the page, drawing a line through something, and she wondered what was making him look so tense and unhappy. Finally, he sighed and looked up and Regina stiffened, caught in the act of watching him.

Drat the man.

Returning her attention hurriedly to the chessboard, she scolded herself for a fool. The last thing she needed was for him to believe she had formed a tendre for him. The wretched man had women falling at his feet left and right, and was far too certain of his own appeal. She was not about to let him believe he had made a conquest of her too.

A knock at the door heralded the arrival of a footman.

“A lady is here to see you, my lord.”