Page 22 of Vanquishing the Viscount

She gave a little shrug. “I believe I can deal with Mr. Charles. He was just teasing me.”

“We both know what he is. You heard it for yourself that evening his papa rang a peal over him. Don’t let him take advantage of your inexperience.”

Did that sound pompous?

Yes. It did.

She said tartly, “You’re very liberal with your advice, my lord.”

“Please, call me James, or Tidworth if you prefer.” There was too much sarcasm in the way she said my lord.

“I know my place, my lord.”

Clearly, this wasn’t going to be easy.

“Forgive me,” he said. “But going on past evidence, it seems you do not. However, I didn’t come here to cross swords with you. I came to make amends.”

She turned and looked up at him, surprised. “To me? I thought you came to see Charles.”

“His father, actually. But I was hoping to snatch a few moments alone with you. I’ve been in an agony of guilt since last Saturday. The way I accused you was unforgivable. I pray I might be forgiven.”

Her eyes locked with his, and he couldn’t help but notice how brightly the golden irises glistened, and how long her dark eyelashes were.

She bit her lip and said slowly, “There is nothing to forgive. I now know what I did to you when first we met and can only say how sorry I am for being so indomitable about your injury. It is I who should ask to be pardoned, not you.”

He blinked at her, then looked down at the dusty toes of his riding boots, awash in a mixed knot of emotion. She knew about Belinda. Charles must have told her.

Probably for the best it was out in the open, even if he didn’t like the idea of his friend sharing his personal troubles with strangers. A governess, at that.

Though she’d said she came from an ancient noble family. No doubt true. He could see it in her manners, her looks, and the way she held herself. It would be a crime if Charles decided to seduce her.

The idea of any man seducing her threatened to send his thoughts galloping off in completely the wrong direction. He couldn’t help but flush as he said, “You are forgiven, Miss Hibbert, on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“That you must say you forgive me, and agree we’ll say no more about it. Let’s turn a new page, and try to be friends.”

She nodded, and smiled at him, unleashing an intriguing warmth in his gut. That smile…those lips…

“Is— Er, is this your sketchbook I’m carrying?”

He sounded like a stammering idiot. What had happened to that sangfroid?

She nodded. “It is.”

“May I?”

He started leafing through her sketches, which mostly consisted of busts of the children and architectural details of Figheldene Hall. He was stunned at her skill. Having a modicum of artistic talent himself, he readily appreciated the abilities of others.

Toward the back of the book, he came upon a very detailed sketch of a rambling Tudor brick-built pile. “What place is this?” he queried.

Her shoulders sank, and her voice sounded strained as she replied, “That’s my home.”

“It’s a splendid drawing,” he said heartily. “And a delightful building. I’ve always much admired those tall red-brick chimneys that look as if they are twisted.”

She turned away from him and gazed down at the rippling water of the pond. Had he said something wrong? Just when they were getting on so famously.

“And the crenellations running along below the roof are quite charming,” he continued, desperate to see her smile again. “You have leaded lights, like here at Figheldene. Modern fashion is all very well, but there’s a lot to be said for the tastes of our ancestors, don’t you think?”