Compromising Miss Milton. Michelle Styles

two years ago.’

      ‘Ah, that explains it. I recollect his despairing of his grandsons. Which one are you? The elder one who would not settle or the younger one who went to India?’

      Adam started. Of all the responses, he had not expected that one. His grandfather had been well known once, but his gout had made it difficult for him to go out in the final years. Sometimes, he had spoken querulously about everyone but his immediate family considering him long gone from this world. Had he once long ago met this woman? It would explain the strange air of familiarity. He half-smiled—nothing to do with India and everything to do with Warwickshire and home. ‘How did you know my grandfather?’

      ‘He was a client of my first employer. Years ago. He came to dinner once.’ Miss Milton gave a distinct nod. ‘You have a certain look about your nose and eyes that recalls his features. He, however, was a perfect gentleman.’

      ‘Why did you sit next to my grandfather?’ Adam ignored the gentleman remark. He never thought he’d have occasion to bless the old man, but right now, he blessed his grandfather’s foresight in attending that dinner party.

      ‘They needed a spare woman to make up the dinner party and felt I had the necessary qualifications.’

      ‘Your employer was…’

      ‘His solicitor.’

      ‘Which one of Marsden, Flyte and Wainwright?’ Adam held up his hand, stopping her words. ‘Allow me to guess—Flyte has two little girls. He recently remarried after being widowed, but is reckoned to have an eye for the ladies.’

      Miss Milton drew in her breath sharply and her cheeks flamed. Adam made a mental note to send Mr Flyte’s wandering eye a case of the best port once he reached civilisation.

      ‘The late Mrs Flyte gave me a good reference when I felt it necessary to depart, as well as invaluable advice on the proper attire and conduct for a governess.’

      ‘I take it you did not plan to become a governess.’

      She picked at the edge of her glove. ‘My father was a solicitor. After his death, quickly followed by my brother’s, it was apparent that my annuity would not cover everything.’

      Adam did not need to see the slight nod. Her story was probably a familiar one. Dead father with little or no family. Forced to become dependent on the good will of others and her spirit crushed. Not completely, he corrected his thoughts, but only allowed in small flashes. How could anyone enjoy such an existence? But it would take a more determined man than he to free her from the shackles of governess servitude.

      ‘You may consider me safe. I was the one who went to India and returned with a fortune.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘My brother died in a boating accident. The gloves are a promise, Miss Milton, as you spoilt them to save my life. You will admit that we have a connection.’

      ‘But our slight connection does not permit you to replace my gloves.’ Miss Milton drew back.

      ‘A pity.’ Adam ignored the pulling on his shoulder. ‘You will have them and you may then throw them in to the fire. But never let it be said that I did not honour a debt.’

      ‘Indeed.’ Her lips became a thin white line. Adam wondered why he kept glancing at them, and at the outline of her figure. Despite the hideousness of the gown, she could not quite conceal her curves. ‘And what else do you want for these gloves?’

      ‘I need your help, Miss Milton. I ask for it based on your past friendship with my grandfather.’

      ‘What sort of help?’ Miss Milton put her hands behind her back and took a step backwards, stumbling over her basket. She picked it up and held it out in front of her like a shield.

      ‘I want to get away from here, from this river.’

      ‘You want me to hide you.’ A frown appeared between her eyebrows. ‘You want me to protect you from the law.’

      ‘No, I want you take me to Shaw’s Hotel in Gilsland.’ Adam bit out the words. Slowly. ‘Your involvement will end there. I will endeavour to see your reputation does not suffer from being alone with me.’

      ‘You want nothing more from me?’ She tilted her head to one side.

      ‘Nothing at all.’ Adam ignored the vague pricking of his conscience about the necklace. What she didn’t know could not hurt her. ‘Do we have an agreement, Miss Milton?’

      Chapter Three

      Daisy trudged along the faint path a few steps in front of the infuriating Lord Ravensworth, silently cursing the fact that her conscience had been pricked. As a young girl she had rescued stray cats, dogs and even on one memorable occasion a ferret. She had thought that she had outgrown the habit, but now she was rescuing this man.

      He seemed content to follow behind her, making caustic observations about the amount of brambles and rocks. Impossible man. She had thought he would be grateful. She was taking him the easier way. But having decided to depart, he first had had to stop and wash his mouth out, to get rid of the taste. Then they had had to try the other way before he believed her assessment.

      Daisy concentrated on keeping to the faint path and ignored the way her black stuff gown clung to her back. Ladies never sweated or perspired. Heat never bothered them. She would look on this as a test of her fortitude and would endure without a murmur.

      Lord Ravensworth’s curse echoed off the rocks and trees.

      Daisy stopped, and crossed her arms. And she wished she could say something equally as strong. ‘Losing your boots was not my fault.’

      ‘Lost boots are the least of my worries.’ He stepped and cursed again, this time louder and stronger and far more forthright. He then executed a perfect bow as his eyes danced with amusement.

      Daisy gritted her teeth, lifted her chin and adopted her most governesslike voice, the one she reserved for situations of dire emergency. ‘Pray keep a civil tongue in your mouth when ladies are present.’

      ‘I can see you have taken the late Mrs Flyte’s words to heart. Governessing is a calling you are eminently suited for, Miss Prim and Proper.’

      ‘Keeping the niceties of civilisation takes only a modicum of thought and courtesy, something which your character sadly lacks, my lord.’

      Lord Ravensworth’s eyes glared at her as he rubbed the bottom of his foot. ‘And, what pray tell, is the correct word for when one steps on a thorn in bare feet?’

      ‘Stoic forbearance.’

      Daisy lifted her chin a notch higher and promptly stumbled over a rock. The hem of her gown tore a bit more and her boot became entangled with a bramble. She pulled slightly, but her foot remained caught. A small oath escaped her lips.

      ‘Stoic forbearance?’ Lord Ravensworth’s barking laugh rang out.

      Daisy glared at him with her best governess expression. He immediately sobered, but his eyes danced. Daisy tried to keep a straight face, but she struggled against a smile. Finally she gave in and laughed.

      ‘Sometimes, stronger measures are necessary,’ she admitted.

      ‘Precisely, one does not have to be a governess all the time.’ He bent down and his long fingers closed around her boot, releasing it from the bramble. ‘With a cool head, things become simple.’

      Daisy pressed her hand to her eyes, and attempted to ignore the pulse of warmth that had invaded her insides. This man was everything she should despise about aristocrats, but one touch turned her insides to mush. ‘We should be through this bit soon and then there is grass, which will be easier for your feet.’

      ‘I hope you are right.’

      His hand reached out, forming a barrier across her path, preventing her from moving forwards.

      ‘Is there something wrong? Have