Not Just a Governess. Carole Mortimer

glanced up at him. ‘My lord?’

      ‘I intend to ask Mrs Standish to arrange for a local seamstress to call upon you at her earliest convenience.’

      A frown appeared between the fineness of her eyes as she came to a halt at the top of the staircase. ‘Mrs Standish, my lord?’

      Adam had spent all of his adult life answering to that title—but it had never before irked him in the way it did when this woman addressed him so coolly!

      Which was utterly ridiculous—what else should she call him? She was not his social equal, but a paid servant, and as such her form of address to him was perfectly correct. Should he expect her to call him Adam, as if the two of them were friends, or possibly more? Of course he should not!

      He scowled his irrational annoyance. ‘She is the housekeeper here and as such in charge of all the female staff, and consequently the clothing they are required to wear within the household.’

      Elena’s expression became wary. ‘Yes, my lord…?’

      Adam sighed. ‘And I am tired of looking at you in these—these widow’s weeds.’ He indicated her appearance with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘I shall instruct Mrs Standish to see to it that you are supplied with more fitting apparel.’

      She raised surprised dark brows. ‘More fitting for what, my lord?’

      Oh, to the devil with it! Another of those questions this particular woman seemed to ask and which took Adam into the realms of the unacceptable.

      As it did now, as he instantly imagined Elena Leighton as his mistress, all of that glorious ebony hair loose about her shoulders, her naked body covered only by one of those delicate silk negligees Fanny had been so fond of parading about in. Not black as with Fanny, but rather white or the palest cream, in order to set off the almost luminous quality to this woman’s ivory skin and allowing the tips of her breasts to poke invitingly and revealingly against that silky material. What colour would her nipples be? he wondered. A fresh peach, perhaps? Or, more likely, considering the colour of her lips, a deep and blushing rose—

      His mouth tightened with self-disgust as he realised that he had once again allowed himself thoughts of this woman that were wholly inappropriate to the relationship that existed between the two of them. ‘For spending so many hours a day with a six-year-girl who has already suffered the loss of her mother, without your own clothing reminding her of death on a daily basis,’ he rasped harshly.

      ‘Oh!’ She gasped. ‘I had not thought of that! And I should have done so. I am so sorry, my—’

      ‘I believe I have already made clear my feelings regarding this constant and irritating need you feel to apologise to me for one reason or another.’ Adam looked down the long length of his nose at her.

      ‘But I should have thought—’

      ‘Mrs Leighton…’ He barely controlled his impatience at her continued self-condemnation. Damn it, he had thought only to get her out of those horrible clothes—Well, not exactly out of them—Oh, damn it to hell! ‘Mrs Leighton, I am tired and I am irritable, furthermore I am in need of a decent glass of brandy, before sitting down to enjoy an even more decent dinner cooked by my excellent chef here, before then spending a night in my own bed!’

      She blinked at his vehemence. ‘I—please do not let me delay you any further.’

      ‘If you will excuse me, then? Jeffries will see to it that you are shown the nursery and schoolroom as well as your own bedchamber.’

      ‘As you wish, my lord.’ Her lashes lowered with a demureness Adam viewed with suspicion.

      ‘It is indeed as I wish.’ He scowled, adding, as she made no further comment, ‘Goodnight, Mrs Leighton.’

      ‘My lord.’ She nodded without so much as glancing up.

      Adam gave her one last irritated glance before entering the house, pausing only long enough to hand his hat and cloak to the patiently waiting Jeffries, before striding down the hallway to his study without so much as a second glance.

      Where, Adam sincerely hoped, he would not be haunted by any further lascivious thoughts about the widowed Mrs Elena Leighton.

       Chapter Five

      ‘I believe there has been some sort of mistake…’ Elena viewed with consternation the brightly coloured materials the seamstress had laid out on the chaise in the bedchamber for her approval. They were predominantly green and blue, but there was also a cream silk and a lemon, all with matching lace.

      Mrs Hepworth was aged perhaps thirty and prettily plump, that plumpness shown to advantage in a gown of sky blue in a highwaisted style that perfectly displayed her excellence as a seamstress. ‘Mrs Standish was quite specific in her instructions concerning which materials I should bring with me for your approval, Mrs Leighton.’

      ‘Are you sure?’

      ‘Oh, yes, I am very sure of Mrs Standish’s instructions, Mrs Leighton,’ the seamstress confirmed cheerfully.

      And Mrs Standish, as Elena knew, had received her instructions from the infuriating Lord Hawthorne…

      ‘Come,’ Adam instructed distractedly as he concentrated on the figures laid out in the ledger before him. The study door opened, then was softly closed again, followed by a lengthy silence. So lengthy that Adam was finally forced to look up beneath frowning brows, that frown easing slightly as he saw a flushed and obviously discomforted Elena Leighton standing in front of his wide mahogany desk. ‘Yes…?’

      She moistened her lips. ‘I am not disturbing you, my lord?’

      ‘I believe you have used the wrong tense, Mrs Leighton—you have obviously already interrupted me,’ he drawled pointedly as he leant back in his chair to look across at her.

      He had seen Amanda only briefly these past two days, and her governess not at all, having been kept busy dealing with the myriad of paperwork involved in running the estate. He frowned now as he saw the governess was still wearing one of those unbecoming black gowns that so infuriated him. ‘Has Mrs Standish not yet engaged the services of a seamstress—?’

      ‘That is the very reason I am here, my lord,’ she rushed into speech. ‘I fear there has been some sort of mistake. The seamstress brought with her materials that are more suited to—to being worn by a lady than a—a child’s governess.’

      Adam arched one dark brow. ‘And is that child’s governess not also a lady?’

      ‘I—well, I would hope to be considered as such, yes.’ Elena looked more than a little flustered. ‘But the materials are of the finest silks and of such an array of colours, when I had been expecting—I had expected—’

      ‘Yes?’

      She bit her lip. ‘I had thought to be wearing serviceable browns, with possibly a beige gown in which to attend church on Sundays.’

      Adam gave a wince at the thought of this woman’s ivory skin against such unbecoming shades. ‘That would not do at all, Mrs Leighton.’ His top lip curled with displeasure. ‘Brighter colours, a deep rose, blues and greens, are more suited to your colouring, with perhaps a cream for Sundays.’

      Exactly the colours, Elena realised, that the plump Mrs Hepworth had just laid out for her approval.

      ‘And I am not a churchgoer,’ Adam continued drily, ‘but you may attend if you feel so inclined.’

      ‘But is it not your duty to attend as—?’ Elena broke off abruptly, aware she had once again almost been inappropriately outspoken in this man’s presence. Inappropriate for the widowed Mrs Elena Leighton, that was. Which, considering she had not set sight on, nor heard sound of Adam Hawthorne these past two days, she probably should not have done.

      ‘You were saying, madam?’

      ‘Nothing,