The Governess and the Earl. Ann Lethbridge

keeping his son happy, and no one else had applied. He was lucky she had such an impeccable reference, but why someone of her calibre would want to work for him was certainly suspicious.

      He dried his face and stared into the glass. The letter from Iris Chivers hadn’t said a word about her being more than passably handsome. He glared at his reflection. Oh, she looked modest enough, in her drab grey pelisse and brown skirts, but with her sapphire eyes and wheat-blonde hair she was far too young and attractive for a man sworn to celibacy.

      Hell.

      Wister, his ancient valet, barged in. He picked up the shirt and gazed at the stains with raised eyebrows.

      ‘Plum jam,’ Brand said.

      Wister cocked his head and tugged at his thinning forelock with a pointed nod. ‘Ye’ve something …’

      Brand put a hand to his head. It came away sticky. He touched it to his tongue. ‘Blancmange.’

      No wonder Mrs Drake had looked at him with pursed lips. She must have thought him a veritable pig at the trough. He caught the wet towel tossed by Wister and rubbed at his hair.

      ‘Master Jonathon still not eating?’ Wister asked.

      Brand let go a sigh. ‘No. He misses Maddy, damn her.’ The recollection of the nurse’s betrayal sent a surge of red-hot fury to his brain. Maddy was lucky he hadn’t strangled her on the spot.

      He didn’t need another death added to his list of crimes. He pulled on a clean shirt and shrugged into his waistcoat.

      ‘Miles says she’s pretty,’ Wister said, brushing lint from Brand’s coat.

      Brand looked up from the buttons.

      ‘The governess,’ Wister added.

      ‘Hmph.’ He’d expected a woman of experience, one with a gimlet eye and a large bosom who would make Jonathon listen. Not that Mrs Drake was lacking in bosom endowment. It wasn’t large, but it swelled above her small waist in a very … He squeezed his eyes shut and willed his body under control. ‘Miles needs to concentrate on his work.’

      Wister grinned. ‘He said she seems like a nice lass.’

      God, yes. A nice, calm, practical woman. Deliciously soft in all the right places. The kind of female who would be happy in the country teaching a child. The kind of woman he should have married. Would have, if he’d known.

      ‘He needs a mother,’ Wister added.

      Bile rose in Brand’s throat. ‘One more word and you’ll find yourself following Maddy down the road.’

      The craggy old Yorkshireman grinned. ‘Temper, temper, lad.’

      Somehow Brand stopped himself from throwing his hairbrush at his valet’s head and used it on his hair. ‘She’s a governess. She will occupy Jonathon’s mind until his tutor arrives in two months’ time and then she will leave. In the meantime, perhaps she can teach him some blasted table manners.’ He snatched his coat and resisted Wister’s efforts to help him into it.

      ‘Cook wants to know if Mrs Drake is to take supper in her room?’ Wister said.

      Lord, he should have remembered she’d had a long journey from York and would need feeding. ‘She can dine with me.’

      The words were out of his mouth before he thought. To change his mind now would give Wister more grist for his mill, so he merely glowered.

      ‘Will there be anything else then, my lord?’

      ‘No, thank you.’

      Not unless the valet could find a way to put things back the way they were, make life feel normal again.

      Unfortunately Brand had destroyed any hope of that.

      A stone-cold silence weighed heavily in the air as Sarah descended the winding stone steps. The thick walls absorbed all sound except for her footsteps and her breathing. Peter, standing outside her charge’s door, had directed her to the Earl’s study on the first floor by way of the tower at the other end of the hallway. There she found a wider set of steps, true, but just as circular.

      A gothic arch led off the landing; this must be it. She stepped into a gallery-like corridor. Doorways ran along its length on one side and windows on the other. Second door on the left, Peter had said.

      Feeling breathless, as if she’d climbed up those twisting stairs instead of descending, she knocked.

      ‘Come.’

      A quick breath, a smoothing of her hair and she breezed in, the perfectly confident governess. Not too confident, though. Not arrogant or proud; competent.

      A fire blazed cheerfully at one end of the comfortable and very male room. The upholstery on the heavy chairs each side of the hearth showed signs of wear. The linenfold oak wainscoting shone with the quiet pride of antiquity.

      Ralston sat at a polished mahogany desk. He’d exchanged his mired clothes for a pristine shirt, a cravat and a navy coat over an ivory waistcoat. With his chiselled jaw freshly shaved and his hair neat he looked every inch a proud nobleman. And darkly handsome, if somewhat jaded by life.

      Indeed, his air of world-weariness made him far too attractive for Sarah’s peace of mind. She tried not to see the bleakness in his gaze, or the lines of worry bracketing his mouth, which tempted her to offer help.

      ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’ He indicated the chair in front of the desk, straight-backed, wooden and businesslike.

      She sat. Or rather she perched on its edge and folded her hands in her lap, hoping she gave no sign of her fast-beating heart. To show weakness with this man might well be her undoing.

      Leaning back, he regarded her intently, making a long, slow perusal with dark unreadable eyes. Prickles ran across her shoulders. She had the feeling he could see right through her skin to the blood pulsing in her veins. His gaze said he knew her secrets, her desires.

      He couldn’t. No one could.

      ‘You have instructions for me, my lord?’

      His gaze dropped to the sheet of paper in front of him. ‘Ah, yes. Your reference from Mrs Chivers is glowing. Your last position was with a family by the name of Blackstone in Gloucestershire, I understand?’

      ‘Yes, my lord.’

      ‘The ages of the children?’

      ‘Eight, six and five, my lord.’

      He looked at the letter and nodded, clearly matching her answers with the information provided by Iris. For a man, he was being far more careful than she’d expected. After all, Iris had said he was desperate.

      Worry that he might turn her away shivered down her spine, but somehow she managed to keep her expression politely attentive.

      ‘You attended Mrs Chivers’s Academy for Young Ladies for several years?’ he continued.

      ‘Yes. I also helped as an assistant teacher during those years.’ To help pay the fees that her relatives had found such a burden. She forced calmness into her voice. ‘I assume you want Lord Jonathon to learn all the usual subjects? Arithmetic, reading, writing?’

      He huffed out a breath. ‘Manners, also. His nurse indulged him too much.’

      ‘A nurse can’t replace the guidance of a mother.’

      A bleak expression flashed in his eyes, quickly hidden by cool remoteness. ‘Nor can a governess.’

      Her cheeks stung. How awkward—and what ridiculous comments—hers and his. ‘No, my lord.’

      He glanced down at the letter. ‘I am not sure you have enough experience.’

      Her stomach gave a horrid twist. Dismissed after one hour. How mortifying—and devastating. She clenched her hands in her lap so hard she felt the bite of nails in her palms. A trickle of