The Governess's Secret Baby. Janice Preston

expression and he averted his face. It was only a fractional movement, but she did not miss it.

      ‘Come, Brack.’

      He stalked from the room.

      * * *

      Nathaniel sought the sanctuary of his book room. He stood by his desk, staring unseeingly at the surface, tracing with his forefinger the pits and scratches that had accumulated over the years, pondering his gut reaction to Miss Bertram.

      Specifically, to Miss Bertram’s smile.

      Clara needed a governess. That was an irrefutable fact.

      Grace Bertram had appeared on his doorstep at a time he was beginning to fear he would never find anyone willing to move to Shiverstone Hall and care for his niece. The alternative—moving back to Ravenwell Manor—had begun to haunt him. So, despite his reservations, he had offered Miss Bertram the post, secured her behind a door marked Employee in his mind and banished any thoughts of her as a female. She was as welcome or as unwelcome as any woman taking that post. Her looks were...must be...immaterial.

      And then she had smiled. And the memories had swarmed up from the depths of his mind, overwhelming him with images from his past: the flirtations, the fun, the laughter.

      Memories of how life had used to be.

      Unwanted memories of pretty girls who would smile spontaneously at him.

      An aggravating reminder of his world before he chose this reclusive life.

      With a muttered curse, Nathaniel hauled his chair from under his desk, sat down and pulled a ledger towards him. He flipped it open and forcibly applied his mind to business until it was time to dress for dinner.

      He always dined at six and he always—despite dining alone—dressed for dinner. It was the one custom he continued from his former life, allowing him the illusion he was still a gentleman. He contemplated his appearance in the mirror as he wound his neckcloth around his neck and tied it in a neat knot. Would Miss Bertram think he made this effort on her behalf?

      And if she does, why should it matter? You are not answerable to her. You are answerable to no one.

      The pit of his stomach tangled into knots as the evening ahead stretched before him. Something about the thought of sitting at the table with her, eating and talking, fuelled his vulnerability. But he was sure, once the meal was underway, those knots would untangle. Miss Bertram had already demonstrated a welcome lack of disgust at his scars and that would help him become less self-conscious.

      And those memories that glorious smile of hers had awoken? They were just that. Memories. They could wield no power over him as long as he banished them from his mind.

      He tugged a comb through the knots in his hair—the winds out on the fells had, as usual, played havoc with it. Should he ask Sharp to cut it? He ran his hand over the side of his face, feeling the now-familiar roughness, as though twists of rope lay beneath the surface. His hair helped to hide the worst of the ravages the fire had wrought, particularly into the hairline where some of his hair had not grown back, but it could not completely conceal it, so it served little purpose.

      The sound of his bedchamber door opening jolted him from his musings.

      ‘Sorry, milord,’ Sharp said. ‘I thought, with the time...’

      ‘No, do not apologise,’ Nathaniel said. ‘I am late, but I am going down now, so you may continue.’

      It was Sharp’s custom to tidy Nathaniel’s bedchamber and bank up the fire when Nathaniel went downstairs to eat his dinner.

      Nathaniel ran down the stairs. The parlour door was ajar and he entered, stopping short on seeing the table was only set for one. He spun on his heel and made for the kitchen. Mrs Sharp was there, ladling food into a serving dish, whilst Ned—who ate all his meals at the Hall—and Alice both sat ready at the table, awaiting their supper, which would be served when Sharp finished upstairs.

      ‘I heard you come down the stairs, milord. Your dinner is ready. I—’

      ‘Why is there only one place set in the parlour, Mrs Sharp?’

      The housekeeper frowned. ‘I did not think you would want to dine with her, milord.’

      Nathaniel bit back a terse retort. This was his fault. He had not specified where Miss Bertram would dine. He had made an assumption.

      ‘A governess would not expect to dine in the kitchen,’ he said, ‘and it would be too much work for her to dine upstairs in her room. Be so good as to lay another place in the parlour, Mrs Sharp.’

      ‘But...milord...’

      ‘Now, please.’

      The sound of a throat being cleared delicately behind him had him whirling to face the door. Miss Bertram stood there, hands clasped in front of her, fingers twisting together. She had changed into a dowdy grey dress and the slight blush that tinted her cheeks was the only hint of colour on her person.

      ‘I do not mind where I eat, my lord,’ she said.

      He did not want a debate. ‘I do,’ he said. ‘You will dine with me in the parlour. Set another place, Mrs Sharp.’

      He gestured for Miss Bertram to precede him out of the kitchen. In the morning parlour, he pulled a chair out for her—choosing the place to his left—and then sat in his customary place at the head of the table.

      Silence reigned.

      Mrs Sharp came in, set a plate and cutlery in front of Miss Bertram and left again, spine rigid.

      ‘Clara went to sleep without any problems.’

      He grunted discouragingly.

      ‘I thought you might like to know that.’

      Mrs Sharp returned with a tray of serving dishes, saving him from further response.

      ‘It is venison stew, milord.’ She placed the first dish in the centre of the table. ‘And there are potatoes and some of the pie from yesterday, warmed up.’

      Miss Bertram smiled at Mrs Sharp. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘It smells delicious.’

      ‘Thank you.’

      It was said grudgingly at the same time as the housekeeper darted a worried glance at Nathaniel. The Sharps had been with him since before the fire—had cared for him when the emotional pain had outstripped any physical pain resulting from his injuries, had remained loyal, burying themselves here at Shiverstone without complaint. They clearly worried over the choices he had made for his life.

      ‘Yes, it does,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Sharp.’

      And he meant for more than just the food. He understood her concern and the reason why she had not set a place for Miss Bertram in the parlour. She was afraid for him.

      Thank you for caring.

      She treated him to a fleeting smile before she left the room to fetch the rest of the food.

      Nathaniel glanced at Miss Bertram, who was watching him, a glint of speculation in her eyes. He quashed his instinct to avert his face. He could hardly fault her for being curious and he knew he must overcome his natural urge to hide his scars, as he had with his servants. They were impossible to hide; she would see them often enough and, to her credit, her reaction so far had been encouraging. The sooner she accepted his appearance, the sooner he could also forget about it and then his awkwardness would fade.

      He reached for her plate to serve her some stew.

      As they ate their meal, Nathaniel watched Miss Bertram surreptitiously. Why would such a young, beautiful girl choose to travel all this way north for a post in a bleak place like Shiverstone? She struck him as a sociable sort. It made little sense, but she was here now and he did not doubt she would care for Clara. Whatever the reason, he must count it as a blessing for his niece. He was certain Hannah and David would approve of Miss Bertram.

      The