скачать книгу бесплатно
‘The other five governesses. I did mention them, Miss Caulfield. Did you miss the dissolute-rake part, too?’
Maura’s chin went up, determined not to show her surprise. She hadn’t listened as well as she’d thought. ‘You’ve been very clear, ma’am. Thank you again.’ The ‘dissolute’ part was unfortunate. She might have launched herself from the frying pan and into the fire, exchanging one dissolute male for another. But she doubted anyone could be as dissolute as Wildeham, the man her uncle had chosen for her to marry. Besides, she doubted she’d see much of this roguish Earl of Chatham. Dissolute rakes weren’t exactly the stay-at-home types when surrounded by the entertainments of London. It was difficult indeed to be rakish at all by staying home.
An hour later, a hired hackney deposited her in front of the Earl of Chatham’s Portland Square town house and departed with the last of her coins. In her estimation, it was money well spent. On her own, she would have walked for hours and never found the place. To put it mildly, London was daunting! Never had she seen so many people crammed together in one place. The traffic, the smells and the noises were enough to intimidate even the heartiest of country souls. Maura shaded her eyes and looked up at the town house.
It fit in perfectly. It was daunting, too, all four soaring storeys of it. There was nothing for it. The only way ahead was forwards. She picked up her things and walked up the steps to face her future. Forewarned was forearmed. She would focus on the positives. One positive was that her plan was proceeding according to schedule. Another was the address.
When she’d set out from Exeter, she’d imagined being placed in the comfortable home of a well-to-do family, possibly one hoping to launch a daughter on to the bottom rungs of society. Never had she thought to find a position in an earl’s home. Of course, she’d also never thought to have to find a position in the first place. For that matter, she’d never thought to leave Exeter. She’d faced a lot of ‘nevers’ in the past month she’d not expected to encounter.
As a gentleman’s daughter, the granddaughter of an earl, she’d been raised to expect more, although those assumptions had been misplaced. She could have kept those assumptions intact. Her uncle had made it clear she could live in comfortable luxury and marry a title, but for a price she’d been unwilling to pay. Even now, with Exeter a week and miles behind her, that price made her shudder in the noon sun.
Her lack of co-operation had made it impossible to stay so here she was, a stranger alone, ready to start her life afresh, which was a nice way of saying she’d cut all ties to her uncle’s family. It had either been cutting ties with them or cutting ties with her true self and in the end she’d hadn’t been able to bring herself to that ultimate sacrifice. So, they’d been left to their own devices and she was now left to hers. There could be no going back, although she was certain her uncle would try. She wouldn’t let him discover her. She’d disappear into the earl’s household and her uncle would eventually give up and find another way to fulfil his obligations to the odious Baron Wildeham.
Her resolve firm, Maura raised the carved lion-head knocker and let it fall with a heavy clack against the door. Inside, she could hear the undignified running of feet and a yelp, followed by a giggle, followed by a crash. Maura winced at the sound of something shattering. There was a shrill scream. ‘I’ll get it! It’s my turn to get the door!’ Then chaos spilled out on to the front step.
Maura saw it all happen in slow motion. The door flew open, answered by a man in stockinged feet and dishabille, dark hair ruffled in disarray, shirt-tails flying. He looked like no butler she’d ever seen. But Maura hadn’t the time to appreciate the odd sight. Behind him, two children came barrelling into the corridor. They skidded to a tardy and incomplete halt behind him and … oomph!
Their momentum set off a chain reaction, sending them all down in a heap, Maura at the bottom, looking up over the tangle of arms and legs into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Even with two children heaped higgledy-piggledy on them, she was not immune to the fact that those blue eyes went with an entirely masculine body of hard ridges and muscled planes which, at present, had landed on her in a most indelicate manner.
‘Hello.’ He grinned down at her, walnut-dark hair falling in his face with casual negligence.
‘I’m here about the position,’ Maura managed to get out, but she immediately regretted it. ‘Position’ wasn’t quite the best word to use, although given the situation, she was fortunate to formulate any coherent thoughts with all that well-muscled maleness pressing down on her.
‘I can see that.’ Mischief twinkled in those blue eyes, suggesting he wasn’t oblivious to their unorthodox circumstances, circumstances, she noted, he didn’t seem to mind. Whoever he was, he should be chagrined. No tutor or footman worth his salt would be caught in such raucous behaviour if he valued his post. But it was clear this attractive mess of a man wasn’t the least bit worried. He was laughing, quite possibly at her, as he rose and helped the children up.
Everyone apparently thought the accident a great lark. The children were both talking at once. ‘Did you see the way I came around the corner?’
‘I grabbed hold of the banister post and sling-shotted myself into the hall!’
Slingshotted? Great heavens, was that even a word?
‘You were amazing, William. It was like you were a cannon ball!’ the blue-eyed man put in with an inordinate amount of enthusiasm.
‘We broke Aunt Cressida’s vase!’ The little girl giggled nervously.
The man ruffled her hair. ‘Don’t worry, it was ugly anyway.’
Unbelievable! Had they forgotten about her? Maura was halfway to her feet, struggling with the tangle of her skirts and luggage when a large hand reached down for her. ‘Are you all right?’ The rich baritones of his voice were easy and friendly, further sign he was a man who took nothing too seriously.
‘I shall recover.’ Maura tugged at the fitted jacket of her travelling costume and smoothed her skirts, trying to restore some proper order to the encounter. ‘I am the new governess. Mrs Pendergast assigned me just this morning. I should like to speak with Lord Chatham, please.’ That should get some results.
His eyes twinkled with more mischief, if that was possible. ‘You are speaking with him.’ He gave her a gallant half-bow at odds with his dishabille. ‘The Earl of Chatham at your service.’
‘You’re the earl?’ Maura tried not to gape. Dissolute earls weren’t supposed to be handsome, hard-bodied males who flirted with their eyes.
The corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. ‘I believe we’ve established that. Now, what shall we call you?’ He fixed her with a white-toothed smile that probably made most women go weak at the knees. Maura liked to think her knees were weak from having been ploughed over on the doorstep instead. He turned to the children, who were staring up at him with wide eyes full of obvious hero worship. ‘We can’t very well call her “new governess”. That’s no sort of name at all.’ They started to giggle again.
The little girl smiled up at him and clapped her hands. ‘I know! I know! We’ll call her Six.’ The little girl curtsied very prettily. ‘Hello, Six, I’m Cecilia and I’m seven. This is my brother, William. He’s eight.’ She laughed again. ‘Six, seven, eight, we’re all numbers in a row. That’s funny. Uncle Ree, did you get my joke? Six, seven, eight?’
‘I most certainly did, my dear. It was the funniest one yet.’ The earl smiled down at her indulgently and wrapped his hand around her considerably smaller one. The gesture was endearing and it succeeded in doing queer things to Maura’s stomach.
‘Perhaps we should step inside,’ Maura suggested, well aware, even if they weren’t, that their little coterie on the porch was drawing stares from the street.
‘Oh, yes, do forgive me.’ The earl jumped into action and ushered them all indoors to the hall where the remnants of Aunt Cressida’s vase were being swept up by a maid. ‘Now we can have proper introductions and …’ He paused, his brow furrowing as he groped for the right words. ‘And a pot of tea. That will be just the thing. You’ll have to excuse me; I seem to have left my manners on the floor with the vase.’ He pushed a hand through his dark hair, looking entirely likeable.
She’d not been ready for that. She hadn’t planned on liking him, Maura realised as they settled for tea in the drawing room, children included. What she had expected was a middle-aged man with greying side-whiskers, lecherous eyes and wandering hands, a man like her uncle’s crony Baron Wildeham.
Tea came and Maura discreetly looked towards the doorway. ‘Are your wards going to join us?’ There were four tea cups on the tray. Surely the children weren’t staying for tea?
The earl looked at her queerly, gesturing to the children. ‘They’re already here.’ Then he laughed, his mouth breaking into his easy smile. ‘Mrs Pendergast didn’t tell you, did she? That tricky old woman, no wonder she got someone here so quickly.’
Maura sat up straight, feeling defensive. ‘She mentioned the wards were young.’
‘She’d be correct. It’s William and Cecilia I need a governess for,’ the earl explained, motioning that she should pour out.
Maura was glad for something to do, something to occupy her hands while her mind restored order. There’d be no young girls to shepherd into society as she was expecting. Instead, there were two slightly precocious children who slid through the hallways in stockinged feet. She told herself she could manage. She’d helped her aunt with her young cousins, after all. She just needed to readjust her thinking.
‘How do you take your tea, milord?’ Her hand hovered over the sugar and cream.
He dismissed those offerings with a wave of his hand. ‘I take it plain and you can call me Riordan or Mr Barrett if you wish.’ There was a tinge of bitterness in his voice. What had Mrs Pendergast said about the death of his brother? The new earl seemed a reluctant heir. Maura wished she’d listened more closely.
‘Neither is appropriate, as you well know.’ Maura passed his tea cup and tendered a smile, hoping to ease the disagreement. Arguing with one’s employer on the first day was no way to start. ‘I should call you Lord Chatham.’ She smiled again, looking for a better subject of conversation. What had her governesses done on the first day? She sipped her tea and racked her brain for an appropriate next step.
‘Lord Chatham?’ He arched a dark eyebrow in query. The expression drew attention to his eyes, twin-blue flames flickering with life and mischief.
‘I think that would be best, under the circumstances.’ She knew that would be best. He was a dangerous sort of man when it came to a woman’s sensibilities with his good looks and penchant for informality. A half-hour in his company had proven it. He hadn’t even bothered to put his coat on or tuck in his shirt-tails.
To her surprise, he laughed and leaned forwards, smiling wickedly over his tea cup. ‘You weren’t under any circumstances on the porch, you were under me.’
‘Lord Chatham! There are children in the room.’ But the children didn’t seem to mind. They were laughing. They did that a lot, she noticed, no doubt encouraged by the irrepressible audacity of their guardian. Laughter was well and good, but they would have to learn to control it just a bit.
‘So there are.’ He rubbed at his chin in thought for a moment, although she had the distinct impression he was teasing her. ‘If we are to be formal, I’ll need to call you something more than Six.’ He was smiling again, flirting outrageously with his blue, blue eyes while saying nothing technically objectionable at all.
From her perch on a chair, Cecilia looked crestfallen. ‘I want to call her Six. It will ruin the joke if we don’t.’
Lord Chatham quirked another eyebrow in Maura’s direction, a little smile hovering about his lips while he waited for her response. Good heavens, the man was a handsome devil. Cecilia’s lip began to quiver. Maura felt a moment’s panic. She didn’t want to be the governess who made her charge cry within the first half-hour. Her next words came rushing out to forestall any tears. ‘Sex is fine.’
Sex is fine? Maura clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was far too late.
‘Is it? That’s good to know.’ Lord Chatham’s smile widened in good humour.
Maura blushed hotly in mortification. What had happened to her tongue? It had done nothing right since her arrival. ‘Six,’ she stammered. She turned towards Cecilia. Anything was better than looking at him. ‘You may call me Six if you like, Cecilia. It can be our special name.’
Cecilia beamed at her and Maura knew the sweet taste of victory, a taste she’d barely swallowed before Lord Chatham said, ‘And me? Perhaps I should have a special name for you, too. Shall I call you …?’ He let the question hover provocatively, forcing her to interrupt if she didn’t want him to provide an answer. He would say it, too. If the last half-hour had shown her anything of his character, it was that.
‘Miss Caulfield. You should call me Miss Caulfield,’ Maura supplied hastily. The situation was fast spiralling out of control. She should establish her authority before it slid away entirely. She didn’t want Chatham thinking she could be swayed by a simple smile. ‘Cecilia, why don’t you and William go upstairs to play while I settle in? Then we can spend the afternoon getting acquainted over a walk in the park.’
Maura recognised her error immediately. Sending away the children meant she was left on her own with the outrageous Lord Chatham. ‘I must apologise for my slip of tongue.’
‘No need to apologise, Miss Caulfield.’ Lord Chatham leaned back in his chair, his eyes studying her with amusement. ‘In my experience, slipping tongues can be quite entertaining.’
His remark was the final straw. She tried an arched eyebrow of her own. ‘You forget yourself, Lord Chatham. In the past hour I’ve been landed on, flirted with and flustered out of my usually solid wits. I’m starting to see why the other five governesses left.’
‘No, you’re not. You’ve barely scratched the proverbial surface.’ The good humour that floated in his eyes disappeared instantly at her remark. He rose, suddenly an icier, more distant version of himself. ‘The housekeeper will show you your rooms.’
A crash and squeal sounded overhead, followed by a child’s cry of despair. Voices were raised as maids scurried to clean up the latest disaster in what was clearly a long string of disasters of which Aunt Cressida’s vase was only a recent victim. Maura turned her eyes towards the ceiling. ‘It seems, Lord Chatham, you don’t need a governess, you need a miracle.’
He gave a cold chuckle. ‘And Mrs Pendergast sent me you. Welcome to Chatham House, Miss Caulfield.’
Chapter Two
She was late. Riordan glanced towards the mantel clock. The hands showed only a minute had passed since the last time he’d checked. He wished Miss Caulfield would hurry up. He was hungry and he was regretting his harshness with her that afternoon. She couldn’t possibly know what she’d walked into. Still, late was late. He’d been very clear when he’d sent up the invitation that he’d wished to dine at seven o’clock sharp. It was now five minutes past.
Not that he was in the habit of dining with governesses. He wasn’t. He hadn’t dined with the first five. But they hadn’t been young and pretty. Nor had they dominated his thoughts for the duration of the afternoon. They’d been dried-up old sticks who thought far too much about propriety and far too little about living. It was no wonder they hadn’t lasted. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to have fun. He was determined the children would have that, if nothing else, after all they’d been through. On those grounds, he was doing quite well in his new role as a father figure.
He’d be the first to admit he liked children. He just didn’t have a clue about how to bring them up. His brother, Elliott, had been the mature one there. It had been Elliott who’d taken on Cecilia and William four years ago after the children’s father died of a sudden fever. Now Elliott was gone, too. No one had ever imagined the children would be stuck with him and whatever help he could cobble together.
The rustle of skirts at the door told him his latest attempt at acquiring such help had arrived. ‘I apologise for being tardy. I’d expected to dine with the children. The summons was a surprise.’ This last was said with the faintest hint of frost, to suggest he wasn’t quite forgiven for his earlier harshness.
‘The invitation,’ Riordan corrected with a smile in an attempt at melting her glacial greeting. He’d expected as much, especially after his rather cold dismissal this afternoon. He hoped to make it up to her with dinner. He couldn’t afford to have another governess leave. He knew what he meant by offering dinner, but it was clear from her choice of dress she didn’t know what to make of his request. Was this work? Was this a get-to-know-you welcome sort of dinner? She’d clearly opted for the former.
She’d chosen a modestly cut gown of deep-green poplin trimmed in white lace. It was prettily done, nicely suited for tea at the squire’s or an afternoon of shopping in the village, but nowhere near fashionable enough for dinner in London with the town’s leading rogue. The simplicity of the gown and the practicality of its fabric created a stark contrast against his formal evening attire.
‘Are you going out this evening?’ Her eyes swept him briefly, likely trying to gauge the gravity of her mistake. Her mind was easy to read, not because she was transparent, but because she was not afraid to be straightforward. He’d enjoyed her boldness this afternoon even if it had ended on a sour note.
‘Yes, but nothing that demands my attendance with any scheduled rigour. I am free to arrive when I choose.’ Going out had lost much of its allure in the month since his brother’s death. Three months of mourning was the standard for a sibling if the sibling had managed to die conventionally. Elliott had not. As a result, London was happy to let Riordan proceed as usual with his customary social routine after a two-week hiatus to fetch the children from Chatham Court.
Riordan suspected such benevolence had more to do with society’s greed for gossip. If he was left rusticating for three months in grief, there’d be considerably fewer rumours for the scandalmongers to spread regarding his brother’s demise and the Season would be that much duller for it.
The butler announced dinner and he offered Miss Caulfield his arm, secretly pleased she was as discomfited with his show of propriety as she’d been with his earlier impropriety.
‘Such formality,’ she commented, taking the chair Riordan held out for her at the table. ‘I apologise for being under-dressed. I wasn’t sure …’ Her voice trailed off and Riordan imagined her upstairs in her room debating the merits of the green poplin or the one good silk gown she owned. ‘You were right to save the silk for a better occasion,’ he said lightly, taking his own seat.
‘How did you know?’ She shot him a sharp look, her thoughts evident. He’d bet odds of two to three she was imagining peepholes secreted in the walls of her room. It was a fairly worldly thought for a governess, or any young lady, and it did make him wonder.
Riordan dismissed her fears with a laugh. ‘Have no worries, Miss Caulfield. It’s all very simple. To understand women, a man must understand their clothes.’ He’d learned that particular skill a long time ago and it had served him well in the intervening years.
She settled the linen napkin on her lap and gave him a doubtful look that said she didn’t believe him. Riordan leaned back in his chair, letting the footmen serve the soup while he studied the effects of candlelight on Miss Caulfield’s features. This morning, much of her hair had been hidden under her bonnet, but this evening it was pinned up in a pretty twist that hinted at its thickness and length while it exposed the delicate arch of her neck. The effect was enough to make him imagine what it would be like to take all that hair down and sift it through his fingers. ‘The light turns your hair into red-gold; very lovely,’ he commented as the footmen moved away.
‘And what does that tell you about me?’ She shot him another sharp look with her green eyes.
‘You don’t believe me about the clothes, do you?’ Riordan set down his soup spoon, starting to enjoy himself. He was good at this. Observation and subsequent conjecturing had always come easy for him. Most women loved his little ‘fortune telling’ game. ‘Allow me to demonstrate. You wear shades of green often. With your colouring, all that red hair and those emerald-green eyes, it makes sense. Greens would be your best palate. I’m right, am I not?’
‘Yes.’ Even discomfited, her manners were impeccable. She sipped from her soup spoon without spilling a drop. His governess was very well bred indeed.
‘You’re intrigued now. I can see it in the way you’ve subtly leaned forwards.’ Riordan lowered his voice, giving the conversation a private allure.
Her eyes sparked, a good sign. She was warming. ‘All right, if you’re so good, tell me why a governess has a silk gown.’ But any further conversation had to wait a moment while the fish was served.
‘You have more than one,’ Riordan said when the footmen had retreated. He wasn’t sure how he knew that, but it seemed right. She was born for fine fabrics and delicate trimmings. Riordan reached for her hand and traced a lazy circle in the palm. ‘Tell me I’m right.’ A woman who wore silk gowns and imagined peepholes in her room was an exciting mystery. ‘You’re not the usual governess.’
She stiffened and withdrew her hand. ‘You’re not the usual earl.’ All her attention went straight to her neglected fish. He’d touched a nerve there. Intriguing, but not surprising. Her clothes were too well made. He’d seen it instantly. Pretty and young with well-made clothes and a bold demeanour with a man she should view as her superior suggested there was more to Miss Caulfield than she let on.
‘I don’t hold it against you, Miss Caulfield. The “usual” has never held much of my attention.’ He would leave it at that. No sense frightening her off. If she thought he guessed at more, she might be compelled to run and that was the last thing he needed. He needed a governess to stay and he was willing to overlook any secrets said governess thought she had.
Miss Caulfield finished her fish without a single faux pas. He always watched women during the fish course at dinner parties. It was the perfect chance to see if they were all they claimed. Miss Caufield was definitely more. Unlike many a pretender, she’d kept a piece of bread in her left hand and the fork in her right, never once reaching for the very taboo knife. Anyone of any true social refinement knew fish juice stained knives if they weren’t silver. It confirmed what he’d noted earlier: she had excellent table manners, as if she ate at candlelit tables complete with china, crystal and the requisite earl every day.
By the time the beef was served, his thoughts had taken a more erotic turn. He found he could not contemplate her manners without also contemplating her delectable mouth with its kissable lower lip, or the column of her throat as she swallowed. This led his eyes lower to her bosom, which the cut of her gown showed to advantage, which gave way to a bevy of illicit thoughts, most of them involving all the ways he could get her out of that gown and on to the table.
‘Is everything to your liking?’ he asked in low tones that were more seductive than solicitous. ‘Would you like some more wine?’ He was flirting deliberately now, his hand provocatively caressing the stem of his own empty wine glass, and wondering if she’d call him on it. She did. It was bravely and boldly done of her. Not every employee would dare. Good for her. He had little use for people without spines.
‘Tell me, Lord Chatham, do you flirt with every woman you meet or just the governesses?’
Riordan reached for the wine and refilled her glass as an excuse to lean close and make some more mischief. ‘I assure you, this is not flirting. If I were flirting with you, Miss Caulfield, you’d know it.’ But of course he was flirting with her, just a little by his standards, and they both knew it.
Riordan laughed and filled his glass. ‘A toast, Miss Caulfield, to our, ah, relationship. Cheers.’
Maura clinked her glass gently against his. It was impossible not to get swept up in Lord Chatham’s bonhomie. He couldn’t help it, she realised. But she could. She could have enough sense for the both of them. He might not be flirting with her by his standards, but society would see it otherwise. No wonder Mrs Pendergast had called him a dissolute rake. Women probably swooned in his wake and he likely didn’t lack for female attention. Handsome, charming and personable, he could have any woman he wanted and not have to work that hard at it.
Well, he couldn’t have her if that’s what he was intending with all this light flirtation. She would make that clear over cheese and fruit as their dinner came to a close. It would be just the right note to end the evening on. Two bites into a sharp cheddar, she began her campaign. ‘I thought the purpose of dinner was to discuss the children. Here we are, at the end, and the children haven’t even been mentioned.’ She couldn’t be more direct than that.
‘What would you like to know about the children?’ He filled his glass again and Maura began to wonder if that was his third or fourth. Wine disappeared from his glass like water.
‘We could start with their schedule and perhaps move on to their education,’ Maura prompted. This was the most extraordinary discussion she’d ever had. She wasn’t supposed to be the one asking the questions. She’d expected to be told.
‘Their schedule?’ Lord Chatham stabbed at his cheese as if the question irritated him. His tone became frosty, as it had been that afternoon. ‘They don’t have a schedule, Miss Caulfield. Their lives have been turned upside down, they’ve lost their trusted guardian, they’ve been through five governesses in as many weeks. They’ve had no stability in their lives since my brother’s death.’
Maura refused to be intimidated. ‘They’ve had you. Surely you have imposed some order on their lives in the absence of a governess.’ Her own parents had been active participants in her life.
‘Some, but I wouldn’t go as far as to call it a schedule.’ Lord Chatham sat back in his chair, wine glass empty again and dangling negligently in his hand. ‘I can see you’re disappointed in me. Perhaps your standards are too high.’ He wasn’t flirting now. His tone had taken on a self-deprecating note. ‘Don’t forget, I’m a bachelor with bachelor ways. If I knew how to raise children, you wouldn’t be here.’
He set down the wine glass and rose. ‘If you’ll excuse me, the hour is later than I anticipated and my presence is required elsewhere, as tardy as it is. Feel free to partake of the cheese and fruit without me.’ He offered a short bow and left. It was quite possibly the most expedient exit she’d ever witnessed and most definitely one of the rudest.
His bachelor ways indeed! Maura fumed up in her room afterwards. Everything he did, everything he said, reminded her of his ‘bachelor ways’. Even his departure from the dinner table had reeked of them. Apparently he was expected at the Rutherfords’ ball and the Duke of Rutland’s fête before meeting up with some fellows at a gambling hell on St James’s. He wouldn’t be back until early morning.
It had been on the tip of her tongue to reprimand him for his less-than-fatherly behaviour, but she’d already angered him once today and she knew he wasn’t the only man who habitually spent the night on the town while leaving his children in the hands of others. That didn’t make it right. Maura didn’t hold with the laissez-faire parenting of the aristocracy. Her own upbringing had run quite counter to the norm and for that she would always be grateful.
She’d also be grateful for her bed. Maura began taking down her hair and stowing the pins carefully in a little trifle box on her bureau. It had been an eventful day and she was beyond tired. She smiled to herself as she went through her evening toilette. Maura pulled a white nightgown over her head and surveyed her room. It was smaller than what she was used to, but it was a nice room on the third floor. There was a window overlooking the garden and it was hung with fresh curtains. The walls were papered with a tiny pink-floral print and the bed was covered in a pink-and-white counterpane. A clothes-press stood in one corner and a small chest of drawers in another. It would do, and after three days on the mail coach it seemed like heaven.
She might not be living the life she’d been born to, but she’d done well today. She’d got a position, navigated the streets of London and met the intriguing Earl of Chatham. Not bad for a gently bred girl from Devonshire. But she would need to tread carefully. The earl might flirt, he might raise his wards with the same benign insouciance with which he lived his life, but that didn’t mean he didn’t see far more than he let on.
The perceptive Lord Chatham had implied correctly that she wasn’t the usual governess. She hadn’t meant to give herself away and yet she had in ways she couldn’t control. Hopefully he had guessed nothing more and was not interested in guessing anything more. As long as she did her job with his wards, she hoped he would look no further. The last thing she needed was for someone to get too curious about her origins.
Maura hopped into bed, revelling in the cool sheets and the fluffy pillow at her head. That was one thing Lord Chatham might have in common with her; she wasn’t the only one with secrets. That was all right with her. He could have his secrets as long as she could have hers.
It had not escaped her notice when she’d stepped down from the mail coach that morning that it was to have been her wedding day. If she’d stayed in Devonshire, she’d have been married to Wildeham by now and subjected to a lifetime of his obscene attentions, a fate certainly worse than throwing in her lot with the Earl of Chatham.
Maura blew out the candle beside her bed and whispered in the darkness, ‘A toast, Lord Chatham. Here’s to our, ah, relationship. Cheers.’
