“What the hell are you doing here?”
A wide smile wreathed her lips. “I believe it should be fairly obvious, I’m breaking my fast.”
He started at the unexpected discovery that, for the severity of her coiffure and the paleness of her cheeks, the lady really was quite stunning when she smiled. Then her words registered. “I see that,” he snapped and her smile dipped. She made to take a bite out of her now well-buttered bread. “Why are you here?”
Mrs. Munroe froze, her lips slightly parted, Cook’s flaky bread but a hairsbreadth from her mouth. “Would you have me take my meal someplace else, my lord?”
He’d have her take it wherever she blasted well pleased—but not his home. “I’d have had you break your fast and left several hours ago,” he said, glowering at the insolent miss. By God, what game did she play here?
Then she bit into that damned bread. Her lips closed over it and had she been any woman other than this displeased, oft-frowning instructor from Mrs. Belden, he’d have believed the innocently erotic gesture, deliberate. He groaned.
Mrs. Munroe leaned forward in her chair. “Is there something wrong, my lord?”
“My chair.”
She cocked her head. “Beg pardon?”
“It is my chair.”
Four little creases indicated the lady’s confusion as she glanced about. “Where is your chair, my lord?”
Oh, blast and bloody hell. Tired of Mrs. Munroe and her delayed departure and furious with his sister’s debilitating condition, he strode over and towered over the young woman until she was forced to crane her neck back. He expected fear to light those expressive eyes. Instead, an eager glint lit their blue depths. By God, the insolent slip was enjoying herself. She’d orchestrated this entire exchange.
“Yes, my lord?” She arched a golden eyebrow.
“What are you still doing here, Mrs. Munroe?” he snapped.
“Break—”
“And do not say breaking your fast.” She closed her lips and then reached for her cup of coffee. Silence marched, punctuated by the slow draw of her sipping from the contents of her glass. Now she’d gone silent? He closed his eyes and prayed for patience. “Mrs. Munroe?”
“Yes?”
He’d long prided himself on his unflinching control. “Do you have nothing to say?” Did that harsh growl belong to him? All that control had been shattered by this slip of a woman more than a foot smaller than him and so narrow-waisted a faint wind would likely take her down.
Mrs. Munroe lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “You advised me against mentioning that I was breaking my fast and so I did not.” Then with long, slender fingers, she held up her partially filled glass for his inspection. “Now I am drinking.” To prove that very point, she took a small sip of her coffee.
Gabriel took in her bow-shaped lips pressed to the rim of the porcelain and a sudden need to take her mouth under his sucked all logical thought from his head. He blinked rapidly. What in blazes? He gave his head a firm shake, dislodging his desirous musings. Yesterday, when he’d first met the quiet, stammering, wide-eyed companion he’d immediately dismissed her as unsuitable for his spirited, unconventional sister. Chloe required a companion who’d not be dragged along on his sister’s madcap schemes, with the steely resolve to convince her of the rightness in making a match with a good, honorable gentleman. This more colorful, more insolent, and vastly more infuriating version of Mrs. Munroe, however, would not do for any number of different reasons. He’d go mad with one such as she in his home.
He steeled his jaw. “Explain your presence in my home now, Mrs. Munroe.”
*
For all Jane’s false bravado, her heart thumped hard enough that she marveled His Lordship could not see the frantically pounding organ against the wall of her chest. The forced smile on her lips threatened to shatter her cheeks. She’d have to be deaf as a dowager to fail to hear the thin thread of rage underscoring the marquess’ question. She’d wager a powerful, commanding lord such as he was unaccustomed to having his orders gainsaid. Yet for all her unease, she clung to the furious annoyance of the dismissive words he’d uttered in the hall. The fact that he cared not at all for her security, post, or in any regard beyond those should come as little surprise. All the noblemen she’d had the displeasure of knowing had seen her as a lesser person there to serve, there to see to their pleasures, or, in some instances as in the case of her father, see her not at all.
“Mrs. Munroe?” he snapped.
Jane started and hurriedly set down her tepid coffee. She placed her hands on her lap, out of his vision, shielding the faint tremble that would demonstrate how unnerved she was by his massive, towering form standing above her. Marquesses had no right to look the way this man did. A muscle-hewn frame and sun-bronzed skin, he might as well have been any honorable man who worked with his hands in the Kent countryside that she and her mother had called home.
In an attempt to demonstrate some mastery over the tenuous situation, Jane dusted her palms together. He followed that movement and then looked at her through dark, impenetrable slits. “You see, my lord, you unfairly dismissed me. You judged my suitability by a brief conversation and nothing more.” Which in fairness was his right. In a world where she was powerless, subject to the whims and desires of her employers, she chafed at the total lack of control over her circumstances. “You believed your sister and I would not suit.”
He leaned down and shrunk the space between them. “I believed you would not suit,” he said with a bluntness that deepened her frown.
Oh, the lout. “Precisely,” she said with a vigorous nod.
Only, that slight movement brought him down further, so mere inches separated their faces. The slight cleft in his square jaw ticked in a telltale indication of his annoyance. Fury emanated from his eyes. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Munroe.” And God help her, she really shouldn’t note anything beyond his high-handedness and easy disregard for her future, she’d have to be blind to fail to appreciate the chiseled planes of his face that may as well have been carved of stone.
“You believed I would not suit your sister, but you can’t know that. Not truly.” He pierced her with his intense stare and she rushed on before her courage fled and her feet followed suit. “If your sister is as spirited as you proclaim—”
“She is,” he bit out.
“Then surely the lady should have some input as to my suitability.” Which was the desperate plan she’d crafted somewhere between the glorious, hot, soothing bath last evening and the hours of being unable to sleep. It was a sorry day indeed when a woman hung her hopes upon a post she’d hoped to steal and the benevolence of a spirited noblewoman.
The marquess straightened. “You would have me allow my sister to decide as to whether you will suit as a companion?”
Jane gave a terse nod. She braced for the mocking insolence she’d come to expect of men such as he who saw women as weak-willed and robbed them of a voice in all matters. Instead, a mocking smile turned his lips upward. The first indication that the brilliantly hatched scheme concocted in his guest chambers had proven a faulty one.
“Very well, Mrs. Munroe. I shall allow my sister to decide on your suitability as her companion.”
She eyed him warily. “You will?” The lords whose homes she’d resided in had made decisions for their wives and daughters. Those same men had only and always acted with their desires placed before anyone else’s. There had to be more at play where the marquess was concerned.
He ran a fierce stare over her. “I will, and when,” not if but rather when, “my sister decides you will not do as her companion, I expect you to take your leave immediately.”
Jane balled her hands into fists. “When I meet her and if she decides we do not suit,” his eyes narrowed all the more until nothing more than the blacks of his irises were visible. “Then I will leave.” Not before then. Being turned out by Lady Chloe Edgerton was not an option.
The marquess straightened and, wit
h one final hard look, started for the door.
A cowardly surge of relief coursed through her and she hopped to her feet. “My lord,” she called out. He froze at the threshold of the door and spun back to face her. He eyed her in stony silence. “When can I expect to meet Lady Chloe?”
He flexed his jaw. “My sister is now indisposed.”
“Indisposed?” she repeated.
For a long moment he said nothing and she expected he intended to allow that question to go unanswered. After all, it was not her right to put questions to him. Then, she’d never done what was expected of her where Society was concerned. Her lips twisted in a dry smile. That strong-willed aspect of her character had inevitably found her in this now impossible position with the Marquess of Waverly.
He spoke at last. “She suffers megrims, Mrs. Munroe.”
A twinge of guilt struck her. “I am sorry,” she said automatically.
The marquess gave a terse nod and then took his leave. Jane’s shoulders sagged and she gripped the back of the shell chair, borrowing support from the mahogany wood. Each day she was permitted to remain closeted away here, the closer she was to the freedom provided by the trust settled upon her by the duke. She would have claim to that money entitled her and then never again would she rely upon the Duke of Ravenscourt connections, the benevolence of strangers, or the whim of a nobleman. She would be free. Free when her mother had been reliant upon her protector’s generosity.
After days of the dark gloom of rain, an unexpected ray of sun filtered through the crack in the gold brocade curtains. The light danced off the crystal candelabras and threw a rainbow of color about the room. She stilled. As a girl, her mother had filled Jane’s ears with tales of legends and fables and fairytales. The first time Jane had ever seen one of those elusive rainbows, she’d been a girl of six. Her mother had told the tale of all great fortunes found at the end of that colorful masterpiece. All one had to do was battle the devilish leprechaun for those riches.
A smile played about Jane’s lips. It appeared her rainbow emptied out into the Marquess of Waverly’s home and, at the end of this particular battle, she’d have her riches—and then she’d be done with her father, the marquess, and any other arrogant, commanding nobleman.
“Mrs. Munroe?”
A gasp escaped her, and she spun around. The butler stood at the doorway. She relaxed. “Joseph,” she greeted, and with her momentary victory over the marquess and his intentions to send her off, embarrassment crept in at the boldness in commandeering the marquess’ breakfast room.
“As you will be a member of His Lordship’s staff, would you permit me to show you about the townhouse?”
If the marquess had his way, there was little reason for Jane to familiarize herself with any part of his lavish townhome except for the black front door with its dragon knocker. “I would be appreciative,” she said, instead.
He inclined his head, and then without waiting to see whether she followed, started from the room. Jane hurried after the older servant. Joseph moved at an unexpectedly quick clip for one of his advanced years. Every so often, his left leg hitched. That halting movement allowed her to fall into step beside him.
He grimaced as though in pain.
A twinge of sympathy tugged at her heart, and with it an equally strong loathing for the marquess, who’d not permit this man a deserved retirement. She opened her mouth to assure Joseph that she was not in need of an escort, but then he shot her a challenging glance. Jane promptly closed her mouth. Too often she’d been the object of people’s pity. She’d not subject the kindly servant to that emotion.
She would, however, use the opportunity to find out more of her employer and his willful sister. “You have been in the marquess employ long, Joseph?” she asked as they moved down the thin-carpeted corridors.
“I’ve been in service to the marquess and his family for forty years, Mrs. Munroe.”
Was it loyalty to the man’s father that kept him here? Periodically, Joseph motioned to a room—a parlor, a study—acquainting Jane with her new, temporary, but hopefully not too temporary residence. “And His Lordship requires you to continue at your post?”
He shot her a sidelong look. “The current Marquess of Waverly has offered me my retirement. I choose to continue in my role,” he murmured. Before she could ask the questions that sprung forth to her lips, he motioned to a closed door. “The library, Mrs. Munroe.”
It did not escape her notice that he sought to divert her questions away from the Marquess of Waverly. Hmm. The man inspired loyalty in his servants. She furrowed her brow and considered how such a rigid, unbending, and unfeeling man could rouse anything but fear and annoyance in a person. It mattered not. The person who would ultimately decide her fate was none other than the gentleman’s sister. As they turned at the end of the corridor, Jane put another question to the servant. “And what of Lady Chloe?” she asked. “Is there anything you might tell me of Lady Chloe?” Anything that would prove useful in winning over the likely spoiled, young lady.
A frown tugged his lips downward. The kindly gentleman grew a good deal less kind when presented questions about his employer or the man’s kin. “She is an honorable, spirited young lady.”
Spirited. There was that word again. And honorable. Together, two unexpected words assigned any of Mrs. Belden’s former students.
As they moved through the house, Jane committed the long halls and corridors to memory. Having been employed in the homes of other powerful nobleman, she’d learned to appreciate possible paths of escape. What seemed an interminable amount of time later, they reached Jane’s chambers. “His Lordship would likely afford you the use of the rooms, Mrs. Munroe.” She highly doubted that. Not when he was likely plotting, even now, the most efficient way to have her removed from his home.
With a murmur of thanks, Jane stood staring down the hall, long after Joseph had taken his leave, wondering at the austere nobleman who commanded such loyalty.
Chapter 6
Gabriel stood at the corner of the darkened library, his gaze turned out to the quiet streets below. The half-moon that hung in the sky cast a soft glow upon the cobbled roads, illuminating the deep puddles left after days of cool, London rain. He looped his hands behind his back, following a lone, slow moving carriage as it rattled past. His sister still lay abed, incapacitated with her megrims. Oftentimes, the episodes would last the course of a day. In rare cases, they would last longer. Through each, he suffered the blame that came from his sister’s suffering.
He laid his forehead against the cool windowpane and took each lash of guilt. What manner of brother did not stop vicious attacks upon a mere child? The honorable one, the younger one, nearly took their father apart with his bare hands. What had Gabriel done? Nothing that mattered. A hungering thirst for a drink filled him, consuming and desperate. He strode over to the sideboard, made his selection, and decanter and snifter in hand, he then carried them to the leather winged back chair set up in the corner of the room. Gabriel claimed a seat and shifted the burden in his hands. He filled his glass to the rim and set the decanter at his feet.
The door handle clicked and he stilled. Shrouded in the dark of the room, he peered at the entrance. A frown formed on his lips as the tart-mouthed, insolent Mrs. Munroe slipped into the room. He should excuse himself. At the very least, he should announce himself. Instead, he remained immobile and took in the companion sent from Mrs. Belden as she stole a quick glance about the library. Then, she closed the door behind her and stopped. With the moon’s pale glow, he studied her. She caught her too-full lower lip between her teeth as though warring with herself over the decision to remain, but with a slight shake of her head, moved to the long row of shelving.
The amber contents of his glass forgotten, he continued to study the woman who, even after his dismissal, had challenged her way into staying in his home. She trailed the tips of her fingers over the leather volumes and paused on a black book. Gabriel squinted but the title was lost to
the darkness of the room. Interest stirred as the young woman hesitated, tugged a book free, and then opened it. Head bent, with her attention fixed upon the tome, he used the opportunity to study her. What did one such as Mrs. Munroe read? And who was she? Stammering, fearful miss? Or bold-spirited, insolent minx?
With deliberate movements, he took a slow sip of his drink. All the while, the woman with her nose buried in the pages continued reading, unaware of his presence. For if she were, she’d have likely fled long ago. He’d wager she favored books about propriety and decorum and all things proper. After all, what else interested a woman who served as a stern instructor at an esteemed finishing school? On the heel of that was another question: How did a woman enter into such a position?
“Good evening, Mrs. Munroe.” He found an inordinate amount of enjoyment in her startled shriek. She flung her arms up and the volume sailed from her fingertips and landed at her feet.
“Ouch.”
Or more precisely on her feet.
He set his snifter down on the side table and stood. Despite the darkened room, crimson blazed upon Mrs. Munroe’s pale cheeks. He resisted the urge to smile as she hopped up and down on the uninjured toes in a move that was not at all proper and certainly not fitting behavior of one of Mrs. Belden’s distinguished instructors.
The lady chose that inopportune moment to glance at him. She narrowed her eyes. “Do you find enjoyment in another person’s pain?” she snapped.
Her words swiftly killed any of his earlier humor. A man who still bore the scars upon his back, he could never delight in another’s pain. “Forgive me. It was not my intention to laugh at you.”
“What was your intention, then?” she challenged. He gave his head a wry shake. Spiritless, indeed. “I was struck by the honesty of your reaction.”
The lady could have, and likely should have, taken those words as an insult. She peered at his face a long while and then shocked him with her slow nod. “I thought I was alone.” Ah there, the faint accusatory edge, words that danced around a reproach, but remained just shy of an insult.
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