“Would rather learn the harp.”
He’d told her as much. On the walk from King’s Inns Quay. Or at least, he presumed he had. “Yes. I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”
“Oh, I remember.”
The lightest stress on the pronoun made clear to him that she had expected he would not. She seemed to place great store in his forgetfulness, and he knew very well why. “I owe you an apology, Miss Gorse, for not realizing how fatigued you were last evening. I was—”
“Drunk?” The prim note in her voice grew stronger.
He’d never known a lady to use anything other than a polite euphemism for the condition. Foxed, perhaps. Or a trifle disguised. He cleared his throat. “Selfish, I was going to say.”
“Ah.” He watched her gaze travel to the decanter of Irish whiskey that sat on the corner of his father’s desk. “Well, I hope you do not often find occasion to be…selfish, Mr. Burke.”
By God, was she a Methodist? Who else would be so inclined to scowl at a man’s sins? Annoyance prickled near the base of his spine, then traveled upward, stirring the air in his lungs, prompting him to retort with sharp words.
He bit them back, turning toward the window to look down on the empty street.
Given the vulnerable position in which she had found herself, he could hardly blame her for wanting to stake out some little piece of territory on higher ground. Well, he was willing to concede that much to her. Tonight, the stopper had remained in that bottle. But if he was honest, there had been other nights, lonely hours in the semi-darkness, when he had not been so wise.
“You also play, I assume.” It was the most innocuous question he could think of. Really, not even a question. A signal, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, that the previous line of discussion was closed. And really, not much reassurance that he was any more gentlemanly than she believed. His voice was surprisingly gruff to his ears, and he only glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, rather than facing her. Serve him right if she got up and left.
She did not, however. She slid deeper into the chair—not so far that her spine touched its back, of course; he wondered if she ever allowed herself to relax enough for that—and laid the book across her lap. “I do. Will you wish me to continue your sisters’ lessons? Or have they a music master?”
A puff of laughter escaped his lips. “You must already have guessed the answer to that last, Miss Gorse, seeing as they did not even have a governess. And as to the first, you are at liberty to set the curriculum, so long as my sisters are no worse off when you leave us.”
When you leave us. An unexpected pang accompanied those words. In just twenty-four hours, she had made an indelible impression. Her departure, when it inevitably occurred, could not fail to be felt.
Her pursed mouth softened just enough to curve into a mocking smile. “What extraordinary license you give your employees, Mr. Burke.”
He had not noticed before how plump her lips were. How mobile. He wanted, suddenly, to make a project of discovering all their moods.
With a thump, he seated himself at the spinet and picked up the thread of his earlier tune. What was it he had told Molly about focusing on his work? Oh, he needed employment, all right. Some task. A goal. One in which his sisters’ governess’s lips played no part.
“I?” He took care to keep his tone as wry as her expression. “I have no employees.” He gestured around the room with one hand and continued to play with the other. “My father’s household. My father’s servants. My father’s children.” His second hand joined the first on the keys. “My authority, such as it is, merely borrowed and no doubt ill-fitting.”
When he came to the end of the piece—a fumbling stop, as he’d forgotten half of it—she spoke again. Had she been waiting impatiently to speak, or had the interval of his performance given her time to gather her thoughts?
“When my father died, my brother assumed his mantle.” One fingertip traced the edge of the book in her lap, and her eyes were watching its movement. “I wish—” With a little gasp of breath, she caught herself, and the wish remained unspoken. Though perhaps not entirely unspoken. “He did not choose to wear it as lightly as you have,” she said.
Those words could have meant many things…anything, really. Perhaps she disapproved of Paris’s negligence. Or perhaps little Rosamund had been a hellion once. Perhaps she’d fancied a stable hand and her brother had wisely dismissed the man. No cause to imagine her brother had acted inappropriately or unjustly. No reason to assume he had been the one who had tried to cow her with harsh words—or worse.
No matter how Paris longed for an excuse to go to her and comfort her through this interminable night.
“Is his mismanagement responsible for the necessity of your seeking employment?” Though his fingers still lay on the keys, Paris’s attention was focused squarely on her, waiting for her answer to a question he’d had no business asking.
“Mismanagement?” She bristled. “My brother has been an excellent steward and fulfilled his responsibilities admirably. He cannot be blamed for the difficulties he inherited.”
She defended him with conviction. So much so that Paris nearly persuaded himself he had imagined the rote quality of her speech. As if she were repeating something she’d often been told. By her brother, if he had to guess.
“Forgive me.” He dipped his head, less penitent than he ought to be. “I have had my doubts about whether you were raised with the expectation of becoming a governess. Perhaps I was mistaken.”
For a moment she said nothing, then gave a nod of reluctant acknowledgment. “You’re not entirely wrong. One might say I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for my brother.” At that confession, her lips twisted into something more like a grimace.
The expression did not make him want to kiss her any less.
From some dusty corner of his memory, he dredged up another song—a livelier tune, this time; why did those Irish airs always sound so melancholy?—and began to play. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught her tapping one finger against the cover of the book, keeping time with the melody.
“He is still comfortably at home, I suppose?”
At his question, the tapping stopped. “I do not know where he might be at the moment. I was never privy to his plans.”
Even that was no real cause to fault her brother. After all, he did not always trouble to acquaint Daphne and Bell with his comings and goings. And if Rosamund’s voice had been laced with annoyance at her brother’s inconsiderateness, or had prickled with displeasure at the forwardness of Paris’s question, he might have let her answer pass by. But what he heard when she spoke this time was an undercurrent of fear. This time, he was sure of it. She was afraid of her brother.
When he finished the song, he asked, “Where is home?” Partly because he was sorely tempted to hunt down her brother and see to it that no one had cause to fear him again. And partly because her answer would serve as a useful reminder that she was English and therefore the very last sort of woman any self-respecting Irish patriot should want.
Certain parts of him seemed to require such a reminder.
She hesitated. Only for a moment, but experience had made him suspicious of such pauses and the truthfulness of the answers that followed them. “I grew up in Berkshire. That house belongs to my brother now, of course. And as for home…” Another pause, though this one might better be characterized as a gasp. A gasp of realization. Of pain. “Why, I suppose I haven’t any, anymore.”
Before he could offer any reply at all, she twitched her shoulders and lifted her chin again. With that movement, her ordinary gorse-like demeanor returned. “Berkshire is in the southern portion of the country,” she explained in her governess voice, primed to deliver a geography lesson. “West of the capital.”
“Yes, I know.”
“I beg your pardon.” The stiffness of her voice underc
ut the words of apology. “I did not wish to presume any particular familiarity. Molly made clear your disdain for the sister island.”
His laugh, though humorless, propelled him to his feet and sent him a half-dozen steps closer to her. “Oh? Did she also make clear that my mother is English? As are the two unfortunate gentlemen who have saddled themselves with my sisters and whom I must therefore claim as brothers.”
Really, it should not have been possible for her spine to straighten further. “She, er…she might have mentioned it, yes.”
Ah, so the lady-governess did not like to be caught gossiping with servants? “If she was so forthcoming about our family history, then I daresay she cannot have failed to mention that I myself lived in London for some years?” He could tell by Rosamund’s wide eyes that Molly had said nothing of the sort. “Through a quirk of custom, even an Irish lawyer must serve his time at the Inns of Court before he can be called to the bar, you see. Time and travel gave me some knowledge of the southern portion of the ‘sister island,’ as you call it. Including the general proximity of the capital to such quaint country villages as may be found in Berkshire.”
He stood close enough now to watch her throat work. Perhaps swallowing one’s pride was not always a figurative act. “Well, then, you doubtless know your way better than I, for I have been to London only once,” she said. “When I was a very little girl, my father took me. We saw the menagerie at the Tower.” The soft fondness of her voice was paired with a shadow of memory in her eyes.
“I suppose you pitied the poor wild things trapped in cages.” Right now, he felt positively savage, though he refused to let himself think about why.
The slightest hesitation, and the shadow in her eyes deepened. “Not then, I didn’t.” She rose. “Forgive me, Mr. Burke. I find I’m more tired than I realized. I should return to my room.”
“An excellent idea, Miss Gorse,” he said with a bow of his head. “My sisters no doubt look forward to the resumption of their regular lessons in the morning.”
Her lips parted, a question clearly poised on their soft curves. But she merely said, “Yes, sir. Good night.” And with a shallow curtsy, she was gone.
As soon as the door shut behind her, he flung himself into the chair she had abandoned and was rewarded with a sharp jab to the ribs. Muttering an oath under his breath, he groped beneath his arm for the object that had attacked him: the corner of a book. When she’d risen, the slim folio of botanical prints had slid into the groove between the arm of the chair and the seat and lodged there, awaiting its victim.
He tugged it free and flicked his hand to toss the book onto the table. Halfway through the motion, however, he paused, then slapped the volume onto his knee where it wobbled for a moment before coming to rest.
Damn, but he was tempted to reach for that decanter now, though he was torn between drinking from it and smashing it to pieces. Instead, he leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.
Despite his exhaustion, sleep was no closer than it had been an hour ago.
With a sigh, part weary resignation, part bitter laugh, he opened the book and began to flip idly through the collection of pictures. Where a boy had once seen fantastic landscapes, and a randy young man had once discovered the rounded swell of a woman’s breast, or the pouting curve of her lips, he now saw nothing but flowers, leaves, and vines. And yet there was still more than enough in its pages to call Rosamund to mind. Her soft blue eyes in the petals of one bloom, her barbed words in the thorns of another.
What did he care whether she mourned her father or feared her brother or missed her childhood home? Whether her head still ached from Bell’s first-ever strike, or whether Molly had stuffed that same head with nonsense about him?
His absolute and only concern was whether Miss Gorse was a suitable governess for his sisters. And if his past record was anything to judge by, his concern was likely to be both warranted and short-lived. He would wonder how things were getting on, mean to inquire, let himself be distracted from his responsibilities, and that would be the end of it. In a matter of months, she would be gone. If she didn’t trust him enough to lay her life’s story at his feet, then she was…wise.
And surely wisdom was a desirable quality for a governess to possess.
Chapter 8
Rosamund was an eejit, just as Daphne had said.
How else to explain what she’d revealed to Paris Burke? She’d mentioned her brother. She’d named the county in which she’d lived. How easily he could use that information against her. And if he discovered the truth, would he send her away? Back to Charles? Back to Lord Dashfort?
How else to explain lying awake until nearly dawn, listening for his footsteps on the stairs, the creak of the door to the bedchamber adjacent to hers, the squeak of his bedstead as he lay down upon it? Waiting and wondering and worrying, until every inch of her ached with awareness of how near he was. Not because she feared having him so close, but because she…oh. Oh, dear. Because she didn’t.
And how else to explain sleeping through the start of lessons?
She hadn’t known the exact hour, of course, until she’d gone up to the attic, walked across the makeshift schoolroom, and peered through the dirty window at the distant clock. But she could tell from the expressions on Daphne’s and Bell’s faces that she was late.
When she turned away from the window, Bell glanced furtively at the plaster at her temple and then to the floor. Daphne slid a book from the stack on her desk and pretended to be absorbed in it.
No use in asking herself how a proper governess would handle such a situation. A proper governess wouldn’t have overslept. “Thank you for waiting patiently,” she said. “Now, if you’ll—”
“Paris told us to.” Daphne explained, a petulant note in her voice.
“You—you’ve seen your brother this morning?” Was he not still asleep?
Bell nodded. “At breakfast.”
“He said he had an appointment.” Was it her imagination, or did Daphne sound unhappy?
“And that we were to let you sleep as long as you needed. On account of—of—” Bell’s gaze flicked once more to Rosamund’s brow.
Automatically she shot up a hand to hide the injury from prying eyes, flinching when she brushed against the tender spot. Paris’s touch had been infinitely gentler. She hardly knew what to make of such kindness. It would be unwise to let herself need it. “I appreciate your solicitude, and his, but I’m perfectly fine.”
The words were very nearly true. The bleeding had stopped, though she hadn’t taken the time to remove the court-plaster. The bruise looked a good deal worse than it felt. Even her headache was mostly gone, and what lingered could not entirely be attributed to a wayward cricket ball.
Clearing her throat, she worked up the courage to ask the question she’d been unable to give voice to last night. “He was not unduly harsh when he reprimanded you?”
“Reprimanded us?” Daphne screwed up her face in obvious puzzlement.
“You mean about yesterday?” Bell shook her head. “Paris didn’t scold us, miss.” Tension she hadn’t known she was holding eased from Rosamund’s shoulders. “He just reminded us that all cricket players, whether batting, fielding—”
“Or bowling,” Daphne added with a significant look.
“—must keep their eye on the ball.” Bell glanced at Daphne. “Always.”
Focus. Singleness of purpose. Excellent advice. She would do well to take it, rather than allow herself to be distracted by an untoward interest in…people and matters that were none of her concern. If Mr. Burke chose to discipline his sisters in a manner altogether different from her own brother, that was certainly his prerogative. And if he chose to treat all the members of his household with a surprising degree of kindness and generosity, it was still no excuse for her to slacken in her duty. “We will begin this morning with mathematic
s,” she said in her best governess voice. “If you would kindly tell me where you left off in your lessons…”
The girls looked to one another, then back at her. Neither reached for a book or a pencil. Rosamund’s heart sank. She knew what that meant. Yesterday, following a similar inquiry about their previous study of history, she’d discovered that the girls’ father had not limited himself to the traditional methods of reading and recitation. Instead, he had had his children act out the speeches of Demosthenes (“while wearing tunics made of our bedsheets!” Bell had exclaimed), and build a model of the Battle of Agincourt, using chess pieces, candle stubs, and the contents of their mother’s sewing basket.
“The last mathematics lesson I remember was going to market with Molly,” Bell said, “and having to figure all the pounds and pence in our heads.”
“No, that wasn’t it,” Daphne countered. “Have you forgotten the mouse?”
Though she was almost afraid to ask, Rosamund echoed, “Mouse?”
“Papa told us there was a mouse who wanted to visit every house on this side of Merrion Square. We had to tell how many feet and inches the mouse would go if he started in our drawing room, chewed a hole through the wall behind the green sofa and into the Daltons’ drawing room, and so on.” In the air, she sketched the mouse’s journey. Rosamund narrowly contained a shudder, though she couldn’t deny the girls had learned something when Daphne concluded, “Nine hundred eighteen feet and a half, assuming every drawing room is a uniform width, though I don’t believe they are. I wanted to measure them, but Papa said we mustn’t disturb the neighbors.”
“And what did your mother say to all this?” Rosamund asked weakly.
“Oh, now I remember that lesson,” said Bell. “Mama said a real mouse would’ve gone considerably farther, because she’d never yet met one who wouldn’t find his way into the kitchens too.”
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