by Olivia Drake
The memory of his harsh words crushed the budding sympathy in her. She wouldn’t allow herself to make any sentimental excuses for his behavior. Lord Simon was a cold, aloof aristocrat with a shriveled knob in place of his heart. She would do everything in her power to keep him from mistreating Nicholas.
She realized the maids were still gossiping about Lord Simon.
Livvy was saying to Moira, “Lady Louisa’s always visitin’ here. Do ’ee think his lordship be keepin’ company wid her?”
“Blaamed if I know, but he did look sweet on her yesterday, smilin’ and such,” Moira said. “Mayhap we’ll see a weddin’ come spring.”
Livvy propped her chin on her work-chapped hands and sighed dreamily. “I surely hope so. Lady Louisa is so fine and pretty. No’ like that uppish Miss Griswold.”
“Or that oogly Lady Joan. What a cadge-o-bones she is!”
“If his lordship weds that one, he’d have t’ feed her a cartload o’ cream t’ fatten her up. Else he’d ne’er find her in the marriage bed.”
The maids burst out giggling. Annabelle smiled politely, though she didn’t join in their laughter. She was too busy considering what they’d said. Apparently, Lord Simon was being pursued by all the marriage-minded ladies in the neighborhood.
The notion caused a disturbing tension in the pit of her stomach. If indeed he married, what effect would it have on her place here? Perhaps his bride would embrace the role of mother to Nicholas. Would Lord Simon have no further use for Annabelle? After all, mothering the child had been the primary reason Lady Milford had sought out a governess for the duke.
Annabelle felt an even greater urgency to oust the vicar and take over His Grace’s schooling. Only then would she be indispensible.
Chapter 9
At teatime on Friday afternoon, when Nicholas was scheduled to have his weekly audience with Lord Simon, Annabelle couldn’t find the boy. One minute he’d been curled up on the window seat in his bedchamber reading a book, and the next he’d vanished.
His disappearance had happened at least in part due to her own vanity. She’d slipped into her chamber for a moment to check her appearance. The last time she’d encountered Lord Simon, in that dreadful incident with the sugar, she had looked slovenly in borrowed clothing. Suspecting he was shallow enough to judge her competence as a teacher on outward appearances, Annabelle was determined to look her best today. Accordingly, she’d worn the finest of her three new gowns, a blue silk that enhanced the color of her eyes. A lace spinster’s cap covered her neat bun. In the little mirror over the washstand, she looked sober and proficient, equal to the task of tutoring a duke.
But all her preparations would be for naught if she couldn’t find Nicholas. Where had he gone?
She searched his bedchamber, looking under the bed, behind the draperies, and inside the mahogany wardrobe. His copy of Robinson Crusoe lay abandoned on the window seat. Surely if he’d left the nursery, she would have heard his footsteps out in the schoolroom. Her door had been open during the few minutes of her absence.
“Your Grace?” she called. “Are you here? Your uncle is expecting us very soon.”
No answer.
She stepped out into the passage and peeked into Elowen’s chamber. The spartan furnishings gave the boy nowhere to conceal himself. She couldn’t ask the nursemaid for help because the woman had gone down to the servants’ hall to have her tea.
After fruitlessly combing through several other empty chambers, Annabelle could only conclude he must have slipped out in order to avoid the conference with his uncle. He’d disappeared the same way on their tour of the castle when they had encountered Lord Simon and his lady visitors in the drawing room.
But she’d hoped that Nicholas was beginning to trust her to protect him. After three days here, she had seen encouraging signs that he was warming to her. He’d diligently applied himself to art lessons after the vicar was gone for the day. They’d enjoyed several excursions downstairs to the library to choose books. Each evening, they had set up the toy soldiers in his chamber to fight mock battles. Today, though, he had been more reserved than usual and Annabelle flayed herself for not realizing he must have been dreading this meeting.
She glanced at the casement clock. Less than ten minutes remained before the appointment. “Your Grace!” she called once again. “Do come out. We haven’t the leisure to play hide-and-seek.”
Only the distant murmur of the sea answered her. Nicholas knew every nook and cranny of the castle. There were a hundred places where he might conceal himself.
Annabelle hurried out of the schoolroom and down the winding stone steps. At the bottom, a housemaid was on her hands and knees washing the floor with a rag and bucket. She stoutly professed not to have seen the duke. The news mystified Annabelle since there was no way out of the nursery other than down that particular flight of stairs.
Of course, Nicholas knew how to be quiet and stealthy. Perhaps he’d stolen by while the woman’s back was turned.
The other time he’d vanished, he hadn’t returned to the nursery straightaway. It had been an hour later that he’d reappeared in his bedchamber. He’d been stubbornly reticent on where he’d been, and Annabelle had been reluctant to press him.
Now she wished she’d done so. He must have a safe place that he retreated to whenever he felt threatened.
Spurred by urgency, she hastened on a search of the castle. Nicholas wasn’t in the great hall, the drawing room, or the chapel. Nor had he gone down to the cellars. She even raced back up to the nursery to check for him again.
All to no avail.
Breathless, she paused in a drafty stone corridor and tried to think of where else to look. Accompanying him to this weekly meeting was one of the tasks she’d wrested from Mr. Bunting’s control. She had a sinking suspicion that Nicholas had never dared to run away from the vicar. The poor child would have obeyed out of fear of being thrashed.
By comparison, Annabelle would appear weak and ineffectual. Nevertheless, she felt obliged to inform Lord Simon that his nephew had gone missing. It was a safe guess that the master of the castle would be less than pleased.
She trudged toward his study in the north wing, but her steps faltered when she spied his open door. It wasn’t too late to turn back. She could retreat to the schoolroom and ask a footman to deliver a note saying that Nicholas was unwell and the meeting must be postponed.
No. She mustn’t turn coward now. Better she should view this as an opportunity to discuss Nicholas’s schooling. Today, Lord Simon couldn’t claim he was too busy since he’d already set aside the meeting time in his schedule.
She took a deep breath for courage. Then she rapped lightly on the open door and stepped into the study. Having braced herself for a confrontation, Annabelle was disconcerted to find herself alone.
Lord Simon wasn’t even here.
The chair behind the mahogany desk was positioned at an angle as if he’d just arisen from it. A quill lay atop a stack of papers on the polished surface. By the fireplace, an untouched tea tray sat waiting on a table. The air held the faint tang of leather and spice, a heady masculine scent that she associated with him.
Had he gone in search of Nicholas? Surely not. By the mantel clock, she was only a few minutes late. Even a stickler for punctuality wouldn’t have given up already.
Deciding to wait, she ventured a few more steps into the room. The only other time she’d visited here had been on the day of her arrival. It had been dusk then, the chamber gloomy. Now, the bright sunshine gave the place a far more inviting aura. The windows looked out on the pearly blue expanse of the sea and the waves crashing onto the rocky base of the cliff.
On any other day, she would have been content to spend hours drinking in the wild beauty of the view. It was so very different from the landlocked hills of Yorkshire. But an edgy tension constricted her insides. She desperately wanted to get this interview over with and done.
To steady her nerves, Annabelle made a slow circuit of the room.
A wall of oak shelves held rows of accounts books, some looking very old, the leather bindings cracked and faded. The rest of the study was decorated by an assortment of interesting oddities, and she distracted herself by examining some of the items on display.
There was an alabaster statue of a woman in Grecian robes minus her head. A pear-shaped stringed instrument rather like a lute. A primitive tribal mask carved out of wood.
Lord Simon had been stationed overseas in the military. Were these relics that he’d collected on his journeys? They must be. A wistful envy took root inside her. How exciting it would be to travel the world and observe the way foreigners went about their daily lives. Back at the girls’ academy, she had fed her interest in different cultures by poring over every geography and history book in the library. She had prided herself on her knowledge of distant countries. But seeing these artifacts in real life illustrated how very little she really knew.
An unusual object on a table in the corner caught her eye. It resembled an intricately decorated silver vase—except for the snakelike hose dangling from the center. Curious, she leaned closer and sniffed. The device exuded a faint smoky aroma that reminded her of the pipe tobacco used by the village blacksmith back in Yorkshire.
She picked up the hose and tried to discern how the apparatus worked. If indeed this was a device for smoking, where did one put the tobacco and how was it lit? And why would anyone prefer such a complicated contraption when a pipe was smaller and easier to use?
“Looking for something?”
Lord Simon’s voice made her jump. Annabelle dropped the hose with a loud clang. She spun around to see him lounging against the doorframe. He was not wearing his coat or cravat, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to reveal muscled forearms. In his black knee boots and casual garb, he looked more like a pirate than a nobleman. The sight of him caused a dark lurch of pleasure deep inside her.
No, it wasn’t pleasure she felt. It was relief that finally she had the chance to air her grievances on Nicholas’s behalf.
Remembering her manners, she curtsied. “Lord Simon, you startled me.”
“Oh? This is my study. Why are you here instead of Bunting?”
“The vicar has departed for the day.” Convincing the reverend to make that one concession had been about as easy as taking a cat out for a walk on a leash. “Henceforth, I shall be responsible for bringing His Grace to these weekly meetings.”
“Then kindly explain why my nephew didn’t accompany you.”
As Lord Simon spoke, his gaze made a slow sweep of her from head to toe. If he noticed the improvement in her appearance, he showed no sign of it. His face remained cool and expressionless.
She laced her fingers together to keep from checking that her hair remained neatly tucked into its spinster’s cap. “I was hoping you’d agree to just the two of us speaking today. It’s important that we discuss His Grace’s schooling—”
“I presume Nicholas has run off again.”
So much for her attempt to prevaricate. A dozen excuses flashed through her mind. But denial would be futile since he could easily find out the truth. “Unfortunately so,” she admitted. “However, I’m certain he’s in the castle somewhere. As soon as we finish here, I intend to find him.”
“Since he isn’t here, we are finished. Good day, Miss Quinn.”
He walked to the tea tray and leaned down to pour himself a cup from the silver pot.
Nonplussed, she stood unmoving. How could he dismiss her just like that? She wanted to lash out at him for his appalling lack of interest in his nephew’s education. But she had to remember Nicholas. He was all that mattered. For his sake, she would swallow her pride and pacify this beast.
“Please, my lord. This is very important.”
He turned to scowl at her. “I thought I’d made it clear that you and Bunting were to work out the details of the boy’s lessons between the two of you.”
“Yes, you did.” Annabelle knew she stood on shaky ground. She needed to sound proficient rather than shrewish. “However, I’m not certain that you realize the dire situation in the schoolroom. His Grace is a very bright child, yet he appears to be lagging somewhat in his studies. I believe his disinterest is due to the poor quality of the vicar’s lectures. The man speaks too far above the comprehension level of a young boy.”
Lord Simon gave an impatient shake of his head. “Nonsense. As to my nephew’s progress, it’s perfectly adequate. Each week he recites to me what he’s learned.”
“His Grace is quite adept at memorization. However, he spends much of his time in class staring out the window when he should be listening and learning.”
“You’re becoming something of a troublemaker, Miss Quinn.” His expression disapproving, Lord Simon stirred sugar into his cup. “I must say, at least Bunting has never had any difficulty in bringing the boy here on time.”
“Of course he hasn’t,” Annabelle said, unable to keep an edge of frustration from her voice. “He uses intimidation and corporal punishment to frighten your nephew into obedience.”
“Being soft will hardly prepare Nicholas for the rigors of attending Eton next year.”
“Nor will beating him into submission.”
Laying down the spoon, Lord Simon turned around sharply to frown at her. “Beating him?”
“He smacked Nicholas on the knuckles with a ruler. And all for the sin of drawing a picture on his slate during class.”
His hard expression relaxed a bit. “Bunting told me about the incident on the day it happened.”
“Then you agree with what he did?”
Lord Simon walked over and handed the cup to her. “Spare the rod and spoil the child. Isn’t that how the saying goes, Miss Quinn?”
Annabelle glanced down in surprise at the steaming cup of tea. It seemed too civilized a gesture in the midst of their quarrel. Yet at least it indicated he was willing to let her stay for a few minutes. “But … the duke is your ward. Surely you want to protect him from undue harm.”
“Boys need discipline or they’ll misbehave. It’s a fact of life.”
“I’m perfectly aware that brute force can induce a child to behave. But isn’t it better for Nicholas to do what’s right because he’s been taught good morals and a sense of responsibility?”
Lord Simon glanced over his shoulder as he poured a cup of tea for himself. “He has to learn to obey authority. Frankly, it matters little to me how you accomplish it.”
His indifference toward the duke grated on her. Blowing on her tea, she recalled what the kitchen maids had said—that Lord Simon had been in love with Nicholas’s mother and that his elder brother had stolen her away. Afterward, Lord Simon had renounced his family and left England for many years. Had hurt and anger hardened his heart toward the duchess’s son?
Annabelle took a sip from her cup. There was another possibility—that Lord Simon had always been cold and uncaring. That he’d driven Nicholas’s mother away with his callous nature. She might have been a pretty possession to him, nothing more, and his overweening pride had not been able to tolerate her rejection of him.
Whatever the case, it didn’t excuse his apathy now. An innocent child should never suffer for the sins of his parents.
Common sense told her that she ought to abandon the futile argument, yet she couldn’t remain silent, not when Nicholas’s welfare was at stake. She looked at Lord Simon, who was walking toward her with a plate of tea sandwiches.
“Perhaps you should try to understand why the duke behaves as he does,” she said, waving away the plate. “It’s my observation that he hides because he’s frightened of you.”
“What? I’ve never laid a hand on him.”
“Can he know for certain that you won’t do so in the future? You’re a stranger to him, my lord. He never even met you until after the death of his parents.”
Fixing her with an icy stare, Lord Simon placed the dish on his desk. “Gossiping with the staff, Miss Quinn?”
That look g
ave her a chill. But she couldn’t give up without doing her best to convince him. Using her most persuasive tone, she said, “It’s important for me to know all the circumstances that affect His Grace. How else am I to help him?”
“You can make certain he doesn’t run away from you again.”
“It’s you he runs away from, you he fears. If you showed him a measure of love and kindness, perhaps he’d be more eager to visit you.”
His face darkened. “Enough,” he snapped. “I’ve long outgrown the need for lectures from a governess.”
The reminder of her place made Annabelle aware that she’d pushed him too far. She was only here on a fortnight’s probation. It would be a miracle if he didn’t toss her out of the castle for insubordination. And then what good would she be to Nicholas?
She set down her tea on the nearest table, the cup rattling in the saucer. “Pray forgive me, my lord,” she said, lowering her gaze. “I spoke out of turn. If you’ll excuse me now, I must go search for His Grace.”
Annabelle curtsied and started toward the door. She hadn’t taken more than two steps when Lord Simon wrapped his hand around her arm and brought her to an enforced halt. “Wait,” he growled.
The firm pressure of his fingers sent heat through the thin silk of her sleeve. The sensation was so unexpected that she uttered a strangled gasp. Half afraid she’d driven him to violence, Annabelle jerked her eyes up to his.
But though his expression held irritation, he appeared far from ready to strike her. Rather, he gazed down at her with an intensity that compelled her to stare back at him. She couldn’t help but notice his gorgeous gray eyes and thick black lashes. Not since the rainstorm on the day of her arrival, when he’d hauled her inside the castle, had she stood so close to a man. The novelty of it had a curious effect on her, weakening her limbs and quickening her heartbeat.
Then he glanced down at her mouth, and the look in his eyes altered subtly to warmth. Tilting his head slightly, he brought his face closer to hers. In a low gravelly tone, he said, “Miss Quinn, if only you would—”
