by Cheryl Holt
“I have no desire to continue.”
“But... why?”
“My reasons, Miss Hamilton, are none of your business.”
His comment fell into the room with a heavy thud, his discourtesy blatant and mortifying. Despite his low antecedents, he was a gentleman, and he hated upsetting her, but he wanted her to go away.
She seemed to deflate, appearing vulnerable and defense-less, a tragic figure who could benefit from a steady male influence, and he was irked to find himself wondering what it would be like to be the man who supplied it.
“May I be frank, Captain Odell?”
“No, you may not.”
Once again, she blathered on without permission. “Mrs. Ford urged me not to mention it, but my father was Captain Harry Hamilton of the Forty-seventh Dragoons.”
Tristan recalled a scandal that even he—being far out to sea and away from England—had heard about: a torrid affair, a duke’s mistress, a duel in which the dashing Captain Hamilton had recklessly perished.
“If Harry Hamilton was your father, then you most especially would not be appropriate for this position. I wouldn’t want you within a hundred yards of my ward.”
“I’m twenty-four years old, Captain Odell. I have two sisters. Jane is eighteen, and Amelia is only twelve—the same age as Lady Rose. We’re all alone in the world, and I can’t provide for them. I need this job.”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
“I’ll work for free, for a whole month. Give me a chance to prove myself.”
“It wouldn’t do any good.”
“Weren’t you in the navy when you were younger?”
“I was.”
“Then I’m begging you, as a favor to my father, a fellow soldier who served his country honorably for decades. Help me save my sisters.”
She reached out to him, trembling, beseeching him, and Tristan was too moved to reply. He simply shook his head.
To his horror, tears welled into her eyes, and he nearly leapt over the desk and shielded her face so he wouldn’t see them.
Though he was a tough, swashbuckling sailor, he was a sap for a woman’s tears, and he couldn’t bear to know that she was so unhappy. Her woe made him want to assist her, to watch over and shelter her and her destitute siblings, and he bit down on all the comforting words that were fighting to burst out.
“Go now,” he said very quietly.
Rudely, he grabbed a stack of correspondence and pretended to read it, effectively dismissing her.
He could sense her studying him, her probing attention wretched and intense.
Ultimately, she sighed and left, and he collapsed into his chair, feeling like a cad and a heel. He wasn’t generally so callous, and he was chagrined that he’d been cruel to her, but London was a brutal place, and there were too many poverty-stricken females. He couldn’t save any of them, and he wasn’t about to try.
It dawned on him, though, that he could have slipped her a few pounds to ease her immediate plight.
Eager to catch up with her, he hurried out to the hall and proceeded to the foyer when—to his disgust—he ran into Michael and Miss Hamilton.
Michael’s arm was around her waist, and she was pressed to the wall, much as Tristan had witnessed earlier with the housemaid Lydia.
So ... Miss Hamilton was not only the daughter of a notorious scoundrel, but she was loose and indecent, too. Had she come specifically hoping to bump into Michael? He was definitely rich enough to solve her problems. Had seduction been her scheme all along?
“Michael!” he snapped. “Unhand her at once.”
Michael chuckled and stepped away, while Miss Hamilton stumbled, struggling to right herself.
“She tells me,” Michael said, “that you didn’t feel she was suitable to be Rose’s governess. She must be joking. I think she’d be spectacular.”
Michael’s naughty gaze roamed down her torso, and she blushed furiously.
“Weren’t you going to your room?” Tristan asked him.
“Why yes, I was.”
Michael strolled away, as Miss Hamilton peered at Tristan, her expression unreadable. He couldn’t decide if she was embarrassed at being molested or at being discovered.
For the briefest moment, it looked as if she might explain or defend her behavior, but instead, she spun and stomped out.
