‘Mr Thompson said to put you in the governess’s room.’ The maid led her to the first room off the nursery hallway. She lingered while Lillian entered the room. ‘Mr Thompson says you are not the governess. You are a guest. So I cannot credit why he’s put you here.’
The room had a decent-looking bed and a warm fire, some comfortable chairs to sit upon and her portmanteau. ‘It will do very nicely,’ Lillian said.
‘So are you a guest...if you are not the governess?’ Hannah asked.
‘A guest of sorts.’ She wondered what the servants would be told about her. ‘I suppose you could call me a stranded traveller.’
‘How unfortunate,’ Hannah said. ‘I was hoping you’d be the governess. The children are too much for me, I can tell you.’
‘If Grant—Lord Grantwell—does not object, I will be most willing to help with their care while I am here.’ It would give her something to do...keep her mind busy until Grant tossed her out and Dinis found her.
‘That would suit me.’ Hannah blew out a breath. ‘Well, if you’ll not be needing me, I’m off for my dinner.’
Dinner. The two biscuits Lillian had eaten with the tea had not been enough to keep the hunger pangs away. It had taken all her will power not to stuff into her mouth the scraps of food the children left on their plates at dinner.
Lillian smiled. ‘Thank you, Hannah. I will see you tomorrow.’
As soon as the maid left, Lillian took off her half-boots and stockings and rubbed her feet, red from wearing the wet shoes all day. She opened her portmanteau, but all the clothes inside were as damp as the dress she wore. At least her other shoes and one pair of stockings were reasonably dry. She draped her two dresses and her underclothes over the chairs and moved them close to the fire. With luck, her nightdress would dry.
Her stomach growled. She paced around the room a while, trying to will her hunger away, until at last she gathered the courage to go in search of the kitchens. Perhaps the cook would fix her a plate of something. She didn’t care what.
She made her way back to that beautiful staircase, now softly illuminated by candlelight. She entered the hall and saw that someone had mopped up the snow she’d caused to be blown in and had forgotten about. Guessing the kitchens would be on the other side of the house from the library, she crossed the hall to another small hallway. She opened a door.
There Grant sat at a small table set for dinner, wine glass in hand.
‘I beg your pardon.’ She backed away. ‘I was looking for the kitchen.’
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘I hoped to get a meal.’ She kept her hand on the door latch, ready to leave.
He stopped her. ‘You have not eaten?’
She lifted her chin. ‘I had biscuits and tea with the children.’ A bowl of apples sat in the centre of the table. Would he mind if she dashed in and grabbed one? ‘It appears you have not been served yet. I will not trouble you further, if you would be kind enough to direct me to the kitchen.’
‘Sit down.’ He gestured with his hand. ‘Thompson can set another place.’
She hesitated. Was this an invitation from him after he’d ordered her to stay away? What was that about? And did she even wish to share a meal with him when his presence filled her with pain?
On the other hand, she was so hungry she did not care which it was.
Thompson entered the room, carrying a small tureen of soup. He started when seeing her there.
Grant spoke. ‘Miss Pearson will join me for dinner, Thompson. Will you set a place for her?’
‘Right away, m’lord.’
Thompson placed the tureen on the table and quickly produced another place setting and glasses from a cabinet in the corner. He filled a glass with wine from a decanter on the table, then served her soup first. Lillian was so hungry she would not have cared if she’d been given Grant’s portion, but apparently there was enough soup for two, because Grant’s bowl was filled as well. It was a simple pea soup, but its aroma made Lillian’s stomach growl.
‘Anything else, m’lord?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Grant answered. ‘I assume Cook has made enough to accommodate Miss Pearson?’
‘Indeed, m’lord.’ Thompson bowed and left the room.
Lillian fingered her spoon, eager to dip it into her soup but unwilling to eat before Grant.
He took a sip of wine. ‘You’ll see few servants here. I gave most of them leave for Christmas.’
So that was why no footman stood in the hall attending the door.
‘I shall endeavour not to be a burden,’ she said.
He finally took a spoonful of soup.
She still held back so as not to appear as eager as she felt. ‘If there is any way I might help, please let me know.’
He laughed dryly, dipping his soup spoon into his bowl again. ‘They likely need help in the scullery.’
She nodded. ‘Very well. I need only to be directed there.’
He lifted the spoon. ‘I was not serious.’
‘I was serious.’ She met his eye. ‘I am in your debt. I will help in any way you desire.’
He did not respond, but simply attended to his soup.
She took advantage of his silence to attack her soup as well. It tasted heavenly, but only accentuated her hunger. She tried to slow herself down by taking a sip of wine between spoonsful, but too soon the soup disappeared.
* * *
It did not escape Grant that she’d emptied her soup bowl before he was half done. Was it nerves or hunger? Or simply for show? Trying to gain his sympathy, no doubt. He must recall how easily she deceived.
She took a sip of wine. Why did he feel she wished to gulp the wine as quickly as the soup?
‘Perhaps I could help by attending to the children,’ she said, as if there had not been a long silence since the last time they spoke.
It had shocked Grant how quickly the two children had latched onto her. Or had she latched onto them? The children treated him as if he were some ogre from a fairy tale, but then he had not the foggiest notion how to handle them. He’d given them over to Hannah’s care and hardly seen them since, although he’d heard from Thompson that Hannah considered them unruly and difficult to mind. Running through the servants’ passageways had certainly confirmed that impression.
When he’d watched them with Lillian after little Anna’s fall, though, the children had merely seemed like two lost waifs.
He took another spoonful of soup, aware that he’d not responded to her offer to help with the children. Obstinately, he wanted to refuse her anything she desired.
Thompson entered at that moment, bringing the second course: a roasted chicken, turnips and carrots. Grant carved the chicken and Thompson served slices of it to Lillian, plus some of the turnips and carrots. He poured Lillian another glass of wine. Her gaze was fixed on the food, and Grant felt her eagerness to dig in, but she waited until he was served before she began to eat.
He broke the silence this time. ‘How did you know to find me here?’
She put down her fork and directed her gaze to him. ‘I simply took a chance. I knew from the London papers—I always read them, even in Lisbon—that you had inherited your brother’s title. I confess I did not learn why. Had he been ill?’
‘A carriage accident,’ Grant responded automatically, then felt she’d tricked him into talking to her. ‘Killed his wife, too.’
‘The children are your brother’s, then?’ she asked.
‘No.’ It was churlish of him to withhold simple information from her, as if it were as valuable as the papers she’d stolen from him, but he did not care.
She did not press him, though, but merely attended to her food. That irritated him even more.
Grant poured himself more wine. He hated feeling this way. She’d stolen his good humour. The arrival of the children had unsettled
him, but she’d taken the rest. He drank half the glass.
‘The children are my sister-in-law’s from a previous marriage,’ he finally said. ‘I did not know they existed. They were apparently hidden away with her father until he became ill and died, and then his executors sent them here. They have only been here a week.’
She looked aghast. ‘Oh, the poor dears! How awful for them.’
To be sent to him, did she mean? She was probably right.
He finished his wine and poured himself more. ‘You may help with them if you wish. Though be certain they understand you will be leaving soon. I’ll not have any more surprises thrust on them.’
Her steady gaze captured him. ‘Yes, Grant. I understand.’
It seemed his anger ather was reflected back to him in those eyes. What a colossal joke fate had played on him, returning her to him as beautiful as ever, reminding him of how those eyes had once filled with a desire that mirrored his own. He could not gaze at her long without experiencing that once familiar enticement.
Yes. Providence was a consummate prankster, that he should sit across from her and re-experience his anger at her betrayal at the same time as wanting nothing more than to press his lips against hers and carry her up to bed.
Copyright © 2021 by Diane Perkins
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ISBN-13: 9780369711229
How Not to Chaperon a Lady
Copyright © 2021 by Susan Merritt
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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How Not to Chaperon a Lady--A sexy, funny Regency romance Page 26
