My Brown-Eyed Earl (2 page)

“All too happy to serve as a source of amusement,” the butler said dryly. He plucked a cup from the serving tray on Will's desk, filled it with steaming, pungent coffee, and set it in front of him.

“I suppose I shouldn't add anything to this,” Will said, taking a few scalding sips.

“It would rather defeat the purpose.”

“Fine. Let's get this interview over with. Bring the governess here.”

Gibson's gaze flicked around the room as though he were mentally cataloging all the reasons why a respectable young miss should not enter the decidedly male realm: the snifter of brandy and half-filled glass on the sideboard, the painting of a nude Aphrodite above the mantle, the discarded cravat draped over the arm of his chair. “If you're certain, my lord.”

“I am.” This was killing poor Gibson.

“Shall I ring for Phelps?”

Will leaned back in his chair and spread his arms. “Why would I need my valet?”

“Forgive me for mentioning it, my lord, but you look somewhat disheveled. I thought perhaps Phelps could tidy you up.”

“Blast it, Gibson. I don't require tidying. I'm looking for a governess, not a mistress.” But then, maybe his butler was trying to tell him something. “Wait. Is she…?”

“Is she
what
, my lord?”

Will wanted to say
comely
or
beautiful
. “Young?”

“She is. And not at all your usual sort of companion.”

“Then why all the fuss, damn it? Show her in here.”

The butler's nostrils flared in his otherwise stony face. “As you wish, my lord.” He turned stiffly and headed toward the drawing room at a glacial pace.

Hell. Will leaned forward on his elbows and pinched the bridge of his nose. Somehow, in the space of a week, his highly ordered, luxurious life had fallen apart.

First, Marina, the beautiful widow he'd been seeing, hinted that she wanted more than the mutually pleasurable arrangement they'd agreed to, forcing Will to break things off with her.

Next, his recently deceased cousin's mistress showed up on Will's doorstep with the twin girls, threatening to leave them at an orphanage unless he took them in.

And then last night, he attended a dinner party in honor of his mother's birthday. In front of a dozen guests, she announced her sole wish: that her son marry before she turned fifty—in exactly one year. After choking on his wine, Will promised to give the matter some thought.

Then he had gone directly to his club and drunk himself into oblivion.

Jesus. He stood, ran his hands through his hair, and checked his reflection in a mirror between a pair of bookcases. Gibson was right—he looked like hell.

Bad enough to scare off a potential governess.

He swiped the cravat off his chair, slung it around his neck, hastily tied it in some semblance of a knot, and buttoned his jacket. There was nothing to be done about the stubble on his chin or the faint imprint the desk blotter had left on his cheek, so he threw back the rest of his coffee and congratulated himself. Within the hour he'd have a governess to manage the twins, and at least
one
aspect of his life would be set to rights.

Gibson was already shuffling down the corridor. “My lord,” he intoned from the doorway, “may I present Miss Lacey.”

Will blinked. Lacey … it was a common name. Surely the potential governess couldn't be—

She glided into the study and cast a wary look his way. “Good afternoon, Lord Castleton. It's a pleasure to see you again.”

Dear God. It
was
her. The vicar's daughter who thought she was too damned good for him. Standing in his study, cloaked in a drab dress that might have been lilac once but now more closely resembled gray. No ribbons adorned her brown hair. No ringlets framed her face. In fact, the only decoration she wore was the light smattering of freckles across her nose.

The butler raised his bushy brows. “I was not aware that you were already acquainted.”

“Thank you, Gibson. That will be all.”

The butler left reluctantly, closing the door behind him.

Miss Lacey pressed her lips together as though she longed to say something and silence herself at the same time. From what he recalled of her tongue, it was best kept under lock and key.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Will demanded.

“Applying for the governess position. I assumed you knew.”

“No,” he said curtly.

“I see.” She glanced over her shoulder at the door. “Perhaps it would be better if I—”

“Be seated, Miss Lacey.” He inclined his head toward the armchair in front of his desk.

She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she'd refuse. But then she walked toward the chair, looked at the seat, and froze. Just as stubborn as he remembered, unbiddable as ever.

He bristled. “Perhaps you'd prefer to remain standing for the entire interview?”

“No. It's only…”

“You object to meeting in my study?”

She narrowed eyes that were not quite green, but not quite brown either. “No, but I hoped to avoid sitting on this.” In one, fluid motion she leaned over the chair, picked up a pink, lace-edged scrap of satin between her thumb and index finger, and dangled it in front of his face.

 

Chapter
TWO

 

Lord Castleton snatched the frilly handkerchief from Meg's hand. He started to stuff it in his pocket, apparently thought better of it, and shoved it into a desk drawer. “Let me assure you, Miss Lacey. Nothing untoward has occurred here in my study.”

Perhaps not. But something untoward had definitely occurred
somewhere
.

Meg sat in the chair in front of his desk, glad she no longer had to rely on her shaking legs for support. “I'm certain that's none of my concern.”

“I'm glad we agree.”

She
was
curious, though. If her parents had had their way, the man who was now sitting across from her and cursing under his breath would have been her husband. Difficult as it was to fathom, she would have been his countess, probably blessed with a couple of children at this point.

The sight of him now, sporting rumpled clothes, a scowling face, and a foul mood, made her think she had dodged a rather nasty bullet.

The earl steepled his fingers under his chin, dark with stubble. “Now then, why don't you begin by telling me why you've been reduced to applying for a governess position?”

Dear Lord, this was humiliating—not needing to work, but having to explain herself. To him. She didn't want to reveal just how desperate she was. Or confess that suitors weren't exactly lining up outside her front door.

“My two sisters and I live with my uncle, Lord Wiltmore.” Meg studied the earl's face, waiting for the moment he realized she was one of the infamous Wilting Wallflowers.

The ton had cruelly dubbed Meg, Beth, and Julie thus after their first season had proved highly unsuccessful. The cause of their disgrace was a reputation-shattering combination of unfashionable gowns and their uncle's eccentric behavior. Revealing her connection to Uncle Alistair inevitably prompted one of two responses: derision or pity. The former was far easier to accept than the latter.

The earl stared intently, his expression betraying nothing. “Go on.”

“My uncle has been very good to us, but I cannot impose on his generosity forever.”

“Why not?”

Because Uncle Alistair is down to four loyal servants who've not been paid in six months. Because caring for my sisters and me has drained whatever meager savings he once had. Because Beth and Julie deserve to own at least one pretty pair of slippers.

Gripping the arms of the chair, she said, “I prefer to make my own way.”

“Interesting. I had expected you to spout some drivel about adoring children or having a passion for teaching.”

She probably should have. “I do not consider such sentiments
drivel
, my lord.”

“But they aren't
your
sentiments, are they, Miss Lacey?”

Meg swallowed. She'd anticipated questions about her lack of experience and references, but the earl's inquiries were even more difficult to answer. For they were personal. “Of course I like children,” she assured him. “Perhaps you could tell me a bit more about your daughters.”

He laughed—a deep, soulful sound that stirred something in her belly. “For one, they're not my daughters. What else would you like to know?”

What else, indeed? “Their names?”

“Diana and…” He dragged a hand through thick, dark hair. “… Violet. Er, I think that's right.”

Meg searched her mind for another question, hoping to remain on the offensive. “And you are their guardian?”

He shook his head as if he'd protest, then stood abruptly and turned his back to her. “I suppose I am. For now.”

Meg's heart went out to the girls. She knew all too well what it felt like to be passed off to a distant relative. At fifteen, she herself had felt like an odd and worthless family heirloom—the sort that no one wants but that no one can quite manage to give away to strangers, either. Uncle Alistair's offer to take them in had been a godsend.

“Where are the girls' parents?”

He turned, fixing an icy gaze on her. “Forgive me. I was under the impression that
I
would ask the questions at this interview.”

Drat. She raised her chin. “Ask away.”

“You've never been a governess before?”

“No.”

“And what makes you think that you're qualified?”

If he thought to intimidate her with rudeness, his plan backfired. His sharp tone only served to raise her ire, erasing the nervousness she'd felt earlier. “I tutored my younger sister in French.” A bit of a stretch perhaps, but she
had
helped Beth conjugate a few verbs and taught her some more colorful phrases.

He raised a dark brow, incredulous. “Your reference is your younger sister?”

“Of course not. I believe we've already established that this would be my first governess position, but everyone must begin somewhere, my lord. Furthermore, my friend Charlotte—er, Miss Winters—is an experienced governess and has promised to share the lessons that she's created for her own young charge.”

“This Miss Winters sounds like a gem. The perfect candidate. Perhaps
she
should be the one to apply for the position.”

“She's already in the employ of your friend, Lord—” She stopped herself, for he didn't deserve a civil response.

Frustration propelled her from her chair, but it was pride that made her lean across the ridiculously large desk and narrow her eyes at the earl. “Never mind. This meeting was a waste of time. I hereby withdraw my application.”

*   *   *

There was no denying it—he'd behaved like an ass. Clearly, Miss Lacey brought out the worst in him.

But she was correct on one count. The interview
was
a waste of time. She had thought marrying him was beneath her. How on earth would she manage to
work
for him? Merely requesting an update on the girls' progress could well cause her to bite his head off.

And yet …

Will admired her fiery personality. Even the drab gown she wore couldn't detract from the passionate sparks, couldn't stamp them out.

“I apologize for my foul mood,” he said. “It has less to do with you and more to do with the lingering, unfortunate effects of over-imbibing last evening. Still, inexcusable.”

She sniffed as if to say his admission was hardly a surprise. “I accept your apology. Nevertheless, I shall take my leave.”

The slightly husky tone of her voice warmed his blood. If his own governess had sounded like that, he would have followed her around like a puppy. He cast Miss Lacey a rueful smile and bowed politely. “I agree that would be for the best.”

She inclined her head, gracefully crossed the Aubusson rug, and, with the dignity befitting a queen, opened the study door.

Only to be bowled over by the twins, who seemed to have been launched into the room by a catapult.

Good God. He rounded the desk and stared in horror at the tangle of arms and legs writhing on the floor of his study. At the bottom of the pile, Miss Lacey struggled to no avail. One twin had landed across her waist, pinning her to the floor. The other lay crosswise over her knees.

“Girls!” he bellowed. “What the dev—” He stopped himself—just barely. “Remove yourselves from Miss Lacey at once.”

“We just wanted to know who you were talking to. We didn't mean to—” said one.

Will looped an arm around her torso, extricated her from the heap, and did the same with her sister.

Miss Lacey sat up, dazed. Will crouched beside her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. That is, I think so.” She reached for her bonnet, which looked like an elephant and not a slight lass had sat upon it.

Will scooped up the hat, tried valiantly to restore it to some semblance of its former shape, and handed it to her. Several chestnut locks had escaped the thick knot at her nape, and while this no doubt served as a source of distress for Miss Lacey, he thought the effect charming.

Odd, that.

It might have been her mussed hair or her pink cheeks or her slightly parted lips, but she looked almost … attractive.

Definitely not the same gangly, scowling girl who'd rejected him eight years earlier.

“Shouldn't you help her up, Lord Castleton?” piped one of the twins behind him.

“It's what a gentleman would do,” remarked the other.

“Silence!” He turned to glare at them, mostly because they were correct. His hangover returned in full force.

“I can manage.” Miss Lacey sprang nimbly to her feet, smoothed the stray curls behind her ears, and brushed out her skirts.