My Brown-Eyed Earl (4 page)

“How awful,” cried Beth. “At least we spent much of our childhood with Mama and Papa before…”

Guilt sliced through Meg, as it always did at the mention of her parents' death.
She
was the one who had set events in motion that horrifying day, and nothing her sisters said could ever convince her otherwise. “The twins are only six years old, and I'm not at all sure how I will manage them, but I need to try … for their sakes.”

Beth sighed. “I think that's lovely.”

Julie gave a nod. “It sounds as though those little girls need you even more than I do. Which is saying a lot.”

“Did Charlotte arrange the interview?” Beth asked.

“Yes, tell us how this all came about,” Julie urged. “And who will be your employer? Is it someone we know?”

Oh dear. Meg had dreaded this part of the conversation, but there was no avoiding it, so she attempted a bright smile. “You'll never guess.”

“I don't know anyone with twin girls,” Beth mused.

“He's a bachelor,” Meg said. “The girls aren't his daughters, but they currently live with him.”

Julie's eyes went round. “A bachelor! Is he handsome?”

Meg squirmed. Handsome? If one liked the tall, dark, and dashing type. Still, good looks couldn't make up for his rakish ways and extreme arrogance. “I wouldn't venture to say. But I'm sure you've already formed your own opinion, for you are both acquainted with the earl—Lord Castleton.”

Beth and Julie blinked, then froze. Silence descended upon the parlor. At the same time, a cloud drifted in front of the sun, and the glow that had drenched the room in warmth faded to a chilly shadow.

Beth swallowed. “We are not
that
desperate yet, are we, Meg?”

“Won't it be terribly awkward?” Julie chimed in.

“Perhaps. However, I agreed to take the position on a temporary basis for the girls' sake. And for ours. I confess it's not an ideal situation, but he has promised to keep his distance, and I shall do the same.”

“While you're living in the same house?” Julie asked, skeptical.

“It's a large house.” Meg thanked heaven for that. “Now, who wants to help me pack?”

“Pack?” Uncle Alistair ambled into the parlor, spectacles propped on his balding head. “By Jove! Never say that my ever-industrious niece is embellishing on an expedition of some sort, leaving us for foreign and exigent lands.”

Meg found her uncle's habit of occasionally choosing the wrong word endearing—but unfortunately most of the ton did not. She went to him and gave his ink-stained fingers a squeeze. “I wouldn't dream of it. But I must leave for a while, as I just told Beth and Julie. I've accepted a governess position.”

His jovial expression evaporated, leaving him looking every bit of his seventy years. “But … but why, my dear? This is your home—it's where you belong.”

“Of course it is. But I've always wished to work with children,” she fibbed. “And now that a wonderful opportunity has come along, I hope you'll be happy for me. I shall still be here in London, and I promise to visit often.”

He swiped at the stray white hairs above his ears, fine strands that seemed perpetually in motion. “Far be it from me to deny you the chance to pursue your life's ambivalence. But this place won't be the same without your sunny dispossession. I will miss you.”

Meg hugged him, savoring the soft, yet solid feel of his shoulders. “I'll miss you too, Uncle. And I shall never forget how good you've been to me—to all of us.”

*   *   *

“To your new governess.” Alec, Lord Torrington, raised his glass in a salute and took a large gulp.

“To one problem solved,” Will added, before taking a swig of his own drink. Miss Lacey had started that morning. Why, then, did his life seem more complicated than ever?

He'd come to his club to escape the suddenly domestic feel of his house. Somehow, in the span of a week, he'd acquired two rambunctious girls, made a nursery out of a perfectly good bedchamber, and saddled himself with a reluctant governess.

Alec chuckled. “I'm surprised you didn't farm the little urchins out to a couple in the country—somewhere they wouldn't be underfoot.”

“I considered it, believe me.” But his cousin, Thomas, had adored his daughters, and Will had once promised that he'd provide for the girls if the unthinkable happened. And then it had—his hale and hearty cousin, the closest thing Will had to a brother, had fallen off his horse and broken his neck. Will couldn't send his girls away.

Shaking off his grief, he snorted. “At least now they'll be too busy learning their sums to terrorize my house. I understand that Miss Winters arranged for the interview. Please let her know I'm in her debt.”

At the mention of Miss Winters, Alec took on the look of a lovesick fool. “Charlotte was happy to do it. Miss Lacey's her friend.”

Will stared into his brandy, debating how much to tell Alec. If the women were friends, then Miss Lacey had surely shared the sordid tale. And Miss Winters would delight in passing it along. In short, Alec would soon know that Will's new governess had rejected him outright.

Damn.

He might as well tell Alec before he heard it from someone else.

“Miss Lacey and I actually have a history,” Will began.

“The devil you say!” Alec leaned forward in his leather chair. “Did you … and she…”

“No, blast you.” Although the idea intrigued Will far more than it should. “Her family's cottage wasn't far from my estate—my father's at the time—in Oxfordshire. She's a few years younger than I, but we were acquainted as children.”

Alec grinned. “This grows more interesting by the minute.”

Will shot him a withering look. “My father informed me at age twenty that I was to marry the vicar's daughter, Miss Lacey.”

Alec spewed his brandy. “What?”

“Believe me, I was as shocked as you are now,” Will said. “We had no close bond to their family and little to gain from the match. But my father would brook no argument.”

“So you agreed?”

“Ostensibly. I thought I'd delay the marriage for a few years and in the meantime give her plenty of reasons to cry off.”

Alec shook his head with equal parts disgust and admiration. “You're a heartless bastard, do you know that?”

“Me?” Will snorted. “When Miss Lacey learned of the arrangement, she declared she'd rather shave her head and enter a convent than marry me.”

Alec threw his head back and laughed—until tears trickled from his damned eyes.

“It was a long time ago.” Will looked around the club, hoping Alec's outburst hadn't attracted too much attention.

Alec swiped the back of his hand across his cheek. “Why on earth would a girl with no prospects reject a future earl? And an almost handsome one at that?”

Because she was too bloody proud for her own good.
“I came upon her swimming in the lake one day.”

“You did
not
.”

Will shrugged. “It was all quite innocent, I assure you. I was fishing, looking for a place to cast my line—”

“Is that what we're calling it these days?”

Leveling a glare, Will made an admittedly weak attempt at a defense. “I'd fished there dozens of times without seeing anyone. And when I stumbled upon her discarded dress and saw her bare arms and legs splashing in the water … well, I did what any red-blooded boy would have done.”

“Good God. No wonder she rejected you.”

Will raked a hand through his hair. “Don't be an ass. I gaped. For a few seconds. She saw me and screamed. I ran. The end.”

Alec erupted into another hearty round of laughter.

“Damn it. I shouldn't have told you.”

“No, no, no. I'm glad you did. It's just ironic.”

“How so?”

“You really don't know, do you?”

“What in hell's name are you talking about?”

“Your new governess is one of Lord Wiltmore's Wallflowers.” Alec leaned back and lit a cigar.

Suddenly wary, Will loosened his cravat. “Wait. You know her?”

“We're not acquainted, but I know of her. She and her two sisters were taken in by their uncle some years ago. He's a good-humored fellow”—Alec traced a circle in the air beside his head—“and stark raving mad.”

Ah yes, she'd mentioned her uncle—but had made him sound more valiant knight than bumbling bedlamite. “What else do you know about her?”

Alec shrugged. “Not much. She blends into the background at most affairs, probably because she dresses more modestly than a maid. But if anyone should dare to insult her addle-brained uncle, she launches into a passionate defense. At the peril of her own reputation.”

So, she was loyal—to a fault. Will snorted. “Let's hope she hasn't inherited her uncle's eccentricities.”

Thoughtful, Alec blew out a thin ribbon of smoke. “I doubt it. Not if Charlotte recommended her. But she
does
sound like the sort of woman who knows her mind.”

“Yes,” Will mused. “That's exactly what I'm afraid of.”

*   *   *

Will returned from his club a few hours later to a house that was blissfully still and quiet. In the foyer, a note on the silver salver beside the front door caught his eye—a letter, addressed to him, in Marina's handwriting.

He hadn't seen his beautiful mistress—
ex
-mistress, he mentally corrected himself—in four days. He held the heavy paper under his nose, inhaling her expensive French perfume. Perhaps she missed him and was willing to return to their previous arrangement—the one where she demanded nothing from him but pleasure. Maybe the note held an invitation.

He slid a finger beneath the red wax seal, unfolded the paper, and squinted at the multitude of loops and flourishes.

Dearest Will,

Our silly quarrel has gone on to long. Return to my bed, darling, and persuade me to forgive you. There is no reason for us to be a part.

M.

Her words trailed across the paper like a lover's kisses, conjuring countless evenings they'd enjoyed one another. But, Jesus, her spelling was atrocious. Why hadn't he noticed before?

He glanced at the grandfather clock standing sentry in the hall. Just after midnight. Not too late for a visit to Marina's flat. But he was not interested in begging forgiveness. Or any other favors.

With a shrug, he tossed the note back on the salver and began to walk upstairs—until the soft glow of a lamp in the library beckoned.

He followed it but drew up short in the doorway. Miss Lacey sat at the desk near the fireplace, where an orange log sizzled on the grate. Only she was more slumped than sitting, her forehead buried in an open book.

And if he was not mistaken, she snored.

Bemused, he walked closer. An inkwell, some scribbled notes, and an array of books cluttered the desk before her, as though she'd been working most of the evening. He'd known she'd be a diligent employee. Partly because she was devoted to the girls, but also because she was hell-bent on proving herself to him. She had a chip on her shoulder the size of Windsor Castle.

But in sleep, she appeared smaller—less contrary. Her shawl bunched around her waist, and her simple dress revealed the long, lean lines of her back. Fine curls clung to her nape, tempting him to taste the smooth skin there.

He'd never imagined Miss Lacey could look so soft, so vulnerable, so—

Crackle
.

The log in the fireplace popped and crumbled, waking her.

Her head snapped up and she gasped, placing her palms flat on the desk.

“Good evening, Miss Lacey,” Will drawled. “Or should I say good morning?”

“My lord,” she said breathlessly. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

She clutched a hand to her chest and looked around the room, at the desk and at him—clearly needing a moment to regain her composure. “I was preparing some lessons for the girls. I must have drifted off.”

Arching a brow he said, “Let's hope that the girls find your lessons more stimulating.”

She scowled, which he deserved, but he couldn't resist sparring with her.

With her usual, brisk efficiency, she straightened the desk, creating a neat stack of books and notes. “It is actually fortunate that I found you here—”

“I found
you
,” he corrected. “But please, proceed.”

She rolled her eyes. “I've a request to make—on the girls' behalf. Diana and Valerie require some new dresses.”

“That seems reasonable.” Miss Lacey could buy the hellions entire wardrobes as long as she kept them out of his hair.

“If we expect them to behave like young ladies, we should ensure they
look
like young ladies.”

“You've convinced me, Miss Lacey. Done.”

“Thank you.” The tight lines around her mouth revealed how much those words had cost her. “Don't worry. The girls don't need anything fancy or outrageously expensive. I won't take them to a modiste.”

“Would you consider taking yourself?”

She blinked, clearly offended. “I beg your pardon.”

“To the modiste. I don't mean to insult, but your own gowns leave something to be desired.” They were atrocities.

Eyes sparking with fury, she rounded the desk and stood toe-to-toe with him. “What I wear,” she ground out, “is none of your concern.”

“I think it is,” he countered. “Appearances matter. You said as much yourself in regard to the twins.”

“That's different!”

“Furthermore,” he continued blandly, “your appearance reflects on me. I can't have my new governess mistaken for a scullery maid.”

“Scullery maid? How dare you—”

“Rest assured, I shall cover the cost. Heaven forbid it should come out of the exorbitant salary I'm paying you.” It would be worth it to see her wearing something … silk. In a mossy green to match her eyes. Preferably low-cut.