Rules for a Proper Governess (15 page)

Fellows’s eyes sharpened. “You’ve had another?”

“Yes. Same as the others. Full of insinuations.”

“Let me see.” Fellows held out his hand.

Sinclair shook his head, thinking of the letter he’d slid into the box in his study. “I burned it,” he lied.

Fellows made a noise of disapproval. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Trust me, it was the same. In all capitals printed as though he’d used a straight edge to draw them. Ordinary paper, which hundreds of people buy by the score every day. Same nonsense about his intention to destroy me. Any ideas from your end at all?”

Fellows sat back, irritated. “No. And you have no idea how much that galls me.”

“Lloyd so hates to be perplexed,” Louisa said, her fingers graceful as she held the dainty teacup. They were such a contrast, Fellows and Louisa—he a tall, hard man, she as elegant as the porcelain cup she held. “But he’ll find out in the end, I’m sure of it,” Louisa finished.

Fellows gave Louisa a look that was supposed to be severe and instead was full of fondness. His gaze dropped to the swell of her belly, which held his first child, and Sinclair watched the hard man soften.

“My wife has much confidence in my abilities,” Fellows said. “I’ve been going through the list of men and women who I think would hold a grudge against you. It is, unfortunately, long.”

Sinclair nodded, unsurprised. “I’ve made sure many a criminal was convicted in the last dozen years—for anything from counterfeiting and fraud, to robbery with violence and murder. It could be any of them, or their families. Basher McBride has made enemies. And I don’t want any of them near my family.” He pinned Louisa with a stare. “Will you make certain, Louisa, that this bit of intrigue does
not
run around the Mackenzie clan? I don’t want Andrew and Cat getting wind of it.”

Louisa gave him a nod. “I understand perfectly. I’m sure it won’t be long before Lloyd solves the problem.”

Fellows gave Sinclair a wry look over his teacup. Fellows had helped Louisa when she’d been accused of a crime, and Louisa was convinced he could help anyone. She wasn’t far from wrong—the detective chief inspector usually got his man.

The trouble was, whoever this person sending the letters was worked in the dark, pulling strings, manipulating. The worst kind of criminal, keeping to the shadows while aiming to ruin the lives of others. Give Sinclair a straightforward thug like Jeffrey, who spoke with his fists, or even Edward, who openly threatened Sinclair—Sinclair was much more comfortable with someone he could clearly fight.

Fellows gave Sinclair a nod, and they exchanged a look, two men who understood each other. “I’ll see to it,” Fellows said.

Bertie hurried out into the hall when she heard the front door thud shut. Cat and Andrew were already asleep, and it was well dark. Sinclair was very late getting home, which had Bertie fretting, though she tried to reason that the coach hadn’t come home either, meaning the redoubtable Richards was looking after him.

Below her, Sinclair handed his coat and things to Peter, as usual, but not as usual, Sinclair strode into the downstairs drawing room instead of heading up to his study.

Bertie gathered up her gray skirts and hurried down the stairs, passing Macaulay on the way. Macaulay gave her a cautioning look but didn’t stop her.

Sinclair had paused at a sideboard in the large room to pour himself a whiskey when Bertie came in. Unlike the clutter of Sinclair’s study, the front drawing room was rather empty of furniture. Unusual, Mrs. Hill said, for a Mayfair residence, which could be stuffed full of bric-a-brac and plants, but Sinclair liked to have space for his guests to roam.

“Where the devil have you been?” Bertie demanded as she rushed inside. Her heart beat swiftly with relief to see him whole, and home.

Sinclair swung around to her. He’d yanked off his collar, baring a patch of sunburned throat. He scowled at Bertie and swallowed a dollop of whiskey before he answered. “Visiting friends, who insisted I stay for a cup of tea.”

Bertie unclenched her hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like a shrew. But I was worried about you.”

Sinclair gave her a curt nod. “I know you’re concerned about Jeffrey, but don’t be. I will take care of him.”

Her heart squeezed in dismay. Sinclair spoke so confidently, but he had no idea what he was up against. “Oh, you will, will you? He’s a first-class villain, Jeffrey is. Even his friends don’t trust him. He’s got all kinds of tricks, and he likes hurting people.”

“My friends are well able to take on someone like him. Trust
me
.” Sinclair drained the glass in one long swallow and turned back to the sideboard.

Bertie waited until he’d set the glass down, then she launched herself across the room and got her arms around the startled Sinclair from behind. She pulled him backward and jammed her hand to his throat as though she held a knife.

“Yeah?” Bertie said in his ear, trying to ignore the sleek warmth of his hair so near her lips. “This is what Jeffrey would do to you. If I’d been him, he’d have killed you already. What do you think about
that
?”

For a moment Sinclair didn’t move. His body was solid under hers, hard muscle beneath the giving fabric of his coat. Bertie felt his chest expand with his breath, his pulse thud beneath her fingertips. The contact, this intimate, made her so giddy she almost lost hold of him.

A heartbeat later, Sinclair broke her grip, whirled Bertie around, and had her off him and against the nearest wall before she knew what happened. Sinclair’s strong hand was at her throat, his fingers just pressing her skin.

His breath was warm and smelled of whiskey. “
This
is what I do to men who attack me, Bertie. You don’t have to worry about me. I can hold my own.”

His gray eyes were so near hers, the irises flecked with lighter gray, his lashes as light as his hair. Sinclair’s mouth—that firm-lipped mouth that spoke the rich, rumbling words—was very close to her own. If Bertie didn’t squirm away now, she’d do something foolish, like kiss him.

She drew a breath, contriving to look intimidated. “I’m sorry. I only meant . . .”

Instantly, Sinclair took his hand from her neck, set her on her feet, and took a swift step back. “Lass, I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to frighten you . . .”

Bertie spun away, laughing. “You’re a soft touch, you are. As soon as a thief starts to cry, you’ll apologize and let him go?” She held up her hands. From her fingers dangled Sinclair’s handkerchief, his watch, and a small pouch of coins. She grinned her triumph.

“Bertie, you bloody little . . .” Sinclair broke off, glancing at the open door, then crossing to close it. “How the devil did you do that?”

“Easy as winking. You see? You need someone looking after you.”

Sinclair came to her, his amazement mixed with irritation. “Show me how you took them. So I can be on my guard.”

Bertie returned the watch, coins, and handkerchief to his cupped hands. “Wasn’t hard. You were concentrating on your hand at my throat, but all the while, my fingers were sliding into your pockets.”

Sinclair tucked his things away. “In other words, while I was trying to put down my attacker, she was busy robbing me.”

“Exactly. I was taught never to come out of an encounter without winning
something
. But even if I’d only passed by you in the street, I’d have had something off you. Like I did when I took your watch.”

“When you beguiled me, you mean,” Sinclair said.

“Beguiled?” Bertie’s face heated. “I did no such thing.”

“You smiled at me, and made the day better.” His voice softened. “On that gray day, I needed a smile.”

A small flame burned in Bertie’s chest. “My good luck, then. But I could have done it without you noticing me at all, if someone hadn’t shoved me into you.”

Sinclair’s eyes glinted. “I don’t believe you. Show me.”

“All right. Go on across the room and then walk back toward me.”

Sinclair slanted her a look that made fire race through her blood, then he turned and strode across the room. At the far end he turned back and started for her, not allowing her time to prepare.

Didn’t matter. Bertie strolled past, pretending she didn’t notice him, barely brushing him as she went by. Sinclair stopped at the other end of the room, near the windows. “Well?” he asked. “Another turn?”

“Don’t need one.” Bertie held up a silver card case that flashed in the lamplight. “Lost this, did you?”

Sinclair’s brows came down. “Bloody hell. How did you—?”

“Misdirection.” Bertie came to him and handed him the card case. “Put that back in your pocket.”

Sinclair dropped it in. Bertie walked past him again, letting her shoulder bump him gently, as she had before. A tiny tap, barely noticed in a crowd.

“See, you turn a little to adjust,” she said, stopping the movement. “And the contact distracts you. While you move to keep your balance, I dip inside your pocket and take whatever I can get me fingers around.” Bertie pulled her hand out, his card case between her fingers.

“I see.” Sinclair’s eyes narrowed. “Try it again.”

Bertie shrugged, gave him back the case, and walked away from him. This time, when the two passed in the middle of the room, Bertie bumped him a little harder and brushed her fingers over his wrist. Sinclair gave a laugh of triumph and caught Bertie’s hand, prying open her fingers.

Her hand was empty. Bertie grinned and showed him what was in her
other
hand, his pouch of money.

“Damn and blast it,” he said.

Bertie handed him the pouch. “You’re a babe in the woods. Misdirection, like I said.”

Sinclair jerked her closer by the wrist he still held. “You cheeky little . . .”

His words died as his gaze met hers, his gray eyes full of longing. Bertie’s breath went out of her, as did any laughter.

“Damn you, Bertie,” he whispered. Sinclair leaned to her as he spoke, the end of his whisper touching her lips.

His warmth undid her. Sinclair’s kiss was light, gentle, belying the strength in the hand that slid to the back of her neck, pulling her close.

Bertie felt herself floating to him, rising up on her tiptoes, seeking him. He kissed her bottom lip, suckling it. As when he’d suckled her fingers, she felt a bite of slight pain, then a flood of fire. Bertie dug her fingers into the sleeve of his coat and held on.

Sinclair pulled back and brushed a lock of hair from her face. His cheekbones were flushed, his eyes, half-closed, gray like smoke. He was a beautiful man, unmarred by the few scars that creased his face, leftover from fighting days.

He touched the buttons at the top of her bodice, and one slid out of its buttonhole. Bertie held still, not daring to breathe, as another button opened, and another.

“Too prim,” he said, his rough fingertips on the skin of her throat. “Prim doesn’t suit you, Bertie.”

“I’m a governess.” She could barely speak. “I’m supposed to be prim.”

His answering smile, small as it was, made her burn. “If
I
bought you gowns, they’d be bright and frothy, swirling around you like gossamer.”

Bertie’s mind filled with a vision of herself spinning away, laughing, in light silks like Eleanor wore, floating as she went. Sinclair would catch hold of the loose skirts and pull her back to him, laughing his sinful laugh.

He smiled now, and licked the hollow of her throat.

Taste of sweet, sweet woman. Sinclair’s blood heated as Bertie’s bosom rose under his touch, the placket opening for him, her scent intoxicating. She was a sweet, plump armful, something to curl up against in the nighttime. Everything about her was strong, a woman Sinclair could hold on to, and yet soft and feminine, a woman for wanting.

Sinclair kissed her throat. Warmth, that was Bertie. When she’d taken him into her hiding place under the street, what should have been tomb cold had seemed plenty hot. Her warmth permeated him now, as it did his house. Coming home hadn’t held this kind of joy in a long time.

Her body was a fine place, flattening against his, her breath on his cheek. Sinclair gently eased the bodice apart and kissed the softness of her breast, swelling over her corset. Bertie’s fingers slid to his hair, tightening as she drew a quick breath.

Sinclair licked her skin, kissed it. He tasted her longing, and at the same time, her innocence.

He moved his kisses down to the space between her breasts. She was nothing but heat, and he licked that heat into his mouth. Need wound through him, so much need—his cock was hard with it. He wanted to unbutton her bodice to her waist, unlace her stays, spread his hand across her bare back.

If he took her, maybe on the floor of this severe drawing room, would he be finished with her, sated and done?

He didn’t think so. Bertie was different. She’d give him her cheeky smile, and he’d never let her out of his life.

Sinclair licked between her breasts again, tasting the salt of her skin, then he lifted his head and kissed her lips. He couldn’t get enough of her, savoring her while his need soared.

When Sinclair finally broke the kiss, he had no breath, and he didn’t care.

He cupped her shoulders, rubbing his thumbs over the flesh he’d bared. “Bertie.” The name itself was cheeky. “Roberta.”

“That’s me,” she whispered. Her eyes sparkled.

“We should button you up again.” Sinclair touched his forehead to hers. “But I don’t want to.”

Bertie’s grin flashed. “Mrs. Hill might fall over if she saw.”

Sinclair nodded. He wanted to laugh at the image of the stately Mrs. Hill falling stiffly to the floor, but it was all he could do to draw air into his body. He held on to Bertie, knowing he’d be the one on his backside if he let go.

Bertie traced his cheek. “You’re a good man, Basher McBride.”

“No, I’m not.” Sinclair caressed her again. “I follow rules because I have to, but that doesn’t make me good.”

“You are. You just don’t know what to do about it.”

Sinclair turned his head and kissed her fingertips. “Oh, I know what I want to do about it.” He licked her forefinger. Who cared about breathing?

“I’m right that you’re a good man,” Bertie said softly. “Don’t tell me I’m not. I’m the one who’s bad. I stole from you, I followed you home, and I stayed, when it was clear I shouldn’t. So I’m going to make this easy for you.”

She twined her hand around his, lifted his fingers to her mouth, kissed them, and gently withdrew from his grip.

The heat in Sinclair’s veins flared, and then plunged into the coldest temperatures as Bertie turned and walked away.

“Where the devil are you going?” Sinclair’s voice was harsh, his breath trying to desert him again.

Bertie swung back, buttoning her bodice. “I’m only going up to my chamber, before Mrs. Hill gives me a lecture.”

Sinclair coughed, and made his chest expand with a normal inhalation. “You enjoy confounding me, don’t you?” He came to her, trying to remain in control as he reached for her placket and started doing up the buttons for her. “Here, let’s fix you. I won’t have Mrs. Hill come down on you because of me.”

Bertie’s smile was soft. “Cheers.”

Sinclair buttoned the last button, hiding her from him again. He kissed her lips, lightly this time. If he didn’t keep it light, he’d have her on the floor, to hell with Mrs. Hill or anyone else who happened to walk in.

Sinclair deliberately stepped away from her and opened the door. “Go,” he said.

“Good night,” Bertie answered. She glided out of the room, then she turned around, grinning, holding up his handkerchief and his silver case again.

Sinclair slapped his hands to his pockets. “Wretch!”

Laughing, Bertie came back to him and slid the things into his pockets. Her hands were warm, enticing as they moved on his body, but Sinclair made himself not touch her.

She whirled away again and was gone, the warmth leaving with her. Sinclair watched her skim up the stairs, his body aching and stiff, the night grown cold.

The next morning, Bertie looked up from the large book she held in her lap when Sinclair shoved open the library door.

Light from the hall haloed him, making his hair glisten golden. He looked like an angel from the pages of an illustrated Bible—one of those big, strong archangels who made everyone tremble.

“What the devil is this?” he demanded.