Her lips were parted once again, but this time no words came. She was watching him with wide eyes that did not narrow, even when she at last closed her mouth and jerked her head in some uncertain motion, neither disagreement nor agreement.
“My sisters will be delighted to meet you, Miss Gorse. I am surprised, though, you didn’t go directly to Merrion Square.”
“Is it—?” She paused, wetted her lips, and began again. “Is it far?”
“No more than a mile. An English mile, to be precise,” he added, curving his mouth into a sort of smile. He would not have guessed that Mrs. Fitzhugh had a sense of humor. To send him, of all people, an Englishwoman… “At least we’ve a fine night for a stroll.”
Alarm flared in her eyes when he bent to pick up her valise, and he thought for a moment that she meant to stop him. Instead she dipped her head in a nod. “Indeed, Mr. Burke. I had no thought this morning that the day would turn out so fine.”
“Ah, well. It mightn’t’ve, you know.” Turning, he set off along the quayside. “An Irish spring is not to be predicted.”
“This is my first,” she said. “My first Irish spring, that is.”
Last spring, then, she’d been elsewhere. In England, presumably. Far from the turmoil that had enveloped Dublin and the surrounding countryside. Far from the rebellion that had taken the lives of so many. And for what? For naught, for naught…
The warm glow of the claret sputtered like a candle, struggling to withstand the damp, clammy mist rising from the Liffey. He had not realized he had lengthened his stride until he heard the sounds of someone struggling to keep up.
“Mr. Burke?” She had one hand pressed to her side and a hitch in her gait. “I wonder if we might walk a bit more slowly.”
When she reached his side, he held out his free arm and she took it, not with the perfunctory brush of her fingertips, but with her whole hand, leaning heavily against him. Odd. She didn’t look frail. “Shall I hail a sedan chair, Miss Gorse?” Though truthfully, this was an unlikely spot to hail anything but trouble. And the more he thought of Mrs. Fitzhugh sending this woman to him here, in this fashion, the less he liked it. Why, he might have been detained at commons for hours, and she left alone as darkness fell…
Her touch lightened as she bristled. “I can walk.” Her step was almost brisk as they crossed the Carlisle Bridge. “Perhaps you would do me the kindness of telling me something of my pupils?”
“My sisters. Daphne and Bellis. Ten and eight, respectively. As ignorant as most girls their age, I daresay.”
She drew back her shoulders at that description. “Their previous governess was not firm enough with them?”
“I’m almost embarrassed to admit it, but they haven’t any previous governess. They are the youngest of the six of us and shockingly spoiled. My father in particular has always been prone to indulgence where they were concerned.”
Disapproval—or was it disbelief?—sketched across her face. “Whatever made him decide to hire a governess now?”
“He knows nothing of the matter, Miss Gorse.”
Those words brought her up short. “You have hired me without reference to his authority? Will he not be angry?”
“My parents are in London. You need concern yourself with no one’s authority but mine.”
A group of young men, Trinity students, passed in a noisy gaggle and were gone. Beneath the high walls surrounding the college, the evening shadows were deeper still. But not too deep for him to read a question in her eyes. A question for which he had never yet determined a satisfactory answer.
He’d already done a masterful job of proving himself unequal to the responsibilities of an eldest son and brother. Why in God’s name had his parents entrusted him with the care of two young girls?
“Not much farther now,” he said brusquely. Obligingly, Miss Gorse resumed walking, though her pace had slowed and she was limping noticeably now. But she made no complaint, and he had the distinct impression she would not thank him for enquiring about it.
To cover the sound of her shuffling, irregular footsteps, he passed the last quarter mile regaling her with stories about the girls: Daphne’s interest in learning the harp, which he attributed to Cami’s unfortunate book—although he omitted that particular detail from his account. And Bell’s fondness for a game of cricket, in which both he and Galen had been wont to indulge her.
On the north side of Merrion Square, he stopped. “And here we are.”
She climbed the steps as if they were mountains, tottering a bit at the end while he fished for his key and opened the door to let them in. It hardly seemed possible for two girls, both slight of build, to make as much noise as Daphne and Bell as they thundered down the stairs from the drawing room to greet them on the landing.
“Did you see Mrs. Fitzhugh?” demanded Bell.
At the same time, Daphne asked, “Is she our new governe—?”
Miss Gorse looked from one to the other, gave a wan smile, and collapsed on the floor.
Bell’s eyes grew round with disbelief and her lower lip quavered. “I didn’t mean to frighten her to death, Paris. Honest I didn’t.”
“She isn’t dead, eejit,” Daphne declared, nudging her younger sister with an elbow.
“Silence.”
Years of training had given Paris exceptional control over his voice. It could command a crowd. It could compel a confession. But never in all his life had it actually managed to quiet his youngest sisters.
They were both staring at him now, wide-eyed and wobbly-lipped, and he knew in another moment there would be tears. Oh God, anything but tears.
“She’s just fainted. Bell, run downstairs and tell Molly to make us a pot of tea, will you?” Bellis nodded. With one backward glance at the woman at his feet, she was gone. “And Daphne? If you could…” Could what? The clarity that had come with the cool evening air had flown, and the lingering fumes of claret in his brain showed very little interest in forming themselves into a coherent request. He knelt beside Miss Gorse, who was deathly pale but breathing easily.
“I’ll see if I can find a vinaigrette,” Daphne offered.
“Yes. Thank you. And I’ll take Miss Gorse upstairs.” Because he couldn’t very well leave her in a heap in the foyer, though if this was the sort of weak-willed governess Mrs. Fitzhugh recommended…
He slipped his hands beneath her and rose, expecting to stumble beneath her weight. But she was no burden. Tucking her against his chest, his ascended the stairs, thinking first of the sofa in the drawing room, then bypassing it in favor of a proper bed in the chamber that Cami and Erica had once shared. As he laid her atop the coverlet, she stirred and murmured but did not wake. His fingers fumbled to unpin her hat. More golden locks sprang free, tumbling over the pillow and across her brow. He brushed them carefully from her eyes. She wasn’t feverish, at least. Pray God, it was nothing contagious. Perhaps he ought to send Molly for the physician who lived across the square.
He turned his attention next to unbuttoning her gray pelisse with swift, businesslike motions. Then his hands traveled to hers, tugging free her gloves and pausing to note with relief the steady drum of her pulse in one fine-boned wrist. At last, he removed her shoes and found the hem of her dress damp, stained with grass and fresh mud. The shoes themselves were shockingly worn down. On the sole of one was a hole the size of a three shilling piece—no wonder she had limped. It looked as if she’d walked considerably farther today than the distance from Four Courts to Merrion Square.
Where had she come from? Far enough that she could have fainted from the fatigue of her journey?
When Daphne returned holding out a vinaigrette, he shook his head. “I think perhaps we’d best let her rest.”
“But what about her dress?” Daphne’s cheeks pinked. “And her—her…?”
“Her stays?” His arms retained a memory of the young
woman’s soft curves. “She isn’t wearing any, Daph.”
Before his too-precocious sister could ask how he knew about such things, he waved her from the room, pausing on the threshold for one last look.
She looked like the princess in some fairy tale, imprisoned by some wicked spell. In repose, her expression had lost its wariness, its prickliness, and he realized for the first time how young she was. Twenty, if he had to guess. Hardly the woman of experience he’d requested.
Silently, he closed the door behind them. The mystery of Miss Gorse would have to wait until morning.
About the Author
Photo Credit: Vicky Lea, Hueit Photography
A love affair with historical romances led Susanna Craig to a degree (okay, three degrees) in literature and a career as an English professor. When she’s not teaching or writing academic essays about Jane Austen and her contemporaries, she enjoys putting her fascination with words and knowledge of the period to better use: writing Regency-era romances she hopes readers will find both smart and sexy. She makes her home among the rolling hills of Kentucky horse country, along with her historian husband, their unstoppable little girl, and a genuinely grumpy cat. Visit her at www.susannacraig.com.
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