by Karen Ranney
“I think we’re more tired than hungry, Mrs. Anderson. It’s been an eventful journey. We can subsist on biscuits for now, but let’s plan on an early dinner.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Miss Sinclair is Robert’s governess and will be staying with us as well.”
“Miss Sinclair.” Mrs. Anderson executed a stiff inclination of the head while her lips curved in an infinitesimal smile barely warmer than the frosty weather outside. What concessions she made to politeness were for Devlen’s benefit entirely, and they both knew it.
“I’ll show you to your room.”
“That is not necessary, Mrs. Anderson,” Devlen said, all cordial hospitality. “I’ll show Miss Sinclair her chamber. The blue room, I think.”
“It’s quite some distance from the Duke’s apartments, sir.”
For a moment, the two of them, servant and employer, just stared at each other.
“Quite right, Mrs. Anderson,” Devlen said finally. “Miss Sinclair is His Grace’s governess, not his nurse. I think the blue room will do fine.”
This time the smile he received was at least as wintry as the one bestowed upon Beatrice. Mrs. Anderson obviously didn’t approve.
Beatrice’s cheeks felt warm, but she didn’t say a word as she followed Devlen and Robert up the sweeping staircase. She’d thought the architecture at Castle Crannoch impressive, but it was no match for this magnificent home in the middle of Edinburgh.
“How many people do you employ?” she asked, not merely to make conversation. She was genuinely interested.
“Seventeen. A damn sight more than at Castle Crannoch.”
“Don’t forget the stables, Devlen. He has four groomsmen and a stable master, too, Miss Sinclair.”
“Truly?”
“My horses are at least as important as any dust that might appear in my home,” he said, but blunted the edge of his comment with a smile. “I will have to show you my horses, Miss Sinclair.”
“I’m lamentably ignorant when it comes to horses,” she confessed. “We’ve never kept any, and they always seemed so very large.”
“We shall have to see if we can add to your education. And Robert’s. We’ll consider it a lesson, perhaps.”
They were on the second floor now, looking down at the foyer and up to the sunlit dome at the top of the house. She could see the birds more clearly, each so ornately carved and true to life they looked as if they could all fly away in a flutter of wings.
“What kind of bird is that?” she asked, extending her arm and pointing to one particularly odd looking specimen.
“A white pelican. Indigenous to North America.”
He was looking at her oddly, and she supposed she was acting irrational. But she couldn’t get over the impression she’d totally misjudged Devlen Gordon. It wasn’t because of his wealth, but because of his industry. He was genuinely excited when he was talking about making soap, of all things.
She’d always admired people who had a fire inside, who knew exactly what they wanted to do or to be in life and who pursued it with single-minded ambition.
Because she was female, she was supposed to want, first, to be a wife, then a mother. Any other interests she pursued would be supplanted by those roles. Except, of course, she was lacking sufficient suitors, and she had only one true talent: she was very, very good at survival. In the last year she’d managed to stay alive, and that was still her primary goal and focus.
Devlen led the way down the corridor, and she followed, wondering how close her room would be to his. Had he shocked his housekeeper? Should she protest?
She wished he wouldn’t look at her in quite that way, out of the corner of his eye, as if measuring the distance between them. Then he would always follow up that glance with another one toward Robert.
There were too many emotions, too many feelings to sort out, too much had happened in the last day, and she’d yet to reason it all through. First, the birds dying, then this hasty retreat to Edinburgh, and finally, most importantly, last night.
What a fool she’d been. What a silly, idiotic fool. And yet, if the circumstances were the same again, she would no doubt do exactly what she’d done last night. Lovemaking was overrated and painful, but at least she had experienced it.
She was no longer simply Beatrice Sinclair, of Kilbridden Village. She was Beatrice Sinclair, the governess of the Duke of Brechin. A woman whose virginity had been taken by Devlen Gordon, industrialist extraordinaire.
When the time came for her to return to her village, she would never again be the same gray, nondescript person she had been. People would notice her, if for no other reason than the look of nostalgia in her eyes.
When the time came. She couldn’t predict how many weeks or months or days it might be until he sent her from Edinburgh, until Robert went off to school, until Cameron Gordon was so incensed by the fact they’d left Castle Crannoch that he dismissed her.
Time was not one of those commodities she could predict with any certainty. Nor could she gauge another human being’s behavior or actions. Therefore, she’d have to be content with simply living each day to its full measure, to savoring all she could when it was placed before her. If she were at a banquet, she’d be foolish to deny her hunger.
At least for the next few days, she’d be living in a beautiful home in the middle of an exciting city, with a man as handsome and distracting as Devlen Gordon.
Devlen halted before a chamber door. Robert had lost no time opening the door and inspecting the premises.
“You haven’t changed it,” he said.
“Why should I?” Devlen asked. “It’s your room. I promised you that, the last time you were here.”
Robert nodded, but still went from wardrobe to chest, opening doors and drawers as if to acquaint himself with the contents and ensure himself nothing was missing.
“Your room is in the next wing,” Devlen said. “Come and see, Robert. In case you need your governess.”
“We shan’t be having lessons, shall we, Miss Sinclair?” he asked, as they walked down the hall. “This is a holiday, isn’t it? Because of the birds?”
She glanced at Devlen, then away, startled to find he’d been watching her. “We should find a schoolroom here. Your lessons shouldn’t be neglected.”
His mouth was set in a mulish pout, but after looking at Devlen, he evidently thought better of protesting right at that moment.
Devlen halted before another door, turned the handle, and threw the door open wide for her.
The chamber she’d been given was unlike anything she’d ever seen. The predominant color was blue, from the draperies in front of the long windows to those that hung at the corners of the four-poster atop the dais. The mattress was easily double the size of the one she’d slept on at Castle Crannoch and covered with a thickly embroidered coverlet, again in blue, with a medallion of gold in the center. In the middle of the ceiling was a second medallion, this one in ivory, directly over a blue-and-gold-flowered carpet.
The furnishings were perfectly proportioned for the room’s dimensions. A vanity with delicately turned legs sat against one wall, swags of blue damask matching the bed hangings draped from the mirror perched halfway up the wall down to the floor, where they puddled in large folds. A washstand in the corner was partially concealed by a folding screen, and a small secretary sat next to the window. The writing surface sat open, a quill, inkstand, and a supply of paper lay in readiness as if to welcome a correspondent.
“If you need anything, Miss Sinclair, all you need do is summon a maid.” Devlen walked to the bell rope near the fireplace and fingered the tassel.
“Thank you,” she said. “This is all rather grand.”
“So are you.”
For a moment she only stared at him, startled by his words. What could she possibly say to that?
There was something about him that would have attracted her even if they’d met on a street in a crowded city. She would have looked back at him if thei
r carriages had passed, if she’d walked near him, if she’d been introduced to him by a mutual friend.
She might have caused a scandal anywhere, at any time.
“Devlen,” she said in warning.
He only smiled, turned, and glanced at Robert, who was investigating the balcony beyond the French doors.
“My chamber is across the hall.”
An arrangement similar to that at the inn. Did he think she was going to come and visit him?
“No wonder Mrs. Anderson was scandalized.”
“Mrs. Anderson is an employee.”
“So am I.”
“Ah, but I don’t pay your salary. My father does. So technically, you aren’t.”
“You look at the finer point of things, Devlen.”
“I’m trained to do so.”
She was as well, and yet she didn’t think like him. Her education had been in using her mind to analyze a point, to converse in one of three languages, to consider the past. She had no experience in shading the truth or cutting the corners from it.
The moment the door closed behind him, Robert in tow, she let out a breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding.
What on earth had she done?
It was one thing, her father had always said, to make a mistake. Quite another to refuse to admit it.
We are, Beatrice, my dear, a strange and wondrous species. We go willy-nilly through life making mistake after mistake, only at the end of it to look back and see where our course should have been corrected, made less difficult by a simple turn.
She needed to make a turn now, that was evident, needed a room in the servants’ quarters, and not be treated as if she were a beloved guest. Nor should she be across the hall from Devlen’s own suite of rooms.
Her cheeks warmed even further at the thought of Mrs. Anderson’s pursed lips and disapproving glance. No doubt the woman knew, almost as if she had been standing outside the room last night, exactly what had transpired between them.
Anyone who happened to interpret the glances between them would know. Even Robert had looked from one to the other, curiously, as if he’d sensed an undercurrent.
Very well, she’d been foolish, but if they still took precautions, there was nothing to be concerned about other than her slightly dented reputation. That was something that needn’t carry further than Devlen and her. No one in her tiny village would know. No one at Castle Crannoch would have any inkling. Therefore, if she wished, she could return there almost as if she were unsullied and pure and as maidenly as she had been two nights ago.
In actuality, she couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. Lovemaking might prove to be very pleasurable to men, but women must simply grit their teeth and pray during the entire experience.
Besides, she had more to be concerned about than her reputation. There was Robert’s safety and the mystery of who wanted him harmed, or dead. There was the uncertainty of his future—and hers. At this point, she couldn’t even imagine returning to Castle Crannoch.
Although it was only early afternoon, she was tired. The night before had been filled with a fitful sleep. She was unused to sleeping beside another person and found herself awake more often than not, looking at Devlen as he slept.
Would it be acceptable to take a nap? Or would it be considered unpardonably rude?
The question was answered a few minutes later when she responded to a knock at the door. For one moment, she hoped it wasn’t Devlen, coming to speak with her. He would kiss her, she knew, and the meaning of his longing glances were clear enough. He wanted to replicate what had transpired between them the night before.
How did she tell him no?
But it wasn’t Devlen after all, for which she was grateful, but a footman bringing her valise. Behind him was Mrs. Anderson, bearing a tray.
“Mr. Gordon asked me to bring you something to eat, miss. He thought you might be tired and would like to rest.”
She nodded, feeling tongue-tied and shy in the presence of the older woman.
“Thank you,” she said, after the woman had placed the tray down on the table. “It looks delicious.”
“It’s just some greens and some soup. Along with one of Cook’s tarts. Mr. Gordon is very partial to Cook’s apple tarts.”
“I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”
“It’s what I would do for any of Mr. Gordon’s guests.”
“Does he have many?”
“It’s not for me to say.”
After the woman left, she sat at the table and ate the meal, finding it tastier than anything she’d eaten at Castle Crannoch.
Once done, she removed her dress and her stays, and placed the garments in the armoire before retrieving her wrapper from the valise. She crawled into the big, wide bed and slid beneath the covers, thinking heaven itself could not feel more sumptuous.
Wealth could not bring a man happiness, she’d always been told, a saying she questioned as she burrowed into the feather pillow. Perhaps it couldn’t buy happiness, but it certainly could provide comfort.
Devlen had a hundred things he could do, a dozen things that must be done. There were, no doubt, people waiting for him in his office to make decisions. He needed to go by the shipyards, and the new machinery was due to be delivered to the warehouse he was converting to a textile factory.
Instead, he sat in Beatrice’s room, watching her while she slept.
If nothing else, he could be interviewing Robert, coaxing details from the boy about the poisoning of the birds, and the shot in the forest.
His mind shied away from doing that, and it didn’t require any great thought to understand why. His father had always wanted to be duke. Enough to kill a child?
He would have to protect Robert, at least until he determined who was at the bottom of the incidents surrounding him. Who had shot at him, and who had poisoned his food? Why would anyone want to kill the boy? His thoughts came full circle, back to his father.
Tomorrow, he would visit with his solicitor, have him send something to his father. Anything to keep Cameron away from Robert, at least until Devlen could assure Robert’s safety. Castle Crannoch wasn’t the place for the boy. For the time being, Robert would remain with him. At least in Edinburgh he was safe.
His bachelor life could be expanded somewhat to include a child. He was growing tired of the endless round of parties and entertainments. The idea of staying in was growing in appeal.
How much did Beatrice Sinclair have to do with that idea? Probably too much to warrant investigation. He hadn’t lied to her—he thought virgins too much trouble. She, especially, with her air of directness and her way of puncturing his conscience.
He’d eschewed the substances in life proving to be addictive. He didn’t indulge in opium, or too much drink. While he engaged in selective breeding of his horses, and treated them well, he didn’t think that hobby a vice. He’d been attracted to gambling, only to find himself feeling certain that he’d been singled out to be different. When he won, he felt as if his luck was special, his destiny unique. He’d felt blessed, as if a light from heaven shone down on him to illuminate to the rest of the world that he, alone, was anointed.
He had to almost lose his fortune before he realized what a fool he’d been.
Was Beatrice as dangerous as gambling?
She was proving to be a distraction of major proportions. He anticipated her smile, and he wanted to hear her laugh. Deflowering her had been one of the single most unforgettable experiences of his life. He hadn’t wanted to cause her pain, and had felt acute regret when he’d done so, enough that his own pleasure had been muted. When she’d carefully avoided him this morning, he’d wanted to enfold her in his arms, kiss her tenderly, and tell her the experience would be a better one the next time. But it was all too obvious she wanted nothing to do with any further forays into passion.
Was that why he was here?
Perhaps he was more concerned about his reputation as a lover. He couldn’t let her conti
nue with the thought that lovemaking was a painful event, especially with him. That’s what it was—he was simply concerned she not have a bad opinion of his skills.
He smiled in the darkness, amused by his attempts at delusion.
There was none so blind as he who will not see. Who said that? And did he ever sit in a darkened bedroom and gaze at the object who was causing him so much mental discomfort, feeling helpless and wanting?
She had the power to charm him, keep him awake. From the moment he’d met her, only weeks ago, he’d been fascinated.
He had a hundred acquaintances, but few friends. He wasn’t given to confidences, and he was so single-minded and focused in his work that he was impatient with the necessities of friendship. He didn’t want to spend any time cultivating an acquaintance into a friend, didn’t want to spend the time to listen to their travails, their thoughts, or the experiences of their days. There were only so many hours in each day, and he spent most of them productively.
For the first time he felt the lack of friendship, acutely lonely in a way that surprised him at his core. Was that another aspect to his life brought about by Beatrice Sinclair?
She was proving to be quite an irritant.
It occurred to him then, as he sat in the darkness, that she occupied the role of friend more closely than anyone ever had. He actually wanted to hear her thoughts, and had solicited her opinions quite often. The way her mind worked was vastly fascinating to him to a degree that startled him.
That was it. She was simply a friend, and he was acting in a capacity of friendship. That was all.
This time, he didn’t smile at his delusion.
Chapter 24
When Beatrice awoke, the drapes had been closed against the night. She lay there in the dark, disoriented at first before she pieced everything together. She was in Edinburgh, the city she’d always wanted to revisit. Her parents and her friends were dead, her life had changed drastically. The man she’d taken as her lover was, for all intents and purposes, her employer, and he’d given her this lovely room.