Rules for a Proper Governess

by Jennifer Ashley

  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.

  Andrew answered, his loud voice cutting through Bertie’s headache. “We’re learning books!”

  “What, all of you?”

  Sinclair’s sharp gaze swept around the library, taking in Cat, Andrew, Macaulay, Aoife, Peter, Mrs. Hill, and the cook—who rarely came out of her kitchen—bent over books in various parts of the room.

  Bertie placed a ribbon in the tome on the English Civil War, closed the book, and got to her feet. “It was my idea. Don’t be angry at them.”

  The members of Sinclair’s household looked up, except for Cat and the cook, who kept reading. Cat had found she liked the books on art best, and the cook was reading hard about constellations of the southern hemisphere.

  Sinclair’s sharp gaze landed on Bertie. Last night, he’d been tender, smiling, holding Bertie in his strong arms. This morning, he was the barrister again, looking at her as though she were another fool in the dock. “Your idea?” he rumbled. “Your idea about what?”

  “Making people believe I’m a governess. People like your brother-in-law.” Bertie twined her fingers together, suddenly nervous under the unwavering gray gaze. “I knew I’d never be able to read all the books in here myself and remember what was in them. I decided that if each person in the house read some of them, then they could come out with a piece of information at an opportune time, and pretend I taught it to them.”

  Sinclair kept staring. He could knock a person over with that gaze. He was like a wolf with his eye on a poor rabbit who couldn’t get away.

  “Pretend you taught it to them,” he repeated.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Mrs. Hill said. She’d risen to her feet, folding her hands at her waist and looking so very respectable. “It is not a bad plan. We’d not be obvious about it, of course. But the intent is to make Miss Frasier appear to be very, very clever. Then even if her origins are known, it can be argued she’s clever enough for that to be overlooked.”

  Bertie knew Sinclair heard Mrs. Hill, because a muscle moved in his jaw, but he never looked away from Bertie.

  “Aye,” Macaulay said, looking up from his book on animal husbandry. “I remember the fuss Mrs. McBride’s relations kicked up when you married her. Not only did you marry quick, but they hate Scots. We’re trying to keep them from kicking up another stink. Miss Caitriona and Master Andrew belong here, with us. We’re willing to do anything to make sure they stay.”

  “I say bugger Uncle Edward!” Andrew shouted. “We love you, and Bertie!”

  Chapter 13

  “Master Andrew, such language,” Mrs. Hill said quickly, but she appeared to agree with Andrew.

  Sinclair couldn’t wrench his gaze from Bertie. In her demure gray, every hair in place, but her eyes full of merriment, she was both a beauty and an erotic joy. Erotic because he knew what she looked like with the buttons loose at her throat, her hair coming down, her eyes closed in pleasure while she parted her lips for his kisses.

  He clenched his hands, tamped down his rising hardness, and made himself look around the room. “Since you’re all settled in here, Andrew, you won’t want to go out with me then,” he said in a dry tone.

  Andrew’s book flew into the air and came down on the floor with a clatter. “Yes, we do! Are we going to the pantomime? I’ve never been to a panto. Bertie calls it a panto.”

  “Panto’s not until Christmas, Andrew,” Bertie said quickly. “Starting Boxing Day.”

  “But we’ll be in Scotland then!” Andrew wailed.

  Sinclair gave him a stern look. “Bertie, get them into their things and outside. Richards is on his way with the coach.”

  He delivered his command and swung around out of the room, before he realized he’d called her “Bertie” and not “Miss Frasier,” to the great interest of the rest of his household.

  The weather was cold today. Rain had come in the night, and though the morning had cleared, a thin sheet of ice lay on roadways. Sinclair watched Bertie settle with Andrew and Cat in the carriage seat opposite his, the glowing box on the floor giving the coach some warmth. Bertie kept Andrew from bouncing on the seat by pointing out interesting things about the coach itself as well as what they passed. Stopped Andrew bouncing a little bit, anyway.

  Sinclair enjoyed himself watching her. Bertie regarded everything with lively interest—the most ordinary experience was something fascinating to explore. Sinclair had been dead for so long, he didn’t notice much anymore. But today, through Bertie, he saw anew the fine marquetry in his own carriage, the crispness of the bright day outside, and the luxury of the Georgian houses they passed. London could be a beautiful and vigorous place. Hadn’t Dr. Johnson said, When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life?

  Bertie, raised in one of the grittiest parts of the city, looked as though she’d never be tired of London.

  Richards took them down Park Lane, past its ponderous mansions with lavish gardens, to Hyde Park Corner and on into the park itself. The coach rolled up toward the Serpentine, and finally Richards halted near one of the walking paths. Sinclair alighted first, lifted down Cat and Andrew, then handed out Bertie.

  Andrew danced and bounced on his feet, his energy incredible. Sinclair waved to Richards, and the coachman nodded and slowly drove off.

  “Can I run now?” Andrew asked Bertie.

  Bertie scanned the park around them, her gaze sharpening as she looked down every path, over every person she saw, checking for enemies. Sinclair had already been giving the place a once-over, and he knew Richards had too.

  Finally Bertie, after a confirming look with Sinclair, gave Andrew a nod. “Off you go.”

  Her eyes on Andrew, Bertie tugged a watch out of her pocket. Sinclair glanced at it, then looked again in surprise. Not a watch, but a chronograph, a device that could record the time of any event. Racehorse trainers used them to clock their horses’ speeds. They were highly expensive.

  Andrew stopped his prancing, marked a line in the dirt with his toe, then crouched down. As Sinclair watched, mystified, Bertie shouted, “Go!”

  Andrew bolted. Bertie had clicked a lever on the chronograph, and
she eyed both it and Andrew as the boy hurtled himself along.

  Andrew was running, flying. His legs weren’t very long yet, but they were long enough. He ran like a deer, sprinting over the ground, gracefully leaping over anything in his way. Cat watched him without expression, her arms around her doll.

  Andrew ran past an indeterminate line, then he flung his arms out, his pace slowing. He did a long, running turn, then loped back toward them.

  Bertie had clicked the chronograph as soon as Andrew slowed. “Look at that,” she said, shoving the watch in front of Sinclair.

  Twenty seconds. Sinclair didn’t know the exact distance that his son had run, but it had been a bloody long way.

  “He’s amazingly fast,” Bertie said. “You should put him into races.”

  Sinclair frowned even as his pride at Andrew’s skill rose. “My son is not a horse.”

  “Races for humans, silly. I knew a bloke who didn’t have two coins to rub together, but he could run like nothing you ever saw. A trainer took him up, and now he goes around the world, winning races and prizes. He lives like a king now.”

  “Andrew can’t run races. He has to go to school. I’ve delayed too long sending him already.” The thought of not having Andrew’s voice blasting through the house made Sinclair feel suddenly empty. Cat would feel his absence too. Though she never said much, Sinclair knew she was very fond of Andrew.

  Bertie’s nose wrinkled. “You mean one of the schools where they’ll give him cold porridge three times a day? Mrs. Hill told me about those.”

  “He’ll go to one that serves meat and bread at least occasionally,” Sinclair said, then he caught Bertie’s eye. She looked angry, not realizing he was joking. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they treat him very well indeed. He can run races at school if he wants. You’re right, he might be good at it.”

  “Are you sending Cat off to school too?” Bertie asked. Cat glanced at them, hearing. Bertie had no qualm about discussing the children in front of them. Sinclair could hear her explaining why—Stands to reason. It’s their lives, innit?