﻿She was a respectable, unmarried, probable virgin—his sisters’ governess, his stepmother’s companion. In a word: forbidden. Untouchable. Dangerous.

Some dangers were worth risking.

He drew her closer, one arm sliding about her waist, bringing her to him so that the small rounded breasts just brushed against him. A taste. Just one taste of those sweet berry-stained lips…

His lips touched hers and her wits whirled.

Warm, firm lips feathered and caressed, promising ravishment and yet teasing with light touches before settling properly…

His control shook as he felt the flowering of her lips, the softening as they opened. Quelling the urge to ravish her mouth, he took it gently. Honey, sweet wild honey, intoxicating—and her very hesitance, even clumsiness, seemed to make it all the sweeter. All the more dangerous…

With his final, fading shred of sanity and control Julian pulled back, breaking the kiss.

‘This,’ he informed her, ‘is not a good idea.’

Award-winning author Elizabeth Rolls lives in the Adelaide Hills of South Australia, in an old stone farmhouse surrounded by apple, pear and cherry orchards, with her husband, two smallish sons, three dogs and two cats. She also has four alpacas and three incredibly fat sheep, all gainfully employed as environmentally sustainable lawnmowers. The kids are convinced that writing is a perfectly normal profession, and she’s working on her husband. Elizabeth has what most people would consider far too many books, and her tea and coffee habit is legendary. She enjoys reading, walking, cooking, and her husband’s gardening. Elizabeth loves to hear from readers, and invites you to contact her via e-mail at books@elizabethrolls.com

LORD BRAYBROOK’S PENNILESS BRIDE features characters you will have already met in HIS LADY MISTRESS.

Recent novels by the same author:

HIS LADY MISTRESS

A COMPROMISED LADY

Author Note

Julian, Lord Braybrook, has been buzzing around in my head for some years now. He originally appeared in HIS LADY MISTRESS, and several of you asked if ‘that rake who took Verity out onto the terrace’ would ever get his own story. At the time I was writing A COMPROMISED LADY, and when Julian managed to muscle in on the action there too I knew the only way of dealing with him was to write his story.

LORD
BRAYBROOK’S
PENNILESS BRIDE

Elizabeth Rolls

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Joanna Maitland,

who showed me such a good time

in Braybrook’s territory, and beyond.

Chapter One

Julian Trentham, Viscount Braybrook, bit his tongue, figuratively speaking, and reminded himself that his stepmother, Serena, considered tact the best way to deal with his wayward half-sister. Telling Lissy she sounded like a second-rate actress in a bad tragedy was not tactful.

‘But it isn’t fair, Mama!’ said the Honourable Alicia furiously. ‘Julian only met Harry for five minutes yesterday and—’

‘Half an hour,’ said Julian, sitting down on a sofa. ‘Long enough to ascertain that, apart from his post as Sir John’s secretary, he has no prospects.’ He eyed the tabby cat seated on Serena’s lap out of the corner of his eye. The blasted thing was convinced he adored cats. It couldn’t have been more mistaken.

‘Five minutes!’ repeated Lissy, ‘and poor Harry is declared unsuitable. Whatever that means!’

‘Amongst other things, it means you’d run the fellow aground inside of a month,’ said Julian, unmoved. ‘Have sense, Lissy.’

The cat stretched, brilliant green eyes fixed on Julian.

Lissy glared. ‘I would not!’

Serena chimed in. ‘Lissy dear, I feel quite sure that charming and pleasant as Mr Daventry may—’ She made a grab for the cat, but it was already flowing off her lap. ‘Oh, dear. Now, where was I? Yes, Mr Daventry, I am sure he is not at all well off, so—’

‘What does money matter? And anyway, he has an income!’ protested Lissy.

‘Two hundred a year?’ Julian suppressed a snort. ‘And, no, money doesn’t matter. Just as long as you learn to manage without it. Otherwise you will find it matters a great deal when the bailiffs take your furniture and the landlord kicks you into the street.’

‘Harry has his own house,’ said Lissy. ‘In Bristol. He told me.’

‘A man of property, then,’ said Julian. He watched, resigned, as the cat strolled with offensive confidence towards him. His setter bitch, Juno, sprawled at his feet, lifted her head and then lowered it with a doleful sigh.

‘Well, I wouldn’t marry Lissy,’ piped up six-year-old Davy from the corner, where he was endeavouring to put together a puzzle map of Europe. ‘I’m going to marry Mama.’

Somehow Julian preserved a straight face. ‘Excellent notion, old chap,’ he said. ‘Only not unless you want to land in Newgate!’

Lissy looked as though she might have giggled, had she not been trying so hard to look affronted.

The cat sprang into his lap and made itself comfortable. Very comfortable; its claws flexed straight through his buckskin breeches.

‘Never mind, dear,’ said Lady Braybrook to her youngest son. ‘You won’t want to marry me when you are old enough anyway.’

‘No, indeed,’ said Julian. ‘After all, Lissy no longer wishes to marry me. Do you, Liss?’

‘I never did!’ exploded Lissy.

‘You proposed to me when you were about five,’ said Julian, reminiscently. ‘It was most affecting.’ He turned to Davy. ‘Why don’t you trot off to the kitchens and see if Ellie has something for you to eat?’

Davy leapt to his feet, scattering Europe to the corners of the drawing room, and decamped before his mother could veto this excellent idea on the grounds of education or indigestion.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Lissy burst out again. ‘It isn’t fair, Julian! Why should you have any say in it?’

‘Probably because I am your guardian,’ he said. ‘For my sins,’ he added. ‘Calm down, Lissy. You’re too young to be thinking of marriage.’

‘I shall be eighteen soon!’ she cried, making it sound like a death sentence.

‘You turned seventeen less than three months ago,’ Julian pointed out. ‘You’re not precisely on the shelf.’

‘What if it were one of your rich, titled friends?’ she countered. ‘Like Lord Blakehurst?’

Julian blinked. ‘Since he’s married, I’d shoot him! Believe it or not, I would refuse my consent to any binding betrothal until at least next year.’ The cat in his lap rolled, displaying its belly in furry offering. Resigned, Julian kneaded the shameless creature.

Lissy stared. ‘But, why?’

‘Because you’re too young,’ he said. ‘And don’t tell me again that you’re nearly eighteen!’

Deflated, Lissy said, ‘But we love each other. It isn’t fair. Just because he isn’t wealthy—’

‘Lissy—Daventry can’t afford to marry you!’ He strove for patience and nobly squashed his instinctive, and more cynical, reaction. ‘Not with bills like the ones sent to me from Bath last month,’ he said.

Lissy blushed. He hoped some of his pithy comments on the advisability of keeping a check on expenditure had sunk in. ‘It is unfair, though. If we cannot see each other, then—’

‘I didn’t forbid him the house!’ said Julian irritably. ‘For God’s sake, Lissy! Stop acting as though you were in a bad tragedy!’

Serena coughed, and Julian gritted his teeth, remembering the tact. He added, ‘He seems pleasant enough, and I believe I can trust him not to go beyond the line.’

‘You mean, we may meet?’

He fixed her with his best steely glare. ‘If he is invited to the same entertainments, then of course you will meet. He may call here. Occasionally. But you may not meet him unchaperoned, nor exchange correspondence. And I would make the same conditions for any man courting you, even if he were a veritable Midas!’

‘I suppose you think you’re being generous!’

He nodded. ‘Yes. Now that you mention it, I do. And if at any time you are tempted to view me as a callous tyrant,’ he added, ‘you might care to ponder the fact that our father would have shown Daventry the door with a horsewhip, set the dogs on him, complained to his employer, and confined you to your room for a month. At least. And think—once you are twenty- one, I will be powerless to prevent your marriage.’

Faced with this very accurate summation, Lissy set her mouth in a mutinous line. In trembling tones she said, ‘If you had the least idea about love, Julian, you would understand the agony of being obliged to wait!’

She swung around and stormed out.

Serena, Lady Braybrook, said, ‘I thought we agreed to be tactful?’

Julian snorted. ‘Tactful? Lissy needs a dose of salts!’ He removed the cat from his lap. ‘What has she been reading, Serena?’

Ignoring that as wholly unimportant, Serena regarded her stepson. ‘Tell me, dear—when you were seventeen—’

‘Yes, all right, very well,’ said Julian hurriedly, recalling some of his youthful peccadilloes. He looked away from the cat, which was staring up at him indignantly. ‘At least I never wanted to marry any of them!’

At Serena’s choke of laughter heat flared on his cheekbones, and the cat took advantage of his distraction to reinstate itself with fluid ease.

‘So I recall,’ Serena said, still laughing. ‘Is Tybalt annoying you? Just put him out.’

He grimaced. ‘I think I can survive one cat.’ Even if it was stretching its claws on his breeches again. Serena was fond of the thing. ‘Was I that much of a nuisance?’

‘Worse,’ she assured him. ‘Whenever news of your misdemeanours at Oxford and then, after you were sent down, London, reached us, your father nearly had apoplexy.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘The worst was the rumour that Worcester was about to call you out for your attentions to Harriette Wilson.’

Julian blinked at this unabashed reference to one of his youthful follies. ‘Dash it, Serena! Where did you hear that?’

‘Oh, was it true, then? I told your father it was more than likely a silly invention and not to give it a moment’s thought. Was I wrong?’

‘He told you?’ He hadn’t even realised that his father knew!

Serena stared. ‘Well, of course! How else could he ask my advice?’

‘He asked your advice?’ Julian tried, and failed, to imagine his father discussing his son’s involvement with a notorious courtesan with Serena.

Grey eyes twinkling, she said, ‘Frequently. Which is not to say he took it very often.’ Her mouth twitched. ‘Not intentionally, anyway.’

Julian decided he didn’t want to know. ‘Hmm. Well, I’m here now for the rest of the summer, and Lissy and Emma are off to Aunt Massingdale in the winter. Surely we can keep Lissy out of mischief until then.’

‘You’re staying until Parliament resumes?’

He shrugged. ‘Mostly. I do need to see Modbury about some business. I’ll go to Bristol for a few nights next week. Since I’m meeting with him I’ll write first and ask him to find out something more about Daventry. This house, for one thing.’

‘Yes, that surprised me,’ said Serena.

‘Modbury should be able to discover something if Daventry does own property,’ said Julian. ‘Apparently, Alcaston is his godfather and settled the income on him.’

Serena frowned. ‘Alcaston? The duke?’

‘Yes. He recommended Daventry for the post with Sir John,’ said Julian. ‘Will you be all right while I’m away? Are you sure you don’t want Aunt Lydia to visit? Or—’

He broke off under the fire of Serena’s glare.

‘I may be stuck in this wretched chair, Julian, but as I’ve said before, that does not mean I require someone hovering over me the entire time,’ she told him. ‘And since that is exactly what Lydia would do, no—I do not want her to visit!’

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘No Aunt Lydia.’

He’d have to think of someone else, because with her daughters off to Bath for the winter Serena needed a companion. He looked at her with affection. Her confinement to the wretched chair, as she put it, limited her physical independence. While he could see her point in categorically refusing her widowed sister-in-law as a companion—Lydia would fuss mercilessly and bemoan ceaselessly the unfairness of fate—who else was there?

‘Julian—I don’t want any well-meaning relatives fussing over me.’

‘No. I understand that.’ Sometimes he wondered if she could actually read his mind…he’d have to think of something else. Meanwhile he’d best write to Modbury and ask him to find out what he could about Daventry.

Chapter Two

I think I’ve found the house you wanted, my lord. Only Daventry I could find. It’s on Christmas Steps.

Yes?

Only thing, my lord—there’s a young woman living there from what I could find out…a Mrs Daventry …

Good Lord! Julian stood at the top of Christmas Steps and wondered if he was insane even thinking of descending the alley. Modbury had thought so, and Julian could see his point. The alley was positively medieval, and so steep someone had actually built steps. According to Modbury it led down to the old quay, and at least once had housed the sort of establishments sailors on shore leave frequented—brothels and taverns.

You can’t visit, my lord!

The hell he couldn’t. Gripping his umbrella, Julian started down the slippery steps. There were two possibilities. Either Daventry kept a whore down here—it was not unknown for a woman to use her protector’s name—or he was already married. On the whole, Julian thought a conveniently distant wife more likely; a mistress was only convenient if she were close enough to bed regularly. Either, however, would settle Lissy’s idealistic infatuation, if a description of the alley wasn’t enough.

It was dark in the alley and a dank chill closed in, with a reek of cabbage, fish and sour humanity on the breeze rattling the shop signs. The old, timbered houses with their cantilevered upper storeys loomed over the street, holding light and fresh air at bay. A couple of seedy-looking taverns were the only hard evidence of the street’s former reputation. There were few people about, but suspicious eyes followed him from doorways and windows. He consulted the address Modbury had given him—there, on the opposite side, just before the next set of steps between a fishmonger and an apothecary, was the house he sought.

A one-eyed, moth-eaten cat sheltering in the lee of the building flattened its ears and hissed, slinking away as he approached the open door.

A voice was raised.

‘Now be sensible, missy. I got Mr Daventry’s letter and it says, right here, “the house and all its contents”! See? All its contents. Not “all its contents if no one else happens to want them”. So—’

‘Well, I assume you’re not planning to put me on the auction block along with my clothes and hairbrush as part of the contents!’ came another voice. A prim, schoolmistressy voice a man would think twice about annoying.

The voice went on. ‘And if you can make that distinction, then you should be capable of exempting the rest of my personal property.’ Irony gave way to anger. ‘And since Mr Daventry is my brother and not my husband, he owns neither them nor me!’

Blast! Probably not wife, then. Mistress remained a possibility…

The angry woman continued, ‘When you return next week, you may have the house and all its contents because I shall have removed myself and my possessions to lodgings!’

Through the open door Julian could now see a large, beefy- looking man, in the old-fashioned knee breeches and frieze coat of a respectable tradesman. He had his back half-turned, but there was no mistaking the rising annoyance in the set of his jaw.

‘Now see here, missy!’ he growled, all attempt at reason abandoned. ‘’Twas unfortunate I misunderstood how things were, but there’s no call to take that tone! I’ll be calling in the sheriff and bailiffs if you remove more than your clothes and hairbrush. Everything, the letter says, and I’ve made a list, I have!’ He brandished a piece of paper, presumably in his unseen opponent’s face. ‘If aught’s missing, I’ll have the law on you!’

It was none of his business, Julian told himself. Common sense dictated that he remain out of any legal brangle between Daventry and his sister. Only this wasn’t Daventry…and exactly what situation had the man misunderstood?

The woman spoke again. ‘You may leave, Goodall. I suggest you clarify your instructions with my brother. In the meantime my solicitor will call upon you.’

Goodall, far from being abashed, took a step forward, presumably towards the woman.

‘Are you threatening me, missy?’ His voice had turned thoroughly unpleasant.

‘Leave!’ Sister or not, the undercurrent of fear in her tone flung Julian into action. Three swift strides took him over the threshold.

‘Goodall!’ he rapped out.

The man swung around. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘The lady told you to leave,’ said Julian coldly. ‘As an acquaintance of Daventry, I suggest you do so before I speak with the magistrates on his behalf about entering this lady’s home and harassing her. Out.’

He strode past Goodall with scarcely a glance at the woman. All he could see was that she was of medium height, bespectacled and clad in dull brown. His attention was on the aggrieved Mr Goodall, and he deliberately interposed himself between them.

Goodall flushed. ‘Now, see here—’

‘Out.’ He delved in his pocket and pulled out his cardcase. ‘As for who I am…’ He took out a card and handed it to Goodall ‘…I’m Braybrook.’

He gestured to the door and Goodall, his face now as pale as it had been red, swallowed.

‘I’m sure…that is…I didn’t mean—’

‘Out!’

Goodall went.

Julian closed the door and turned to receive the heartfelt gratitude of his damsel in distress—

‘I have no idea who you may be, but you will oblige me by also leaving.’

Frost glittered at him from behind unbecoming spectacles. And there was something odd about her direct gaze, something faintly disconcerting—as though she had the ability to see straight through. Right now he wouldn’t have wagered a penny on her liking what she saw.

As for what he saw—the woman was a quiz. Her hair colour remained a mystery under an all-enveloping and extremely ugly cap. As did whatever figure she might possess beneath a gown remarkable only for its sheer shapelessness and being the drabbest brown he’d ever seen.

Any lingering hope of her being Daventry’s doxy faded. No self-respecting doxy would wear the gown, let alone the spectacles.

And she faced him with her chin up, her jaw set, and her mouth a flat, determined line.

‘No gratitude, ma’am?’ he drawled.

Those queerly penetrating eyes narrowed. ‘I’m reserving it until I know who you are, and why you entered my home without my leave,’ was the icy rejoinder.

‘Well, you won’t discover either of those things if you kick me out into the street,’ he pointed out with what he freely acknowledged to be unforgivable logic.

It seemed she concurred. One small fist clenched and the pale cheeks flushed. Otherwise her control held.

‘Very well. Who are you?’

He supposed she could not be blamed for being suspicious. He took out his card case and extracted another card, holding it towards her.

There was a moment’s hesitation before she moved, and then it was warily, watchful eyes on his face as she took the card. At once she stepped beyond his reach behind a settle before examining the card.

He watched, fascinated. There was something about her, about her face—what was it? Apart from that she looked cold.

She was glaring at him again.

‘So, Lord Braybrook—assuming you are Lord Braybrook and not some scoundrel—’

‘I’m obliged to point out that the two are not mutually exclusive,’ he said.

She positively bristled. ‘That I can well believe!’ Then, ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! One of my eyes is blue and the other brown! And now perhaps you will stop staring at me!’

One was blue, the other… So they were. He could see it now; behind the spectacles one eye was a soft, misty blue and the other hazel brown.

‘And, no, I am not a witch,’ she informed him.

He smiled. ‘I assumed you weren’t, since Goodall left in human form rather than as a toad.’

For a split second there was a flare in her eyes that might have been laughter. A lift at the corner of the mouth, which was, he suddenly saw, surprisingly lush. Soft pink lips that for a moment looked as though they might know how to smile.

The impression vanished like a snowflake on water.

‘Frivolity,’ she said, as one who identifies a beetle, all the softness of her mouth flattened in disapproval.

‘Ah, you recognised it,’ he said with a bow.

This time her eyes widened, but she controlled herself instantly.

Intrigue deepened. What would it take to crack her self- control?

‘Do all your rescuers receive this charming response?’ he asked. ‘It’s true, you know; I am acquainted with Harry. As for my motives; I was coming to call on you and overheard Goodall. I interfered out of disinterested chivalry, Mrs Daventry.’

‘Miss Daventry,’ she corrected him.

He watched her closely. ‘Oh? I understood a Mrs Daventry lived here?’

Her expression blanked. ‘Not now. My mother died some months ago.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said quietly. ‘My condolences.’

‘Thank you, my lord. Will you not be seated?’

She gestured to a battered wingchair by the empty fireplace. The leather upholstery bore evidence of several cats having loved it rather too well. The only other seat was the uncomfortable- looking wooden settle opposite with a damp cloak hung over it. He took the settle and, at a faint startled sound from her, glanced over his shoulder to catch the surprise on her face.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘You can’t have thought I’d take the chair!’

Her mouth primmed. ‘I’ve noticed gentlemen prefer a comfortable chair, yes.’

His opinion of Harry Daventry slid several notches. ‘Then they weren’t gentlemen, were they?’

Her mouth thinned further. ‘And you are?’

He laughed. ‘Usually. I’ll warn you if I feel the urge to behave too badly.’

‘Very obliging of you. May I offer you tea?’

Prim. Proper. As calm as though she entertained the vicar.

Tea, though. He didn’t like tea at the best of times. And imagining the quality of tea he was likely to receive here sent shivers down his spine. His spine’s concerns aside, however, good manners dictated acceptance. And Miss Daventry looked as though a hot drink would do her good.

‘Thank you, ma’am. That would be very pleasant.’

She nodded. ‘Then please excuse me. My servant is out.’ With a graceful curtsy, she left through a door at the back of the parlour.

Julian took a deep breath and looked around the cramped room. This was what he had come for, after all: to judge Daventry’s condition for himself. And if Lissy could see this, the circumstances to which she would be reduced if she married Daventry, it might give her pause for thought.

It was spotless, though, he noticed. Absolutely spotless. As though dust dared not settle in a room tended by Miss Daventry. Everything gleamed with care. Wood waxed and polished. Not a cobweb in sight. Against one wall was a bureau bookcase, crammed with books. Julian frowned. It was old now, but it spoke of one-time wealth.

Interesting. Other things caught his eye. An old-fashioned drop-sided dining table against the wall held a lamp. Brass candlesticks that once had been silver gilt. A battered wine table, piled with more books beside the wingchair. Every sign that the Daventries had once been well to do, commanding the elegancies of life and, in sinking to this address, had clung to a few treasured reminders. Perhaps the crash of the ’90s had brought them down. He could even sympathise with their plight. His own father had steered clear of those shoals, but had not been so canny in recent years… Lord, it was cold in here!

His mouth hardened. Harry Daventry would not restore his family’s fortunes at the cost of Lissy’s happiness. No doubt Daventry’s sister would be quartered in his household… His eye fell on the books tottering on the wine table—sermons, probably, and other improving works. He picked up the top volumes and his brows rose. Sir Walter Scott—Ivanhoe. He looked at the next couple of books, poetry. So Miss Prim had a taste for the romantical, did she? He picked up the final volumes—Miss Austen’s Northanger Abbey. Serena had enjoyed that…

He set the books down, frowning. Contradictions lay hidden beneath the layers of brown sobriety and the cap. Strolling back to the settle and sitting down, he wondered what colour her hair might be. Not so much as a strand peeked from that monstrous cap. Mousy? It would suit the spectacles and that prim mouth with its iron clad composure. Although it wasn’t quite iron-clad, was it? What would it take to breach it utterly?

She would return soon. Miss Respectability, laden with a teatray needing to be put somewhere… Below the window was a small tea table.

With a sigh, he rose, shifted the table, placing it between the wingchair and the settle. Good manners, he told himself. A gentleman did these things. It had nothing to do with Miss Daventry herself or wishing to show her that not all men were inconsiderate oafs who took the only comfortable chair, leaving their sister the wooden settle. Definitely nothing to do with her. It was simply the right thing to do.

He looked at the empty grate. It was cold, after all.

It was the work of a moment to lay a fire, find the tinderbox and have a small blaze going.

He had barely sat down again when the door opened and Miss Daventry came in bearing a small tray.

Shock sprang into those disquieting eyes as she saw the fire. ‘Oh, but—’

Julian rose and took the tray from her, setting it down on the table before turning back to her.

She hadn’t moved. She was staring at the little table as though wondering how it had arrived there. Then she looked at the fire. All the tension in her face, all the taut lines, dissolved, leaving her, he saw with a queer jolt, looking tired, yet as though something far more burdensome than the tray had been lifted from her.

Almost immediately she recovered, saying in her primmest tones, ‘How kind of you, my lord. Please do be seated.’

She bent over the tray and poured a cup. ‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘A little milk, please.’

She handed him his cup, poured her own, and sat down, her back ramrod straight.

Julian took a wary sip, and acknowledged surprise. The tea, if one liked the stuff, was perfectly acceptable. And the teacups, although old and chipped in places, had once been the height of elegance and cost a small fortune. Yet apart from mentioning Alcaston as his godfather, Harry Daventry made no play with grand connections or past glory.

‘Perhaps, my lord, you might explain how you know my brother.’

Miss Daventry’s cool voice drew him out of his thoughts. Did she know about Lissy? If so, then it probably had her blessing. She was no fool. The advantages of such a match to her were obvious. She might make a decent match herself from the connection.

‘Your brother has become acquainted with my sister.’

Miss Daventry’s teacup froze halfway to her lips. Her face blanched. ‘Your sister—?’ The teacup reversed its direction and was replaced in its saucer with a faint rattle. ‘Would your sister be Miss Trentham?’

‘Yes. My half-sister.’

Spear straight she sat, her mouth firm and a look of mulish obstinacy about her chin. The air of dignity intensified, despite the pallor of her cheeks.

Hell! No doubt she would defend her brother’s marital ambitions to the hilt. Why wouldn’t she? Such a connection would be a lifeline for her.

His mouth set hard.

He had to protect Lissy. Nothing else mattered. Even if he had to batter Miss Daventry’s pride into the dust.

‘How very unfortunate,’ she said, her voice calm. ‘I trust you are doing all in your power to discourage this?’

Unfortunate? From her perspective? He had every reason to disapprove of Mr Daventry, but what possible objection could she have to Lissy?

With freezing hauteur, he said, ‘I am at a loss to know how my sister merits your censure, Miss Daventry.’

‘Never having met her, I do not disapprove of Miss Trentham,’ said Miss Daventry. ‘Merely of—’ She broke off, staring. Faint colour stained the pale cheeks. ‘I think I understand the purpose of your visit, my lord. A warning to Harry? “Stay away from my sister, and I’ll stay away from yours.” Is that it?’

Outrage jolted through him. ‘I beg your pardon?’ Thank God she hadn’t divined his original suspicions!

She faced him undaunted. ‘If that is not the case, I beg your pardon. I can think of no other reason for your visit.’

Could something of his reputation have reached Miss Daventry via her brother’s letters?

‘No doubt, Miss Daventry. However, I am a gentleman. Whatever you may have heard to the contrary.’

‘Your reputation is of no interest to me, my lord,’ she informed him, picking up her cup and sipping her tea.

‘And what leads you to believe that I have a reputation, Miss Daventry?’ His reputation, after all, was not the sort one discussed with respectable females.

She gave him a considering look over her tea cup before answering.

‘Everyone has a reputation, my lord. All that remains in doubt…’ she sipped, ‘…is the nature of that reputation. Naturally, since you are a gentleman, yours is not the sort of reputation in which I interest myself.’

‘Yet you referred to it, ma’am.’

The brows lifted. ‘I, my lord? Hardly. You alluded to the possibility that someone might have mentioned you in unflattering terms. Thus suggesting that, deserved or not, you have a reputation.’

Julian nearly choked on his tea. Did she dot every ‘i’ with a needle? Serena, he realised, would have been cheering the chit on.

She changed the subject. ‘We were speaking of your sister, my lord,’ she said. ‘As I said, I do not disapprove of Miss Trentham. How should I? I have not the honour of her acquaintance. But I do disapprove of my brother’s interest in her.’

‘A fine distinction, Miss Daventry,’ he said. ‘Would you care to voice your objections?’

If possible, she sat up even straighter. Her chin lifted.

‘There is a looking glass over the chimneypiece, my lord. Examine yourself in it. Bring to mind your home. Your estates. Recall your rank. Then look about you. Tell me what you see.’

He didn’t answer. Her cold, blunt assessment rivalled his own. The obvious, brutal response was that everything about her and this room spoke of impoverished gentility. But faced with her quiet dignity, he simply couldn’t say it. Which was foolish beyond permission since the words had been on his lips.

After a moment she spoke again. ‘Your silence is answer enough. Harry and Miss Trentham are from different spheres. You cannot wish your sister to make such a step. I assume that is what you are come to tell me, and also that you have refused to permit Harry to see your sister again.’

‘Not quite, Miss Daventry,’ he said.

He’d intended exactly that, but Serena had talked him out of it.

She stared and he felt the corner of his mouth twitch. That had rattled her.

‘You can’t approve such a match!’ The disbelief in her eyes echoed in her voice.

‘Naturally not,’ said Julian. ‘But my sister has a stubborn streak and in four years when she gains her majority, I will not be able to prevent the match. Your objections tally with my own. Your connection to the Duke of Alcaston notwithstanding—’

‘My what?’

‘Your brother’s godfather, Alcaston,’ said Julian, eyeing her spectacularly white face. ‘Are you quite well, Miss Daventry?’

‘Yes…yes, perfectly.’ Some colour returned to her cheeks. ‘He told you that, did he? It makes no difference, surely?’

‘None,’ said Julian. ‘Your brother is still ineligible as a match for my sister, even with the income his Grace has settled on him.’

She nodded. ‘So. You have forbidden Harry the house, and—’

‘No. I have not.’ Serena had pointed out that the fastest way to encourage clandestine meetings was to ban legitimate ones. He could see the logic, but…

‘No? What sort of brother are you, then?’

That caught Julian on the raw. ‘A good one, I hope!’ he snapped. ‘Yes, of course I could forbid them to meet! And where would I be when Lissy hoaxed herself into the role of Juliet and the young fools eloped?’ Serena again.

‘Lissy?’

‘Alicia,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon,’ she said. ‘I did not mean to tell you how to order your sister’s life—’

‘Ouch,’ he said drily. ‘I hope that I do not order my sister’s life, as you put it.’

She flushed. ‘I’m sorry, that was—’

‘If you don’t stop apologising, I shall start to think you are buttering me up.’

‘Nothing, my lord, could be further from my intentions!’

‘No. I thought as much,’ he murmured.

That silenced her. If one discounted the draconian glare, which fairly scorched the air between them.

He grinned. He couldn’t help it. He wished—oh, how he wished!—Serena could hear this exchange. He tripped on the thought—Serena would like this prim, outspoken woman. A woman who was about to be kicked out of her home…and Lissy needed a sharp dose of reality to convince her that life with Harry Daventry would not be love’s young dream at all, but a nightmare. Yes. This might work. Two birds with one shot. He almost patted himself on the back. And then remembered that not only had Miss Daventry not accepted, but that he hadn’t made the offer.

‘Miss Daventry,’ he began, ‘I gather you intend to seek lodgings when this house is sold.’

‘Until I can secure either a position as a companion or a teaching post.’

Better and better. ‘In that case, I wonder if the offer of a position might be acceptable—’

‘No! It most certainly would not!’ she flared.

He stared at her scarlet face. ‘I may live on Christmas Steps,’ she continued furiously, ‘but that does not mean—!’ She broke off, biting her lip.

And he realised that—whether or not his reputation had preceded him—an unspecified offer from a gentleman might well be viewed with suspicion by a respectable female living on Christmas Steps.

‘My stepmother requires a companion,’ he said. And waited.

He was disappointed. Apart from her blush deepening, Miss Daventry maintained her composure, or, rather, regained it.

‘Oh. I see,’ she said. ‘I cannot think, my lord, that you really want me as a companion for your stepmother.’

No explanation. No apology. She moved straight on from the potential quagmire of embarrassment. He had to applaud.

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Only consider the consequences!’ she said. ‘If I were living in your house, Harry would use that to—’

‘Precisely,’ he said softly. ‘You would be an unexceptionable reason for your brother to call. Most illuminating for Alicia.’

Her eyes flew to his. ‘You mean—’

‘Meeting you, knowing you must earn your living—’

‘Would give your sister food for thought,’ she finished.

‘Yes.’ She had caught the point in a flash. He added feelingly, ‘It would also relieve me of the stigma of being thought a mercenary, callous brute by my sister, because offering you the position would signify my approval of you and, by extension, your brother.’ But it would force Alicia to view Daventry in a different light—a young man who could not provide for his sister.

Another silence. She was thinking about it. He had seen enough of her to know that otherwise she would have rejected the suggestion out of hand. Miss Daventry had a mind of her own and reserved the right to use it.

‘I doubt that I would be a suitable companion for Lady Braybrook,’ she said.

If the lady in question were anyone but Serena, he would have agreed wholeheartedly. As it was…

‘You would amuse her,’ he said. ‘Meekness bores her, and I think we can leave that out of your list of virtues.’ An understatement if ever there was one.

Amused at her blush, he went on. ‘An accident some years ago left her unable to walk. I want someone intelligent to keep her company. I was considering older females, but I think she would like you. You mentioned teaching—do you have any teaching experience?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have another sister still in the school room and a six-year-old brother. At present they have no governess, so you could help there.’

Miss Daventry looked sceptical. ‘That will hardly answer once the summer is over and they require more lessons. I cannot be in two places at once.’

He shrugged, dismissing the objection. ‘Once another governess is hired, you can be available on her days off, or if she is indisposed,’ he said. ‘Naturally, were you prepared to take on this dual—or should I say triple?—role, I would pay you accordingly. Shall we say, one hundred pounds per annum?’

While he did not precisely expect Miss Daventry to leap at his generous offer like a cock at a blackberry, she would no doubt be somewhat flustered. Most governesses or companions were lucky to receive a quarter of that.

The soft, rosy lips parted slightly and he felt a jolt of what he sincerely hoped was mere gratification….

‘You cannot possibly pay such a ridiculous sum to a companion who relieves the governess,’ she informed him.

The devil he couldn’t! He bit that back, opting for icy civility. ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am?’

‘It is ridiculous,’ she repeated, her mouth re-primmed.

It was, was it? Just how much more did the harpy want?

‘Moreover,’ she went on, ‘it would be grossly unfair to the other governess, who might well be older and far more experienced, were I to be paid such an astronomical sum!’

His jaw dropped. ‘You’re complaining that I’m offering too much?’

She frowned. ‘What did you think I meant?’

He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Miss Daventry, permit me to inform you that most people would not concern themselves in the least if I offered too much. My offer stands.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Fifty,’ she said.

His mouth twitched. Good God! He was actually arguing— haggling like a merchant outside the Corn Exchange—with a potential governess, trying to persuade her to accept a higher figure!

‘Miss Daventry, your scruples are admirable, but your value to me lies far beyond the companionship you will offer my stepmother, or whatever knowledge you may impart to my younger siblings.’

‘But I might fail,’ she pointed out.

‘One hundred per annum,’ he insisted, battling the urge to laugh at this dowdy, honest woman with her disturbingly pink, prim mouth and earnest mismatched eyes. ‘If it helps, no one besides ourselves will know how much you are paid. Certainly not the other governess.’

‘No. It doesn’t,’ she said at once. ‘It is still unfair, whether the other governess knows, or not. I would know.’

He gritted his teeth. Damn the wench. Could she not strangle her scruples and accept his generosity? ‘Miss Daventry, upon occasion I play cards. I bet. Shall we say twenty-five pounds per annum as a companion? A further twenty-five as a governess. I’ll gamble the other fifty against you being able to dissuade my sister from marrying your brother.’

Her eyes narrowed again behind those frumpish spectacles. ‘Very well, on one condition…’

He might have known it. ‘Which is?’

‘If I am still in Lady Braybrook’s employ when your sister marries, the extra fifty pounds ceases. And should she marry my brother, I repay you—’

‘Not bloody likely!’ he said. And couldn’t believe he’d said it. What was he about? He never swore before females, but something about this one tipped him on to his beam ends. As for Miss Daventry—the ladylike façade was in ruins, her mouth parted in shock.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Sheet ice encased her voice. As for her eyes…that was it—the eyes were tipping him off balance. And she was angry, furiously angry. Beneath that calm exterior was someone quite different.

‘Er, certainly not,’ he corrected himself. ‘Otherwise, Miss Daventry, it would not be gambling. Would it?’

Under his fascinated gaze the fiery creature was visibly subdued and closed away. Prim Miss Daventry stood in her place. ‘I disapprove of gambling,’ she informed him. ‘You can hardly expect—’

‘Damn it all!’ he exploded. ‘What I expect seems to be going by the board! I expect you to accept my generous offer. I expect you to be ready to accompany me when I return to Hereford-shire in three days. I expect—’

‘Three days?’ Fire licked through the cracked façade. ‘I cannot possibly pack up this house in three days! Nor—’

‘My man of business will handle it,’ said Julian, pouncing on her implicit acceptance of his offer.

‘Nor could I possibly accompany you to Hereford!’

‘Why the d—why not?’ he corrected himself. ‘How will you take up your position if you do not?’

‘Oh, don’t be so literal!’ she said. ‘I meant I cannot travel alone with you. We should have to spend a night on the road.’

It was his turn to feel outraged. ‘Dammit, girl! Believe me, I’ve no designs on your virtue!’

‘It wouldn’t matter a scrap if you did or not,’ she said frankly. ‘My reputation would be ruined either way! I am twenty-four, Lord Braybrook. I cannot travel with you alone.’

‘You expect me to engage a chaperon for you?’

He couldn’t quite believe it. Five minutes ago he had offered this impossible woman respectable employment and they had been arguing ever since. Somewhere he had lost control of the transaction.

‘Of course not,’ she said impatiently. ‘I shall travel on the stage, and—’

‘The deuce you will!’

‘Lord Braybrook, I have frequently travelled on the stage—’

‘Well you shouldn’t have!’ he growled, adding, ‘And you won’t this time.’ Which was so illogical as to defy comprehension. Companions and governesses always travelled on the stage.

‘Yes, I will,’ she said.

Julian gritted his teeth in barely concealed frustration. ‘Miss Daventry,’ he ground out, ‘I begin to see why you consider yourself unsuited to the position of companion!’ The inescapable fact that she was perfectly right about the situation didn’t help in the least. Nor the defiant chin that said she knew she was right, and that she knew that he knew… He halted that train of thought at once.

‘Ma’am, I cannot agree to a lady under my prot—’ one look at her outraged countenance and he corrected himself before the façade exploded in flames ‘—for whom I am responsible, travelling on the common stage. Or the Mail,’ he added, before she could suggest it. ‘You will travel with me!’

‘Not unchaperoned!’ she shot back.

‘Very well!’ he snapped. ‘Will it be acceptable if a maid shares your room at the inn we put up at, or must I inveigle a Dowager Duchess into service? I’ve no designs on your virtue, but even if I had, seducing the governess in my travelling coach is not one of my favoured pastimes!’

Miss Daventry flushed. ‘There is no need to be horrid about it. I am not at all concerned about you. Merely how gossip might construe it. I have no wish to find myself the object of vulgar curiosity and censure! A servant at night will be perfectly adequate. Naturally I will pay for my own accommodation and—’

‘You will do no such thing,’ he stated with deadly calm. ‘As of this moment, Miss Daventry, I consider you to be in my employ. Any expenses incurred on your journey will be borne by me. Are we clear?’

For a moment the prim mouth took on a mulish set, but she dropped a slight curtsy. ‘Yes, my lord.’

Discretion, ever the better part of valour, suggested it was time to beat a hasty retreat. Before he strangled her, or worse, swore at her again. Having solved several problems in one stroke, he was in no way minded to have his plans upset by Miss Prim and Proper deciding she could not enter the employ of a gentleman so dissolute as to swear in front of a lady, let alone allude to the possibility of seducing her in a travelling coach.

‘I will bid you a good day then, ma’am.’ He set down his cup and rose. ‘I have business tomorrow and Wednesday. We will depart on Thursday. My carriage will take you up at seven a. m.’ He bowed. ‘If you do not object to starting early.’

She had risen too.

‘I will be at the top of the steps outside the Chapel of the Three Kings. Will a trunk and valise be too much?’

He raised his brows. ‘You will pack whatever you require. If it does not fit, a carrier will bring it.’

He held out his hand. A polite gesture to seal their bargain. Nothing more. For a moment she hesitated and then placed her own hand in his. Awareness shot through him. Her hand fitted his as though they completed each other. Startled, he met her gaze. Behind the spectacles her mismatched eyes widened, as though the same awareness had taken her. For a shocking instant their gazes linked as tangibly as their hands. Then her lashes swept down, veiling her eyes, closing him out.

He released her hand and stepped back. ‘Good day, ma’am. My man of business will call.’

‘Good day, my lord,’ she responded quietly.

Having seen Lord Braybrook out, Christiana Daventry closed the door behind him with trembling fingers and leaned against it.

Had she run mad? What was she about to accept his offer of employment? What if he wasn’t Lord Braybrook at all? And what was it about him that had broken her usual self-control? Not since she was sixteen had Christy lost command of herself like that. It hadn’t done any good then, either. Not that she cared. She could manage without being beholden to anyone.

She fished Lord Braybrook’s card out of her pocket, frowning. Anyone could have an elegant card embossed. Except, how could anyone but Lord Braybrook know of Harry’s interest in Miss Trentham?

Miss Trentham, who, according to the perfunctory description in Harry’s last letter, had blue eyes and black hair—Christy muttered a distinctly unladylike word—just like Lord Braybrook’s. Indeed, if they were anything like her brother’s blue eyes and raven hair, then Miss Trentham would be nothing short of a beauty. She had never realised eyes could actually be that blue, outside the covers of a romance from the Minerva Press. Or that penetrating, as though they looked right into you and saw all the secrets you kept hidden… Oh, yes. He was Lord Braybrook right enough. And she had accepted a post as companion to his stepmother and a sort of fill-in governess. It must be a most peculiar household, she reflected. Most ladies of rank would hire their own companions and the governess.

She snorted. It was all of a piece with his arrogant lordship. Marching into her home as though he owned it. Taking up far too much of her parlour with his shoulders…why on earth was she thinking about his shoulders? It hadn’t been his shoulders that had forced Goodall to back down, it had been that stupid card with his name and rank on it. Lord Braybrook. A title and Goodall had been bowing and scraping his way out backwards. Where was she? Oh, yes. His arrogant lordship, telling her what to do, taking the beastly uncomfortable settle instead of the wingchair, taking the tray and moving the tea table for her— lighting a fire she could not afford, although if she was leaving on Thursday there was enough fuel to last.

At least she was warm now. It had been a kindness on his part. Of course some men were considerate, but she must not linger over it as though he had done it for her.

Drat him! Cutting up her peace, arranging her life to suit his own convenience, dismissing her concerns about propriety in the most cavalier way, and—

Well, he did come around in the end…

Only because he had to, or you wouldn’t have accepted the position!

Which begged the question: why—despite his desire to have her give Miss Trentham’s thoughts a more proper direction— did he still persist in thinking her a proper companion for his stepmother and younger siblings?

She had flown at him like a hellcat, been as rude as she knew how and argued with him when he showed a wholly honourable concern for her comfort and welfare on the journey to Hereford.

Why hadn’t he simply retracted his offer of employment and walked out?

And why was she even bothered about it? Why not do as he suggested and accept his money without argument? In a ladylike way, of course.

The seething, rebellious part of her mind informed her that she was going to have trouble accepting any of his lordship’s dictatorial pronouncements without a great deal of argument. Ladylike or otherwise.

In the meantime, due to his lordship’s rearrangement of her life, she had not enough time for everything. Certainly there was no time for pondering the odd feeling that she had just made the most momentous decision of her life. Or had it made for her. As for the ridiculous notion that Lord Braybrook was somehow dangerous—nonsense! Oh, she had no doubt that to some women he might be dangerous, but she had heard the scorn in his voice.

Believe me, I’ve no designs on your virtue.

That stung a little, but when all was said and done, she was a dowd. Perhaps a little more so than was necessary, but that was all to the good if it deflected the attention of men such as Lord Braybrook.

There had been that look, though, the feeling that he truly saw her, Christy, not merely Miss Daventry… She shut off the thought. Only a fool needed a lesson twice. The last thing she wanted was for him to notice her at all. Men seemed to have difficulty in comprehending when no was short for no, I don’t want to go to bed with you rather than no, you aren’t offering enough.

Crossly she pushed away from the door. She would not be sorry to leave this house. Once it had been happy enough, when Mama had been alive. But now it was filled with memories of nursing her dying mother. One must go on. And apparently, come Thursday, that was precisely what she would be doing.

As for Harry—was he mad? How could he imagine himself a suitable match for the Honourable Miss Trentham? A viscount’s sister, no less! The least investigation… She knew the answer of course: his Grace, the Duke of Alcaston. The Duke’s patronage had given Harry ideas dizzyingly far above his station.

Why could Lord Braybrook not behave like any normal man, forbid the match and see that the importunate suitor was denied the house? She had that answer as well; he thought it might drive his sister into revolt, and if his sister was as used to getting her own way as he was, then he had a point.

Unless… There was one way in which she might ensure Lord Braybrook could take that action without his sister uttering a word of protest. A single letter to his lordship would suffice. She looked at the bureau bookcase, hesitating.

Writing that letter would work, but at the cost of an appalling betrayal. Telling tales under a self-righteous cloak. And it was important for Harry to acknowledge the reality of his situation. Somehow she had to persuade him that his course of action was wrong. She needed to see him. Harry would ignore her letters to him. She must see him, try to persuade him of the wrongness of his intention to ensnare Miss Trentham or any other woman without telling her family the truth.

It might even ruin Harry if the truth were generally known. She wasn’t sure, but she could not take that risk. As a last resort she might have to tell the truth, but it would drive a wedge between them and she had no other family. None that she cared to acknowledge.

And there was another consideration—the money Lord Braybrook offered. She did have some money. Enough to manage if she were very careful, and prices didn’t rise. But there was little left over to hoard against illness or chilly old age. With this position, she could add to her meagre nest egg. Even if it were for a year or less, she would earn far more than she could in any other position, and she would save her keep as well.

She could pack up her books and take them with her. Braybrook had said his man of business would help; very well, she would ask him to sell the furniture bequeathed to her by Mama. It might not fetch very much, but every penny helped, and she was damned if she’d leave it for Goodall to sell on Harry’s behalf!

Accepting Lord Braybrook’s offer was the sensible thing to do. As long as she remembered her place. Separate. Apart. If only she could succeed in teaching Harry that lesson.

There was no real choice. She must go into Herefordshire and make Harry see the truth—that a greater gulf than mere money lay between the Daventrys and the Trenthams. If she failed, then, in the last resort, she must tell Lord Braybrook the truth herself.

Despite the fire warming the room, she shivered, imagining his disdain, the brilliant eyes turned icy. She stiffened her spine. It didn’t matter. There was no question of her being upset by his contempt.

That sort of thing only hurt if one committed the folly of allowing someone too close. A warning voice suggested that in breaching her reserve and triggering her temper, Lord Braybrook had already stepped too close. She must ensure he never did so again.

Chapter Three

Three days later an elegant equipage pulled up St Michael’s Hill to the Chapel of the Three Kings. Julian sat back against the squabs, still not quite able to believe what he had set in motion. On the seat opposite sat his valet, Parkes, stiff with disapproval, apparently determined to remain so for the entire journey. The news that he was required to sit inside, rather than on the box hobnobbing with his crony the coachman, had been ill received.

Not a chaperon precisely, thought Julian. For a young lady of quality, Parkes would be thoroughly inadequate. For the governess, however, his presence would dampen gossip. Besides which, Julian still felt uneasy about Miss Daventry. Something had sparked between them. Something dangerous, unpredictable. He found himself thinking about her at odd moments, smiling slightly at her stubborn independence.

He should have put her in her place, reminded her of the abyss between them. But that had been impossible with her cool façade shattered. They had spoken as equals. That must never happen again. No matter how much it piqued his interest.

She was just a woman with a temper that she had learned to control. Nothing more. There was no mystery behind the prim glasses that would not upon closer acquaintance fade to mundanity. In the meantime, it was safer to have Parkes, rigid and disapproving, on the opposite seat beside Miss Daventry. If nothing else, it would serve to remind her of the gulf between master and servant.

The carriage drew up outside the Chapel. Glancing out, he discovered Miss Daventry had foiled his plan to assist with her baggage. She was seated on one of a pair of trunks and accompanied by a female of indeterminate age and generous proportions. Julian wondered how the devil the pair of them had got the trunks up the street.

Miss Daventry had stood up. ‘Goodbye, Sukey. Thank you for your help. I wish you would let me—’

‘Oh, go on with you!’ said the woman. She shot a suspicious glance towards the carriage and lowered her voice to the sort of whisper that could cut through an artillery engagement. ‘Now you’re quite sure all’s safe? Can’t trust these lords. Why, only t’other day—’

She broke off as Julian stepped out of the coach. Miss Daventry, he was pleased to note, flushed.

‘I’m sure it will be all right, Sukey,’ she said, darting a glance at Julian. ‘Good morning, my lord.’

‘Good morning, ma’am. My valet is within the coach,’ said Julian, with all the air of a man setting a hungry cat loose in a flock of very plump pigeons. ‘I do hope that allays any fears your friend has.’

The woman’s eyes narrowed as she stepped forwards. ‘Aye, I dare say it might. If so be as he ain’t in your lordship’s pocket, in a manner of speaking. If you are a lordship an’ not some havey-cavey rascal!’ She set her hands on her hips. ‘I ain’t looked after Miss Christy this long for her to be cozened by some flash-talkin’ rogue! Why, only t’other day a chap persuaded a young lady into his carriage and had his wicked way with her. Right there in the carriage! An’ her thinkin’ it was all right an’ tight, just acos he had another lady with him. Lady, hah! Madam, more like!’

‘Ma’am, I assure you that I have no designs upon Miss Daventry’s person,’ he said with commendable gravity. ‘Her brother is known to me and my only object is to convey her to her new position as my stepmother’s companion.’

Sukey snorted. ‘Easy said!’

‘Sukey,’ said Miss Daventry, ‘I am sure it’s all right. Truly.’

Clearly unconvinced, Sukey stalked to the coach and peered in, subjecting the scandalised Parkes to a close inspection. She stepped back, clearing her throat. ‘I dare say it’s all right.’ She looked sternly at Miss Daventry. ‘But you write soon’s you arrive. Vicar’ll read it to me, like he said. And keep writing so’s we know.’

‘Sukey—!’ Miss Daventry appeared completely discomposed.

The older woman scowled. ‘Can’t be too careful, Miss Christy. You do like we said an’ write!’

‘Yes, Sukey,’ said Miss Daventry meekly.

Julian blinked. There was someone in this world to whom Miss Daventry exhibited meekness?

‘This is everything, Miss Daventry?’ he asked, signalling to the groom to jump down.

She looked rather self-conscious. ‘Yes. But one of the trunks is only books, so if there is not room—’

‘There is enough room,’ he told her.

The groom hefted one trunk into the boot along with the valise. The other trunk was strapped on the back.

Sukey came forwards and enveloped Miss Daventry in a hug. To Julian’s amazement the hug was returned, fiercely.

Finally Sukey stepped back, wiping her eyes. ‘Well, I’m sure I hope it’ll all be as you say. You be a good girl. Your mam ‘ud be real proud of you. You take care, Miss Christy.’

‘I will. You have the keys safe?’

‘Aye. I’ll give ’em to that agent fellow. Off you go, then.’

Ignoring Julian’s outstretched hand, Miss Daventry stepped into the coach and settled herself beside the valet.

Julian found himself facing judge and jury. He held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Sukey. You may rest assured that Miss Daventry is safe.’

Sukey accepted the proffered hand, after first wiping her own upon her skirt. ‘I dare say. Miss Christy—Miss Daventry—she’s a lady. Just you remember that, my lord. I’m sure I hope there’s no offence.’

‘None at all,’ Julian assured her.

He stepped into the coach and sat opposite Miss Daventry. They moved off and Miss Daventry leaned out of the window, waving until they turned the corner and she sat back in her seat. Her mouth was firmly set, her expression unmoved. Yet something glimmered, trapped between her cheek and the glass of her spectacles. Julian watched, wondering if her emotions might get the better of her, but Miss Daventry’s formidable self- control prevailed.

Relieved she was not about to burst into tears, he performed the introductions. ‘My valet, Parkes, Miss Daventry. Parkes, this is Miss Daventry, who is to be companion to her ladyship and also assist as governess at times.’

Miss Daventry smiled. ‘How do you do, Parkes?’

‘Very well, thank you, miss.’ And Parkes relapsed into the proper silence he considered appropriate when circumstances dictated that he should intrude upon his betters.

Seated in his corner of the carriage, Julian picked up his book and began to read. There was no point in dwelling on the fierce loyalty Miss Daventry had inspired in her servant. Nor her obvious emotion at Sukey’s protectiveness. Of course Miss Daventry had feelings. Nothing surprising nor interesting in that. Her feelings were her own business. He had not the least reason to feel shaken by that solitary tear.

On the other side of the carriage Christy watched as his lordship disappeared into the book. She had not bothered to have a book to hand. If she dared to read in a carriage, the results would be embarrassing. Especially facing backwards.

She steeled herself to the prospect of a boring journey. There was no possibility of conversation with the elderly, dapper little valet. He had all the hallmarks of a long-standing family retainer. He would not dream of chattering on in the presence of his master, even if Christy herself did not fall into that limbo reserved for governesses and companions. She knew from experience that her life would be lived in isolation, neither truly a member of the family, nor part of the servants’ hall. Neither above stairs, nor below. An odd thought came to her of generation after generation of ghostly governesses and companions, doomed to a grey existence on the half-landings. Just as well, too. It made her preferred reserve far easier to maintain.

Her stomach churned slightly, but she breathed deeply and otherwise ignored it. It was partly due to tiredness. With all the work of packing up the house, she had scarcely had more than five hours sleep a night, and last night she had barely slept at all. She never could sleep properly the night before a journey, for dreaming that the coach had gone without her and she was running after it, crying out for it to wait, not to abandon her…

She wondered if she dared lower the window and lean out. No. It would be presumptuous, and she would become sadly rumpled and dusty. Not at all ladylike. She set herself to endure, leaning back and closing her eyes.

Leaving Gloucester midway through the second day, Julian knew Miss Daventry was not a good traveller. He had without comment lowered all the windows. Not that she complained, or asked for any halts. But he could imagine no other explanation for the white, set look about her mouth, or that when they stopped, she would accept nothing beyond weak, black tea. She hadn’t eaten a great deal of dinner or breakfast either.

He knew the signs from personal experience, only he had outgrown the tendency. There was little he could do about it, he thought, watching her. She was pale, and her eyes were closed, a faint frown between her brows. Oh, hell! ‘Miss Daventry?’

‘My lord?’ The eyes opened. He blinked, still not used to their effect. The shadows beneath them were darker today than yesterday. It shouldn’t bother him. Noblesse oblige, he assured himself. Nothing personal.

‘Miss Daventry, perhaps you might change seats with me?’

Somehow she sat a little straighter. ‘I am very well here, my lord. Thank you.’

He was not supposed to feel admiration—she was the governess- companion, for heavens’ sake! His voice devoid of expression, he said, ‘I think “well” is the last word that applies to you at this moment. Certainly not “very well”. Come, exchange places with me.’ Determined to expunge any misleading suggestion of personal feeling, he added, ‘I cannot sit here any longer feeling guilty.’

Blushing, she complied, scrambling across past him.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, still slightly pink.

He inclined his head. ‘You are welcome, Miss Daventry.’ Detached. Bored, even. ‘Of course, should it be necessary, you will request a halt, will you not?’

She squared her shoulders. ‘That will not be necessary, my lord. I should not wish to delay us.’

He raised his brows. ‘I assure you, Miss Daventry, a brief halt will be a great deal more preferable than the alternative— won’t it, Parkes?’

The valet, thus appealed to, permitted himself a brief smile. ‘Indeed, sir. I’ve not forgotten how often you used to ask to be let down.’

Julian laughed at Miss Daventry’s look of patent disbelief. ‘Perfectly true, Miss Daventry. But I became accustomed eventually.’

A small smile flickered, and a dimple sprang to life. ‘I fear I did not travel enough as a child then. I remained staidly in Bath.’

‘Bath? I understood from your brother that your home had always been in Bristol.’ Where the devil had that dimple come from?

Miss Daventry’s pale cheeks pinkened again and the dimple vanished. ‘Oh. Harry was very small when Mama moved to Bristol. And I went to school in Bath when I was ten. When I was older I became a junior assistant mistress.’

She subsided into silence, turning her head to watch the passing scenery.

Julian returned to his book, glancing up from time to time to check on Miss Daventry. He told himself that he was not, most definitely not, looking for that dimple. He had seen dimples before. But, really, for a moment there, the staid Miss Daventry had looked almost pretty. Spectacles and all. And her mouth was not in the least prim when she smiled. It was soft, inviting…

There was something about her. Something that made him want to look again… The eyes. That was all. Once he became accustomed to them, she would have no interest for him whatsoever. In the meantime she was suffering from carriage sickness and it behoved him to care for her. No more. No less.

Reminding himself of that, Julian reburied himself in his book, only glancing over the top every ten pages or so.

Aware of his occasional scrutiny, Christy tried to ignore it, repressing an urge to peep under her lashes. Her heart thudded uncomfortably; the result, she assured herself, of having so nearly revealed too much. Her pounding heart had nothing to do with those brilliant eyes that seemed to perceive more than they ought. It wasn’t as if he cared about her, Christy Daventry. She was in his charge, therefore he owed it to himself to make sure she was comfortable. If she were not, it was a reflection on himself. He was being kind to her in the same way he would care for any other servant. Or his dog or horse. Admirable, but nothing to make her heart beat faster. Noblesse oblige. That or he was ensuring she wasn’t sick in his beautifully appointed carriage.

But the bright glance of his blue eyes was hard to ignore. She was infuriated to find herself drifting into a daydream where his lordship’s remarkable eyes were focused on her. And not because he was concerned she might be sick all over his highly polished boots.

Ridiculous! She knew nothing of him. Except that he was thoughtful enough to find a companion for his stepmother, kind enough to change seats with the carriage-sick companion, and sensible enough not to drive his sister into revolt. Heavens! She was rapidly making him out to be a paragon.

Lord Braybrook was no paragon. The lazy twinkle in his eyes, combined with unconscious arrogance, suggested he was the sort of man a sensible woman steered well clear of. Assuming he had not already informed the sensible woman that he had no designs on her virtue, as though the idea were unthinkable. And a very good thing too. Christy had a sneaking suspicion that when his lordship did focus his attention on a female, good sense might come under heavy fire.

Oh, nonsense. He was probably horrid on closer acquaintance, the sort of man who kicked puppies. Yes. That was better. No one could like a man who kicked puppies. Or kittens. A pity she was having so much difficulty seeing him in the role. Much easier to see those lean fingers cradling a small creature… rocking it.

She smothered a yawn. Such a warm day…rocking…like a cradle. No, that was the coach. It was beautifully sprung and she felt much better now, facing forwards. Far less disconcerting to have the breeze from the open window in her face and see the world spinning towards her and away, rather than just spinning away in front of her…rocking, rocking, rocking…

Later, some time later, she was vaguely aware of being eased down to the seat, gentle hands removing her bonnet and spectacles, tucking a rug around her, a light touch feathering over her cheek…a dream, a memory, nothing more. Christy slept, cradled in dreams.

She awoke in near darkness to a touch on her shoulder and a deep voice saying, ‘We are nearly there, Miss Daventry.’

Dazed, she sat up. Strong hands caught her as the coach swung around a turn. Coach? Where…? Blinking sleep away, she clutched at the strap hanging down, and the hands released her. Some of her confusion ebbed. This was not Bristol. She was in a coach, with Lord Braybrook and his valet. Why had she been lying down with a rug tucked over her? And where were her glasses? Everything was blurred.

Worried, she felt along the seat. They must have fallen off while she slept. And how dreadful that she had dozed off in front of Lord Braybrook and been shameless enough to lie down! And her spectacles were probably broken if they had fallen to the floor.

‘Miss Daventry—is something amiss?’

She flushed. ‘My spectacles must have fallen off. I can’t see without them.’

‘Of course.’

He reached into his pocket and drew out a small object, offering it to her. Confused, she reached for it and he placed it in her hand. Immediately her fingers recognised her spectacles, wrapped in a handkerchief.

‘I thought they were safer in my pocket,’ said his lordship.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded the handkerchief, shaken by a memory of gentle hands making her comfortable. Had her dream not been a dream? Had he laid her down on the seat and removed her spectacles and bonnet? And tucked the rug over her? She swallowed. He must have. But the caressing touch on her cheek had certainly been a dream. Hadn’t it?

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, putting the spectacles on. The darkening world came back into focus. ‘You are most kind.’ She schooled her voice to polite indifference. His noblesse oblige again. If she remembered that, good sense would prevail. Not the foolish dream of tenderness. She handed him the handkerchief.

He pocketed it. ‘Not at all, Miss Daventry. We shall be at the house in a few moments. Your bonnet is on the seat.’

His cool tones revived her wilting common sense. She retrieved the bonnet, and attempted to tidy herself, securing stray tendrils of hair with hairpins before replacing the bonnet. She thought that she must be sadly rumpled after the day’s journey and sleeping in the carriage, but there was little she could do about it.

Julian dragged his gaze away from her to look out of the window. He could see the house now, lights glimmering in the dusk, its bulk dark against the deepening sky. Home. Concentrate on that. Not the impossible softness of her cheek under his fingers as he removed the bonnet and spectacles, not the jolt to his gut as he finally saw the colour of her hair, a rich tawny brown, rigidly scraped back and confined with a battalion of pins. Nor the queer protective sensation he had felt watching her sleep, her mouth relaxed and soft. Definitely not the odd pang he had felt when she awoke and sat up, clothes and hair askew, and that vulnerable sleepy look in her eyes.

She was in his employ, a servant to all intents and purposes. He had no business feeling anything for her beyond a sense of general responsibility. Indeed, to judge by her cool response to him, that was precisely what she expected and preferred.

She would neither expect nor wish him to be thinking about a little girl left at school in Bath. It was none of his concern. It should not come near him, let alone touch him. Ridiculous to feel sympathy for that long-ago little girl. He had gone to school himself at eight…memories poured back. His confusion at his first return for the holidays to find his mother gone. The servants’ evasions of his questions. His father’s bitterness and refusal to explain and the slow realisation that there was to be something scandalous, and expensive, called a ‘divorce’. That he probably wouldn’t see his mother again. And he hadn’t. After the divorce she had married her lover and lived on the Continent, dying when he was fifteen. By then he had understood. His father’s attitude had been quite clear when he married Serena as a matter of convenience to breed a couple of back-up heirs. Better to marry for reasons less likely to sour on one than love—property, connections and duty. One needed to like and respect one’s spouse. Anything more was damned dangerous, and passion and desire were best served by taking a discreet mistress.

Still, he remembered the child’s sense of abandonment and loss. Worse for a girl, of course. Boys were better able to cope with such things. Look at Davy, longing for the day he went to school. Not until he was ten, though. Serena had insisted and, since he knew his father had agreed, that was that. Besides which, he liked having Davy about the place. All of them, in fact.

Christy sat up straighter as they bowled up the avenue, the horses finding a second wind so close to their stable. They rattled over what appeared to be a stone bridge, under an arch into a narrow passageway and out into what must once have been a castle forecourt. Obviously someone had been watching for them, because as they drew up at the front door several people and a dog raced down the steps.

To Christy’s startled eyes Lord Braybrook appeared to be surrounded by a mob as he stepped out of the coach into the light of the carriage lamps. She had the oddest sensation that thick glass reared up, allowing her to see, but slicing her apart from the bright circle.

‘Did you bring us anything?’

‘Why didn’t you come back sooner? You said you would be back yesterday!’

Lord Braybrook fended off the barking black-and-tan setter, swung a small boy up into his arms and said, ‘For heaven’s sake, be still, you three! Get down, Juno. Anyone would think I’d been away for a month! How are you, Davy? Have you behaved yourself?’

‘Yes.’ The small boy nodded vigorously.

‘Liar!’ said an older boy of fifteen or so. ‘He’s been a little pest, Julian. He glued himself to the front steps last night so he wouldn’t have to go to bed until you came home! The bottom of his nankeens is still there!’

‘Yes,’ chimed in the girl. ‘And Mama made us pull him out of them when they wouldn’t unstick! She said it was our fault he got the glue because we were supposed to be minding him!’

In the dusk, Christy had the distinct impression that his lordship was trying to preserve a straight face. Laughter bubbled up inside her.

‘Davy?’ His lordship’s voice was mild enough, but something about it hinted at tempered steel.

‘Well, you said you’d be back!’ muttered the little boy.

‘Hmm. I was delayed. Next time go to bed when you’re told.’ A stern voice, one to be obeyed, but affectionate. Caring.

‘Oh, very well. That’s what Mr Havergal said. Did you bring us something?’

‘Who is Mr Havergal?’ asked his lordship.

Davy shrugged. ‘Just a friend of Mama’s. Don’t you know him? He calls quite often.’ He tugged on his brother’s lapel. ‘Did you bring us anything?’

‘No. I brought your mama something instead.’

‘Mama?’ came the chorus from three throats.

Lord Braybrook put the little boy down, patted the dog, an elegant bitch, and turned back to the coach. ‘Permit me to assist you down, Miss Daventry.’

Christy stood up, and discovered herself to be appallingly cramped from the long journey, her legs barely able to hold her. Carefully she moved to the open door.

A strong hand gripped her elbow. Heat shot through her. Shocked, she looked up.

The firm lips curved a little, not unsympathetically.

‘I dare say you are a trifle stiff, Miss Daventry. I am myself.’

Christy took leave to doubt that. The wretched man had leapt down as lightly as a stag, without any hint of stiffness.

‘I…thank you, my lord.’ Tingling heat still spread through her. Folly! She was tired. Imagining things. She was chilled and his hand was warm.

He assisted her down from the carriage, steadying her as she stumbled a little.

‘This is Miss Daventry,’ he said. ‘Miss Daventry, these are my youngest sister, Emma, and my brothers, Matthew and Davy.’

Christy summoned a smile, despite her tiredness. ‘Good evening, Emma, Matthew, Davy.’ The dog came and sniffed at her and she bent to fondle the silky ears.

‘And Juno,’ said his lordship. The dog returned to him, tail waving.

‘Good evening, Miss Daventry,’ said Emma politely.

‘Good evening, ma’am,’ said Matthew, bowing slightly.

Davy scowled. ‘Did you make Julian late?’

Now she thought about it, she probably had. ‘I am afraid so, Davy,’ she admitted. ‘His lordship kindly gave me an extra day to ready myself before leaving Bristol.’

Davy looked unimpressed. ‘Mama was cross with me because of my nankeens,’ he informed her. ‘I had bread and butter for my supper, and no cake.’

Lord Braybrook stifled an odd sound and leant down to give his small brother a not unkindly swat on the behind. ‘Don’t blame Miss Daventry for your misdoings, scamp. Now, off with you. It’s long past your bedtime.’

Lord Braybrook kept his hand close to Christy’s elbow as they went up the steps into the mellow lighted hall, closely attended by Juno, who seemed to feel she must remain as close as possible to her restored master.

A butler bowed. ‘Welcome home, my lord.’

‘Good evening, Hallam,’ said Lord Braybrook. The butler glanced at Christy but his well-trained visage betrayed not the least surprise or curiosity.

She stared about her. The hall was enormous. She had the impression of great age, a high-vaulted ceiling and pinky-brown weathered stone. A branching stone staircase at the back led up to a gallery

‘Welcome to Amberley, Miss Daventry,’ said Lord Braybrook.

Her response was lost in a startled exclamation from the back of the hall.

‘Good heavens! Who is this, Julian?’

Two people were there. One a tall, slender young lady who must, Christy surmised, be Miss Trentham. Black curls, loosely arranged and confined with a pink bandeau, framed a vivid face with the family eyes. The other was an older woman, seated, her legs covered with a shawl, and a large tabby cat in her lap. An instant later, she realised that the chair had wheels—a Bath chair.

The woman was staring at her in amazement. And, she thought, disapproval. Her new employer. Lady Braybrook herself.

‘Julian, what have you done?’ This in tones of deep suspicion.

His lordship went to her, bent down and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I suppose you will think I have been far too precipitate and should have discussed it with you, but—’

‘No doubt!’ said Lady Braybrook.

Lord Braybrook smiled. ‘This is Miss Daventry, Serena—your new companion.’

If Lady Braybrook had looked puzzled before, she looked positively stunned now. Her jaw dropped and she said, ‘But I told you! I don’t want a companion! Even if I did, I would very much prefer to choose my own!’

Christy blinked. She had known he was autocratic— arrogant, even. Her lips set. Yes, she had definitely known he was arrogant! But this! He had completely bypassed his stepmother’s views on the subject!

Anger, and hot embarrassment, overcame the little voice warning her that she’d better bite her tongue.

She lifted her chin and said in the sweetest tones she could muster, ‘Thank you, my lord, for a most interesting, if wasted, journey. Perhaps next time you might have the goodness to take account of the views of all the persons involved before embroiling anyone else in your schemes. I do trust that I may be offered a bedchamber for the night rather than trudging back immediately!’

Chapter Four

Lady Braybrook’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into her elegant cap, but Christy didn’t care. To hell with what anyone thought of her. She was tired after two days’ travel, and now she had the journey back. She probably wouldn’t even have time to see Harry before being bundled off and she would have to dig into her slender savings to stay at an inn while she found lodgings.

Then, ‘Oh, well done, dear! Julian, for heaven’s sake, stop standing there gaping and see that Miss…Daventry, did you say?’—a swift glance at Miss Trentham— ‘Yes, have Miss Daventry’s baggage taken up. She may have the guest chamber along from me. That will do very well.’

She held out her hand, saying, ‘You must be famished, Miss Daventry, so do not worry about changing.’ Bemused, Christy came forwards to accept the proffered hand.

‘Lissy dear, show Miss Daventry where she may wash her face and hands. Then bring her to the small dining parlour.’

Christy permitted herself to be led away by Miss Trentham and heard Lady Braybrook say in tones of steely determination, ‘In the meantime, Julian, shall we discuss this privately? Matt—take Davy upstairs and see that he goes to bed.’

***

Miss Trentham smiled at Christy in a very friendly way as she led her out of the hall and asked, ‘Are you really Miss Daventry? What a coincidence! I…we know a Mr Daventry. He…he is a most particular friend.’ She blushed prettily.

‘No coincidence at all,’ said Christy. ‘Harry is my brother. Lord Braybrook sought me out intentionally. Since he was under the erroneous impression that your mother required a companion, he thought of me.’

Miss Trentham’s blue, blue eyes opened wide. ‘But, surely you need not work?’

There was no scorn in her voice, only shock.

First trick to his lordship, thought Christy, following Miss Trentham down a passage. Probably the last one though, given Lady Braybrook’s reaction to his high-handed efforts. She elaborated, feeling she might as well partially earn the quarter’s wages that Lord Braybrook would undoubtedly insist she accept. ‘But of course, Miss Trentham. Harry must make his own way in the world and I cannot be a burden on him.’ Miss Trentham looked a little self-conscious, and Christy went on, ‘At this stage of his career he has quite enough to do to support himself. Our—’ She caught herself and went on, ‘His godfather is generous, but it does not extend to supporting a sister.’

‘Oh. I…I see.’ The dazed tone suggested that Miss Trentham was gaining a whole new view of matters beyond Harry’s good looks and charm. ‘Here we are,’ she said, opening a door. ‘This is the garden room. Mama insists the boys come inside through this room and there are always soap and water here.’

Removing her bonnet to lave her face and hands, Christy thought Lady Braybrook sounded extremely practical. Kind, too, and probably a far more pleasant employer than her last. Christy sighed as she dried her face. She wouldn’t be getting much of a reference out of this one either.

To Whom It May Concern:

Miss Daventry arrived to be my companion on Friday evening. After raking down my stepson, she returned to Bristol on Saturday morning.

Yours etc., etc.

As a reference, it had limitations, she acknowledged, re- pinning her hair. And as a position, this must be a record: dismissed before she had begun. Her hair as neat as she could make it, she turned back to Miss Trentham.

‘Are you ready?’ asked the young woman. ‘It will be famous having you here, you know. Leave your bonnet. One of the maids will take it up to your bedchamber.’

Christy left the bonnet and followed Miss Trentham from the room. ‘Ah, Miss Trentham, I believe Lady Braybrook said that she did not want a companion. I dare say I shall be dispatched back to Bristol tomorrow.’

Leading the way along the corridor, Miss Trentham shook her head so the black curls bounced. ‘Oh, pooh! Of course you won’t. That is what is so particularly annoying about Julian—he persuades people to do precisely as he says! Even Mama. And he is always so…so insufferably certain that he knows what is best. Mama says he means well, but if you were to ask me, he’s a tyrant!’

‘Explain, if you please, Julian.’ There was a distinct bite in Serena’s voice.

Julian had wheeled her into a small parlour off the hall. ‘A ploy,’ he said, closing the door and turning to face her. ‘The companion part is a blind. She’s actually here to keep Lissy in order.’ Bringing up a chair for himself, he explained his reasoning.

Serena’s eyebrows rose. She was silent for a moment, thinking it over, and he waited.

‘I see,’ she said eventually. And he had the sneaking suspicion that she did see. Every single machination anyway. He hoped to hell she couldn’t see the inexplicable attraction Miss Daventry held for him. Not that it mattered, because he wasn’t going to do anything about it.

‘I suppose she’s dowdy enough for a companion-governess,’ said Serena thoughtfully.

Dowdy? ‘Nothing of the sort,’ he said stiffly. ‘She is still in mourning for her mother, Serena!’

Amusement crept around Serena’s eyes and mouth. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I see. Well, I dare say some of my own mourning garb can be altered to fit her. It will certainly give Lissy pause for thought.’

‘She stays, then?’ What the hell was that jolt of relief in his midriff?

Serena blinked. ‘Oh, I think so, dear. I’m sure she will suit admirably. She’s not at all mealy-mouthed, is she?’

‘No.’ Along with meek, that was the last adjective he’d use to describe Miss Christiana Daventry.

Christy tried not to let her shock show. Lit with more candles than she would have used in a year, the small dining parlour was somewhat larger than the entire ground floor of the Christmas Steps house. And, since these were wax candles, without the reek of tallow.

‘Ah, here they are.’ Lady Braybrook was already seated at a circular table with his lordship and Matthew, who both rose politely.

‘Come and sit beside me, Miss Daventry,’ said Lady Braybrook. ‘I apologise for my lack of tact earlier. You must have thought yourself in a perfect madhouse! Unfortunately Braybrook did not see fit to apprise me of his intentions.’ She glared at her stepson, who had strolled around the table to pull out a chair for Christy.

Christy managed to look demure and murmured her thanks as she seated herself. There was no faulting his lordship’s manners, even if his high-handed assurance left a great deal to be desired.

‘I beg your pardon, Serena,’ said Lord Braybrook, sitting down again.

Christy doubted the sincerity of his lordship’s contrition. And she observed that, far from kicking puppies, his lordship was obviously very fond of dogs. The setter, Juno, lay as close as possible to her master’s chair, chin resting on a stretcher.

‘Mama,’ said Miss Trentham, ‘Miss Daventry is Mr Daventry’s sister!’ Her eyes sparkled. ‘Should I send him a note to say she is here?’

Christy caught Lord Braybrook’s eye, and said, ‘How kind, Miss Trentham. On accepting his lordship’s offer, I took the liberty of writing to Harry myself.’ Spurred on by malice aforethought, she added, ‘I would be most grateful if you were to inform him that I have returned to Bristol and will write again soon.’

An odd choking sound came from Lady Braybrook. Christy turned quickly and her ladyship patted her lips with her napkin. Laughing grey eyes met hers.

‘No, no, Miss Daventry. That will not be necessary. Now Braybrook has explained all the particulars, I am delighted to have you here.’ She glanced at her daughter. ‘Yes, Lissy, Julian explained the connection. A kind thought to assist Miss Daventry in this way. And so pleasant for me.’

Miss Trentham brightened. ‘Oh, famous! You see, Miss Daventry—I told you Julian would talk Mama around. I’m sure Mr Daventry will come to see you as soon as may be.’

Christy had not the least doubt of that. His lordship was one of those annoying persons who always contrived to achieve their ends.

Lord Braybrook met her gaze blandly. ‘Naturally, ma’am, when he does so, you must take a morning or afternoon off to spend with him. I dare say you have not met for some time.’

‘No,’ said Christy. ‘We have not.’ Not since Mama’s funeral.

It had rained unrelentingly. And they had stood there, soaked to the skin, wondering if he would come. If he would have the decency…well, she had wondered. Harry had thought it unlikely. Indeed, unnecessary.

Don’t be a peagoose, Christy. I dare say he has much to occupy him.

She would never forgive Alcaston for that. Never. Not to come to the funeral. Nor send so much as a wreath. Discretion, of course. That had been his reason for not attending little Sarah’s funeral all those years ago…but she had foolishly thought that he would attend Mama’s funeral. She shivered. If anything further had been needed to drive home the necessity of standing alone, that had been it.

‘Miss Daventry?’

Horrified, she realised that his lordship was speaking to her and that she had been staring into space.

The bright eyes were focused on her, faintly frowning.

‘I beg your pardon, my lord. I was woolgathering.’

Heat pricked behind her eyes, but she kept her voice steady. He was still watching her, with eyes that peeled away too many defences.

‘I fancy Miss Daventry is very tired, Julian,’ said Lady Braybrook. ‘I’m sorry, my dear. Your room will be prepared by the time you have finished your supper and you may go to bed. We need not arrange anything tonight. Do have some chicken soup. And, Lissy, please pass the rolls to Miss Daventry.’

As she helped herself to the soup and accepted a roll, Christy wondered what sort of establishment she had landed in. A greater contrast with her previous live-in situation could not be imagined. A sense of dislocation niggled at her. Rather than treating the governess-companion as a lesser being, Lady Braybrook treated her as if she were a favoured guest. If she were not on her guard, she would forget her place. Never before had that been a problem. Never before had she imagined herself belonging. Not caught forever on the half- landing. She must remember that, all kindness aside, Lady Braybrook was her mistress.

And Lord Braybrook her master?

She gritted her teeth. She was a dependant. Not their equal. If she could not remember that, how could she convince Harry?

Christy spent the next morning unpacking, or rather she spent twenty minutes unpacking, and the rest considering how best to fit into the household. Lady Braybrook, she discovered, did not usually leave her bedchamber until late morning, when a footman carried her down to the drawing room. This was explained by Grigson, an unsmiling female whose fashionable clothes proclaimed her Lady Braybrook’s dresser, when she came to tell Christy that her ladyship awaited her in the drawing room.

Lady Braybrook was seated by a sunny window, the tabby cat enthroned on her lap. ‘Thank you, Grigson. That will be all. Good morning, Miss Daventry. You slept well? You look much better this morning. Braybrook mentioned that you were uncomfortable in the carriage.’

Christy curtsied. ‘Thank you, ma’am. I slept very well. His lordship should not have concerned himself.’

‘Hmm. Well, I am glad you are feeling better. Do come and sit down and we can discuss your duties. You really only have Davy and Emma. Matthew is home from school, so you need not worry about him. Lissy has her French and Italian conversation and her music to practise. And she should do some sketching. You are able to help her with those?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’

‘Excellent.’ Lady Braybrook beamed. ‘With Matt on holiday, Emma and Davy need not have many lessons. Emma must practise her music and Davy must continue his reading, French and a little arithmetic, but until Matthew goes back, there is little point in more. Davy would play you up dreadfully, I dare say!’

‘I assure you, he would not get away with it,’ said Christy. And mentally kicked herself. Adoring mamas did not commonly like to know their high-spirited darlings needed discipline.

‘Excellent,’ said Lady Braybrook. ‘From the way you gave Braybrook his own last night, I didn’t imagine you would have any difficulty with Davy.’

Christy blinked.

The cat rose, stretching, all elegant muscle and sinew. Lady Braybrook made no effort to hold it, and it leapt down, stalking towards Christy.

She eyed it sideways, wondering if her pet’s desertion would offend Lady Braybrook. Unblinking emerald eyes stared back.

‘Ma’am, if you do not dislike it, I have given some thought to my role here—’ She broke off as the cat sprang into her lap. Oh, drat! She could hardly tip the creature off and it had been so long since she had been able to have a cat.

Lady Braybrook smiled over her embroidery, as the needle continued to flash. ‘My dear Miss Daventry, why should I dislike it?’ A faint twinkle appeared in her eyes. ‘After all, you have had more time to become used to the idea than I!’

Christy blushed, and petted the cat, who had settled down purring.

Lady Braybrook laughed. ‘Oh, don’t feel embarrassed. Believe me, I know how autocratic Braybrook can be when he is arranging everything for one’s good. Maddening, is he not? Now, tell me: what were you thinking?’

‘Well,’ said Christy, ‘I noticed this morning that you did not come down until quite late and—’

She broke off at Lady Braybrook’s wry smile.

‘These silly legs,’ she explained. ‘I take my bath in the morning, and of course it does take a little time. Such a nuisance…’

‘Ma’am, I did not mean—’

Lady Braybrook chuckled. ‘Of course not. Tell me what you have in mind.’

‘I wondered if I taught the younger children in the morning, before you came down, if that would work?’

‘An excellent idea,’ said Lady Braybrook. ‘Then I shall steal you for the rest of the day. Although after lunch you might accompany Lissy and Emma for their walk.’

‘Naturally I would be happy to do so,’ said Christy, ‘but if I am to be your companion—’ The amused look on Lady Braybrook’s face stopped her.

‘You have other duties, Miss Daventry,’ pointed out Lady Braybrook.

Christy flushed. ‘Lord Braybrook explained, then?’

‘Braybrook,’ said her ladyship, not mincing words, ‘is the most devious and annoying man imaginable. I haven’t decided if he is disguising your true purpose from Lissy, by pretending that you are my companion, or disguising your true purpose from me, by pretending you are here to help open Lissy’s eyes!’

Christy found herself smiling. ‘He used both arguments with me. Perhaps I am merely a convenient stone to be hurled at two birds.’

Lady Braybrook’s lips twitched. ‘He’s not completely blind, Miss Daventry. I doubt he believes you to be made of stone.’

To this cryptic remark, Christy said nothing. There was something unsettling about the amusement in Lady Braybrook’s voice. The cat rolled in her lap, offering his belly, eyes closed to blissful slits as she obliged and kneaded.

‘Another thing, my dear. That striped creature is Tybalt—Tyb. He has an absolute genius for making up to people like Braybrook who loathe cats. If you dislike him, or he makes you sneeze, for heaven’s sake, tip him off.’

Again the sense of dislocation swept her. She felt not at all like a dependant. Lady Braybrook was doing everything in her power to make an outsider feel at home. She had even given her one of the best bedchambers.

‘Thank you, ma’am, but I love cats.’

Lady Braybrook smiled. ‘Excellent. Braybrook, like most men, prefers dogs. I must say I have never worked out why so many women love cats, and men profess to loathe them, but love dogs.’

‘That,’ said Christy, caught off guard, ‘might be because cats are independent, not slavish like dogs. Perhaps we women admire an independence and power few of us will ever know. Your Tybalt may sit in my lap, but he is the one conferring a favour. Cats are rather like aristocrats. They have staff.’ Oh, dear. Should she have said that?

A ripple of delighted laughter broke from Lady Braybrook and she laid aside her embroidery. ‘Oh, goodness. I’d never thought of that, but you are perfectly right. Although many women love dogs too.’

‘And that,’ said Christy, wildly aware that the conversation had somehow become far too personal, ‘is because we are far more flexible than gentlemen and are capable of loving creatures for quite opposite reasons. Cats for their dignity and independence, and a dog for its loyalty.’

‘Good morning, Serena. May I interrupt?’

Christy froze. As a lesson in the perils of unguarded conversation, this would be hard to beat.

Julian had enough sense to pretend he hadn’t heard the comment about aristocrats and cats, but he was pleased to see he had been correct in his estimation that Serena and Miss Daventry would suit.

‘Of course, dear,’ said Serena. ‘Miss Daventry was just observing how much you and Tyb have in common.’

Julian took one look at Tyb’s current position, sprawled with considerable indelicacy in Miss Daventry’s lap. He wasn’t sure any reply was safe. His mouth dried at the sight of Miss Daventry’s slender fingers kneading that furry abandoned belly. He’d never realised all the advantages of being a cat before.

Miss Daventry, of course, was taking no notice of him whatsoever. Although he thought there was a faint flush of colour in her cheeks.

Piqued, he said, ‘Good morning, Miss Daventry, I trust you slept well?’

‘Very well, thank you, my lord.’

Prim. Proper. Precisely what she ought to be. Not speaking until spoken to, evincing a becoming respect for her betters. But under the dowdy façade lurked quite a different creature. One who was not Miss Daventry at all. One who argued, and refused to be put in her place. Who sat kneading a cat’s belly in a slow hypnotic rhythm that sent heat curling through him. Christy. That was the woman he wanted to know. And he wouldn’t mind switching places with Serena’s cat either. His body tightened. Hell! If Miss Daventry could read his thoughts, her cheeks would ignite in fury.

‘Do you require something, Julian?’ asked Serena.

He turned to her, realising that he had been staring at Miss Daventry. Somehow he had to relegate the woman to her proper place.

‘No. I merely came in to see that you were well. I will be in the library if you require me. Just send Miss Daventry.’

Serena sent him a very straight look. ‘Thank you, Julian. I believe I need not use Miss Daventry like a page boy. We will see you later, then. Good morning.’

Julian removed himself, before he could put his other boot in his mouth. It was the cat’s fault. If the blasted creature hadn’t been lolling in Miss Daventry’s lap so brazenly, he would never have been such a fool.

His agent’s reports would banish his wayward thoughts. Anything to rid himself of this fancy to find out what, beyond a sting like a wasp, hid behind Miss Daventry’s prim façade.

At luncheon Julian congratulated himself on an excellent choice of companion. Serena seemed brighter, happier than he had seen her in a long while. Not that she was ever self-pitying, but he had thought for some time that she had lost something of her sparkle.

Miss Daventry was worth her hire for that alone.

‘I think, this afternoon, Miss Daventry might accompany Lissy and Emma for their walk,’ said Serena, sipping coffee. ‘She must learn her way about.’

‘We intended to ride this afternoon, Mama,’ said Lissy. ‘Of course, Miss Daventry may still come with us. May she not, Julian?’

He glanced up, trying not to appear at all interested. ‘Miss Daventry ride? Yes, if she wishes.’ As an invitation it left a great deal to be desired, but his unbecoming interest in Miss Daventry must not be indulged.

Miss Daventry cleared her throat.

Bracing himself for the inevitable, Julian said, ‘I collect you have an objection, ma’am. Please state it.’

Miss Daventry’s eyes narrowed. ‘Not precisely an objection, my lord. An observation.’

Did she have to be so damned pedantic?

‘Yes?’ He didn’t like the snappish tone of his voice, but Miss Daventry seemed not to notice.

‘I don’t ride,’ she said.

‘Don’t ride? But everybody rides!’ Lissy’s disbelief was palpable.

‘Not everyone, Miss Trentham,’ said Miss Daventry gently. ‘I have always lived in a town and we couldn’t afford a horse.’

‘But Harry, I mean, Mr Daventry rides. He told me he had ridden since he was a child—’

‘Enough, Lissy.’ Julian was at a loss to explain the revulsion sweeping him. This was precisely why he had hired Miss Daventry—to demonstrate to Lissy the gulf between them. To force her to realise all she would be giving up. Now, hearing Miss Daventry explain the reality of genteel poverty with quiet dignity, he suddenly didn’t like it. The opposite side of the equation was laid brutally bare—Miss Daventry’s humiliation.

He had never intended to rub her nose in the gulf between herself and Lissy. If he were honest, it had not occurred to him. And yet, he could see Lissy thinking, looking at Miss Daventry’s dowdy appearance with new eyes, applying it to herself. And Miss Daventry seemed unperturbed.

Why wouldn’t she be? She’s had years to accustom herself to her station and you are paying her fifty pounds extra for the privilege of having her nose rubbed in it.

Part of him rebelled against this cold logic. Surely, even if only as part of her remuneration, she was entitled to some enjoyment in her life. It might ram the message home to Lissy all the faster, he told himself. Yes, that was it.

He looked across at Serena. She raised her brows, dearly.

‘We still have Merlin in the stables,’ he said, wondering what the devil was so entertaining.

She smiled. ‘Dear Merlin. I dare say he will be glad of a little outing. By all means, dear. I’m sure it will be very beneficial.’

Beneficial for whom? wondered Julian. Something about Serena’s smile had alarm bells clanging. He turned to Miss Daventry. ‘Ma’am, if you would care for it, you may ride Lady Braybrook’s old mount. He is very quiet, used to carrying a lady.’

Miss Daventry demurred. Of course.

‘Thank you, sir, but I will be more than happy to remain with Lady Braybrook. I—’

‘No, dear. Go with them,’ said Serena. ‘I would be much happier if you learned to ride. Lissy is for ever giving the grooms the slip when she rides out, but I fancy she will not be so rag-mannered with you! Especially if she knows you to be inexperienced.’ She shot a glance at her daughter. Who blushed.

In one final attempt to avoid her fate, Miss Daventry said, ‘But I have no riding habit!’

Serena—Julian silently blessed her—dismissed that with a wave of her hand. ‘Oh, pish! You may have my old one. It will be a little large, but the colour will suit you. It’s quite a dark blue, so you need not scruple to wear it despite your mourning. And there are any number of mourning gowns in my dressing room. Heaven knows I wouldn’t fit into most of them any more.’ She smiled ruefully at Miss Daventry, and added, ‘I have a tendency to put on weight sitting in this horrid chair. It would be better, of course, if I were not so fond of cakes and made more use of my exercise chair.’

Julian looked at Lissy. His sister was watching Miss Daventry, an odd expression on her face, as the companion accepted politely.

Chapter Five

Christy frowned at her reflection. The riding habit was slightly too large, but the wretched thing was almost flattering. She had an observable figure. Most of her gowns deliberately disguised that. Wearing gowns in any way related to one’s shape was, in the crudely expressed opinion of her former employer, ‘asking for it’. Too-large gowns—which were easier to button up unassisted— the caps, and the spectacles all helped. Not that the spectacles were mere disguise—she would trip over her own feet without them.

No one looked beyond a dull, shapeless gown, the cap and spectacles. They saw only the dowdy paid companion or governess. It was safer that way.

Only she had the uncomfortable sensation that, like his lordship, Lady Braybrook saw Christy, not Miss Daventry. She had been right about the habit suiting Christy. The deep blue gave a little colour to her cheeks, although that might be the country air. She fingered the braid up the front of the habit. It was beautiful, so elegant. She had never worn such clothes in her life. Perhaps it didn’t matter. She was still the companion- governess. Borrowed plumage did not make fine birds, she told herself as she went downstairs.

‘There you are!’

Lissy and Matthew were waiting in the hall, which Christy had learnt was the Great Hall. Apparently Amberley was very old indeed and the Trenthams had been here for ever.

‘You do look nice,’ said Lissy, and Christy bit her lip not to smile at the new hint of patronage. ‘The horses have been brought around. We have Mama’s old hack for you. He’s terribly quiet.’

‘Not a slug, though,’ put in Matthew. ‘You could have ridden another horse, but Julian said it was better to be safe than sorry. He said he didn’t want to bury you.’ Not a hint of patronage there.

‘An unwelcome expense, no doubt,’ said Christy.

Matthew grinned. ‘He didn’t put it quite like that.’ The grin turned impish. ‘It was more the inconvenience.’

Christy peered over the top of her spectacles at him, in a manner she had found to be very effective with youngsters. They never seemed to realise it was a bluff; that without looking through the lenses she could see very little.

Even so, she could see Matthew’s grin; and those blue eyes, very like his brother’s, continued to twinkle.

‘Julian’s outside, with the horses and Emma and Davy,’ said Lissy, cheerfully. Not at all as though this were the brother she had described as a tyrant the previous evening.

No doubt he meant to see them off, thought Christy, wishing she had not agreed to this ride. No doubt she would make a complete fool of herself. Wasn’t one meant to learn to ride as a child? Probably little Davy was more accomplished than she would ever be.

Sure enough, when Lissy and Matthew took her out on to the front steps, Davy was already mounted on a chestnut pony with a pretty head and lively eye. Emma was mounted on a bay. His lordship stood close by, holding the reins of a tall black horse, and a lead rein attached to the bridle of a sleepy-looking dappled grey. Not a horse, really. More a large pony.

Grooms held two other horses. Mentally counting, and looking at the quality of the black horse, Christy came to a dead halt at the top of the steps as an appalling realisation struck her. She had assumed a groom would accompany the riding party and attend to her instruction. Apparently not. His lordship was dressed for riding. Which meant…she gulped…he was planning to teach her to ride.

Schooling herself to reveal nothing, she met his lordship’s limpid gaze. And saw the glimmer of unholy amusement.

Drat him!

He knew, to a nicety, just how embarrassing she would find this and he was enjoying it!

His greeting confirmed it. ‘Miss Daventry—I’m sure you understand that I prefer to ensure your safety myself.’

She smiled. Sweetly. ‘I am very grateful for your lordship’s condescension.’

His brows snapped together, and his mouth hardened. Then his gaze flickered to Lissy, listening avidly, and he said, ‘Not at all, ma’am. Come and meet Merlin.’

Meet Merlin. As though the creature were of some account to him, like his dog. Christy watched, fascinated, as Lord Braybrook petted the old horse…something told her Merlin was no longer in the first flush of youth. His lordship’s hands were gentle, rubbing the ears, stroking the arched neck. Then something was produced from a pocket and whiffled up out of his hand with an appreciative crunch and snort.

‘Come.’ His lordship spoke abruptly. ‘Hold out your hand. Quite flat and still.’ She obeyed and he placed a sugar lump on her palm. Horrified, she stared at it. Old though he might be, judging by the noise he’d made munching the last lump, Merlin had teeth. Large ones. In perfect working order. But before she could protest, or drop the sugar, soft whiskery lips took the treat with amazing delicacy. The teeth, again, dealt with the offering in a fashion anything but delicate.

A delighted thrill went through Christy. Without thinking she stroked the long nose and found it velvety. Liquid dark eyes blinked at her wisely, and then…that same velvet nose was shoved against her chest and rubbed up and down with great enthusiasm.

Caught unawares, Christy staggered back hard against an immovable wall. A wall with arms that steadied her effortlessly. A shocking warmth stole through her and for one heart- stopping instant she relished the male strength surrounding her. A delight promptly banished by hot embarrassment, but before she could react, strong hands grasped her shoulders and eased her away.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Daventry,’ said his lordship in obvious amusement. ‘Merlin is a gentleman, but he is very fond of sugar. Are you all right?’

‘Perfectly,’ she said, ignoring her racing pulse.

Davy, from his perch on the little chestnut, said in pleased tones, ‘Look, Julian! Merlin has slobbered all over her chest.’

Christy looked down. Sure enough the braided front was a mess. She gulped and met laughing blue eyes that were pointedly not looking at her…chest.

‘Don’t worry, Miss Daventry. I’m sure it will come off.’

‘But, Lady Braybrook won’t like—’

‘Nonsense,’ said Lord Braybrook. ‘She always grumbled about that trick of Merlin’s. He has slobbered on it before. Besides, she gave you the habit. It’s yours now.’

Christy flushed. Besides the habit, Lady Braybrook had given her a number of gowns, saying she never wore them and that they were unsuitable for Lissy. They were even more unsuitable for the governess. Of course, a lady’s maid was given her mistress’s cast-offs, so perhaps it wasn’t too improper.

‘Can we go? Please?’ begged Davy.

Matthew had mounted, and one of the grooms was about to put Lissy up. Christy gulped as the groom linked his hands for Lissy’s booted foot and threw the girl into her saddle. Dear God. If he did that to her, she would go straight over the saddle and land on the ground.

‘Miss Daventry?’

Lord Braybrook’s voice sounded oddly distant.

‘Is there…is there not a mounting block? I don’t think the way Miss Trentham was—’

‘I’ll put you up, Miss Daventry.’

Unresisting, she was led around to the saddle. Balanced against Merlin’s side, clutching the stirrup, she lifted a foot. His hands grasped her waist and lifted her. She gasped, and found herself perched on the saddle. For a moment his hands stayed at her waist, then dropped to her hip, steadying her. That was all. Wasn’t it? Her body hummed, as if…as if he had caressed her. Nonsense! He was making sure she was safely in place. She sat up as straight as possible, and the disturbing hands released her. She sighed in relief, thinking her ordeal over.

Wrong. His lordship was busy arranging her right leg safely over the pommel, long fingers gripping her knee as he pushed it into position. She froze, desperately trying to ignore the intimacy of his touch. Ridiculous. He was merely showing her how to sit. There was nothing intimate about it. Then his hands were on her left ankle as he adjusted her foot in the stirrup. She had to remind herself that she was wearing a boot. That he was not really touching her ankle. More accidental touches as he shortened the stirrup leather. Then he caught her foot again.

‘Keep your heel pushed down, Miss Daventry,’ he instructed, doing it for her. ‘That helps to keep your, er, seat, firmly in the saddle.’

That was a relief to know. She felt like a bug perched up there. Merlin seemed a great deal taller than he had from the ground.

‘Now—your reins.’

Christy looked down at the reins. She had picked them up. She knew that much. But what should she do with them?

His lordship showed her. ‘Just hold them lightly,’ he said, long fingers guiding hers to the right position, and showing her how to shorten the reins. ‘They are not to help you balance. Only to guide him. You must only feel his mouth. A light contact. And keep your thumbs on top.’

Her hands were gloved, but his touch felt just as shockingly intimate as it had on her legs. He stepped back and looked her over. She blushed.

‘Very well. At least you don’t have to be told to keep your back straight,’ he commented. He walked around to his own horse and mounted with fluid grace.

Ridiculous to glow at such off-hand praise. Determinedly she sat even straighter in the saddle.

Merlin snorted and took a couple of steps. Stifling a gasp, as her balance shifted, Christy clutched at the saddle, but Merlin came up against the end of the leading rein and stopped. She straightened at once and glanced across at his lordship, but he seemed not to have noticed.

Any more than he had noticed how scared she was. Stupid. It was years since she had fallen off that horse of Harry’s, and Merlin was much quieter, but still…she forced herself to breathe deeply.

All women had waists, Julian reminded himself. Discovering Miss Daventry’s waist under the slightly-too-large habit might have been a surprise, but not one that should have had his hands lingering, marvelling at the suppleness of the curve, and then drifting to her hip.

With a swift glance at Miss Daventry to assure himself that she was secure in the saddle, he tugged gently at the leading rein and put his own mount into a walk. Miss Daventry’s face blanked as Merlin moved, but she gave no other sign, beyond sitting very straight and still.

He had been trying to believe that Miss Daventry must be as shapeless as her gowns. But she wasn’t. She disguised her body as effectively as she hid her true nature. Under the dowdy clothes she was slender and lissom as a willow. She would be sweet, warm…sweet? Hell’s teeth! If she knew what he was thinking now, and as he settled her in the saddle, she’d be a virago!

Miss Daventry might have an elegant figure and a neatly turned ankle, but she was a bundle of prickles. For which, he admitted, she could not be blamed. A wise woman in her position avoided drawing mens’ attention, unless she wished for a career in the demi-monde. Governesses and companions always held themselves slightly apart.

A lonely existence…

‘Where shall we go,’ asked Lissy, bringing her mare up beside them. ‘Miss Daventry, you choose.’

Julian noted that Miss Daventry looked somewhat startled at being consulted. She demurred.

‘Oh. That’s very kind, Miss Trentham, but I do not know this part of the country at all, so—’

‘I like the river,’ said Davy, hopefully.

Lissy sighed theatrically. ‘Not the river again, Davy!’

‘No, Davy!’ said Emma. ‘Not everyone likes waiting while you watch for trout that never appear.’

Davy scowled.

About to vote for the river and bring down a deluge of fury on his head, Julian was forestalled by Miss Daventry.

‘A river? With trout? Real trout?’

Davy’s scowl vanished as hope rekindled. ‘And salmon. Really big ones,’ he said, dropping his reins to demonstrate. He shot a glare at his sisters as he caught up the reins again. ‘And they do appear. Julian owns them.’ This last with great pride.

Miss Daventry’s mouth barely twitched. ‘Then of all things, that is what I should most like to see,’ she said firmly. ‘I had no idea his lordship was important enough to own fish and make them appear.’

Emma giggled, and Matthew shouted with laughter.

‘There you are, Julian. When do you try holding back the tide?’

‘As I recall,’ said Julian, trying not to laugh, ‘that wasn’t King Canute’s idea! The river then. Come along all of you.’

They rode towards the river, all thought of quarrelling forgotten.

He had to hand it to Miss Daventry. She had averted a quarrel very neatly. Lissy was far too well brought-up to argue with her. He was amused to see that Lissy’s attitude to Miss Daventry was just what he had hoped it would be. Sympathetic affection laced with pity. Which should be enough to have Lissy entertaining second thoughts about her infatuation for the dashing Mr Daventry. In his experience pity was a death knell to passion.

As for Miss Daventry, he listened with deepening respect as she took shameless advantage of Davy’s momentary gratitude.

‘Davy, what is the French word—’ beyond a faint smile she ignored a groan ‘—for “fish”?’

His littlest brother stared, and wrinkled his brow. ‘Pou… poussin?’

‘Nearly,’ said Miss Daventry. ‘That is a chicken, but it does sound similar. Poisson.’

They rode on towards the river and Julian listened in utter disbelief as Miss Daventry proceeded effortlessly to enlarge not only Davy’s French vocabulary, but Matthew, Emma and Lissy’s as well.

Talking about fish.

By the time they reached the woods, Christy felt a great deal safer on horseback. Lord Braybrook had insisted on keeping to a walk, but now permitted the younger members of the party to ride ahead.

‘Very neat, Miss Daventry,’ he said, as the youngsters raced off whooping. ‘I had no idea Davy knew that much French.’

She smiled. ‘You are paying me handsomely, my lord. I should use my time to the best advantage.’

‘There is that,’ he said. ‘Sit up straight, Miss Daventry. We’ll essay a trot.’

Before she could utter a word of protest, he had urged his mount to a trot. Trotting, she discovered, was a great deal harder than walking. Merlin bounced, and so did she. His lordship, she observed, riding astride, was able to rise and fall to the rhythm. In a side saddle she had no such option.

She gritted her teeth, sat up even straighter and tightened her right leg around the pommel. As far as she could see, she was going to earn every last penny of her one hundred pounds per annum.

They had not gone far before the younger members of the party were well out of sight around a bend in the woodland ride. The sound of pounding hooves and faint laughter floated back. Breathless from the bouncing, Christy managed to say, ‘Should we not catch them up, my lord?’

He flicked her a glance. ‘You’d break your neck at that hell- for-leather pace.’ He frowned. ‘If you wish to stop bouncing, sit straighter and keep your heel down. It will keep your…seat in the saddle.’

Her…seat was already so sore that the last thing Christy wanted was to have it in closer contact with the saddle, but she obeyed, and, sure enough, she bounced less. Whether or not she was any more comfortable was a moot point.

‘I cannot but think that Miss Trentham will find riding with me in attendance somewhat boring, my lord,’ she said a few moments later.

‘Probably,’ he said.

She flushed, suddenly aware that he too must be finding the restricted pace a bore. ‘I am sure if you wish to catch up with the children, that I will be perfectly safe. Merlin seems very quiet.’

His brow rose. ‘Certainly not, Miss Daventry. Whatever my shortcomings, I have a little more consideration than that.’

Christy subsided. Surreptitiously she patted Merlin’s neck, finding it warm and silken. Despite still feeling like a bug perched on top of him, she found that she rather liked Merlin. She liked the friendly way he occasionally swung his head and blew at Lord Braybrook’s mount. And once or twice lipped at Lord Braybrook’s breeches. At least, she assumed he was only using his lips.

It would be nice to ride him again.

She flinched away from the thought. Becoming fond of Merlin would be as foolish as becoming fond of Lady Braybrook’s cat. Or feeling herself to be part of the family. This was not her place. The landing—that was her place; no matter how kind and considerate the family might be, she was not one of them. She would do far better to take her cue from his lordship’s hauteur and remember that she was not riding for her own pleasure. That was incidental. His lordship had insisted because it made her more useful to him.

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