The Highlander And The Governess. Michelle WillinghamЧитать онлайн книгу.
shirt, a blue waistcoat with brass buttons, and another blue and green kilt with a leather belt that slung across his right shoulder down to his left hip. A blue bonnet rested upon his head. His stockings were also tartan, bold and fitted to his muscular calves. There was no denying his Scottish heritage. In his demeanour, she sensed stubbornness and a man who always got his own way.
She remembered her manners and sank into a curtsy. ‘I am Frances Goodson, the governess you sent for.’
He regarded her when she stood and commanded, ‘We will have words in the drawing room.’ Without waiting for her to agree, he walked away.
Frances stared at the laird, wondering exactly what sort of position she had accepted. A sudden wariness seized her, and she questioned whether his intentions were nefarious. But then, she was far away from London, and it was too late to leave now. Better to follow him and discover why he had hired her. Perhaps there was another child in need of her help.
With a quick glance behind her, she saw that the footman had slipped away, allowing them privacy. It wasn’t at all proper to be alone with the laird, but perhaps Locharr didn’t want the servants to eavesdrop about the reasons for her employment. Even so, she kept the door to the drawing room wide open in case she needed to call out for help.
It was a lovely room, exactly the sort she might have chosen herself. The curtains were a rich sapphire, and the white wallpaper had scrolls of matching blue. The furnishings were creamy white with rococo gold. Two of the windows in one corner were made of stained glass with blue birds and flowers. The laird stood in front of the window, staring outside at the downpour. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Frances wasn’t certain if she was expected to sit or stand, but she couldn’t resist the urge to sit upon one of the gilded chairs. She straightened her spine and cleared her throat. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Locharr. But I must admit, I am rather…confused as to why you have employed me as a governess if you have no children.’
He stood at the window for a while, and she had the sense that he was choosing his words carefully. ‘Show me the letter, Miss Goodson.’
She gave it to him, not really understanding why he wanted to see it. Unless someone else had sent it instead?
The laird’s expression turned grim, and he crumpled the letter, tossing it into the hearth. ‘I am sorry you made such a journey. My mother wrote the letter, not me. But you may stay for the night and be on your way in the morning.’
All the air seemed to leave her lungs. ‘Why—why would she send the letter? I don’t understand.’
The laird crossed the room and stood by the window. ‘I didna hire a governess. But my mother apparently believes I need help.’
Dear God. She had been hired to tutor a grown man. The very idea rattled her composure, making her question what to do now. She couldn’t possibly be a governess to the laird, as wild and untamed as he seemed.
But then, the idea of going home was far worse. The thought of enduring another journey by coach for a second week, made her stomach twist. And worse, her mother would sigh and claim that Frances was, yet again, nothing but a disappointment and a failure.
No. These might not be the circumstances she had imagined, but she intended to make the best of them. She had the knowledge he needed, and there was a chance—only the barest thread of a chance—that she could stay here. But only if she handled the matter in the right way.
‘I am so sorry if my arrival was a surprise to you,’ she apologised. With hesitance, she added, ‘Might I ask…what sort of help does your mother think you need?’
He didn’t answer for a long moment but continued to stare out the window at the pounding rain. His silence stretched on between them, making her feel as if a departure in the morning was inevitable.
‘Is your mother here, Locharr?’ she ventured. Perhaps the matron could help her decide what to do next.
‘Nay. She’s travelling. I dinna expect her to return for another month.’
‘Oh.’ Frances stood from the chair, wondering what to do now. Her position here was tenuous, and clearly, the laird did not want her. There was nothing else, save to beg for another chance. She went to stand beside him, hoping her pleas would help in some way. His physical presence intimidated her, and the scowl only accentuated the fierce scar on his face. His hair was ragged, as if he’d cut it himself. There was a feral quality to this man, and she wondered if he had shut himself away from the outside world.
‘I realise that you do not want me here,’ she murmured. ‘You should know that this was to be my first position as a governess. I may have journeyed here under the wrong circumstances, but I really do wish to help. Would you consider granting me one day? And if I am of no use to you, I will return to London without argument.’
He turned to stare at her. ‘I don’t need a governess, Miss Goodson.’
Her heart was pounding with fear, but she forced herself to meet his blue eyes. ‘No. But I desperately need this position. It’s all I have left.’
There was an invisible battle of wills between them, but she kept her gaze fixed upon his. Let him throw her out if that was what he wanted. But she would not surrender this task without a fight of her own.
At last, he admitted, ‘I am getting married in London in three months’ time.’
It was all Frances could do to keep her expression neutral. ‘My felicitations on your impending nuptials, then. Your bride will be fortunate to live in such a beautiful castle.’
‘I’ve no’ seen her in ten years,’ he admitted. ‘Our marriage was arranged by our fathers.’ He crossed his arms, his mouth a tight slash of annoyance.
‘Do you…not wish to wed her?’ Frances ventured.
‘I’ll wed her,’ he answered. ‘It matters not to me. She can do as she pleases, once the vows are said.’ There was a dark shadow to his words, and Frances wondered if he intended to abandon his bride. Her mind started to piece together his circumstances. If he was going to travel to London in three months for his wedding—and his mother had hired a governess to help him with his manners—then undoubtedly, Lady Locharr believed her son would frighten the bride. He was a beast in need of taming, and Frances understood all too well that society would ridicule anyone who did not inherently understand the rules.
Whether he wanted her help or not, he needed her. But like Scheherazade, she would have to earn her place, one day at a time. ‘How long has it been since you’ve visited London?’
‘Four years. I’ve no’ left Scotland since my father was buried.’ In his voice, there was a raw note of pain, and she studied him more closely.
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ she said quietly. ‘Might I ask the name of your bride? If you don’t mind revealing it, that is.’
He shrugged. ‘Lady Regina, daughter of Ned Crewe, the Earl of Havershire.’
Oh, dear. Frances had met the lady once, and the tall beauty was proper and cool in her demeanour. Rather like a statue of ice. Scandal would never dare to touch a woman like her, and Lady Regina had turned down countless suitors—even a duke. Why then, had her father settled for a marriage to a Scottish laird? It made little sense.
The Laird of Locharr appeared to be slightly older than herself, but his rigid demeanour would terrify most of the London ton. As the son of a Scottish landowner, someone must have taught him manners, long ago. But perhaps he had forgotten his etiquette.
It was likely that his mother had enlisted her help, to ensure that Locharr would not be embarrassed by gossip.
Rain droplets pounded the window overlooking the garden, but while he continued to stare outside, she stared at him. Lachlan MacKinloch really was quite a handsome man, in spite of the scar. If he cut his hair and chose different clothing, he would indeed catch any woman’s eye.
Frances was beginning to