The Unconventional Governess. Jessica NelsonЧитать онлайн книгу.
the death of him, anyhow.
“Indeed, you shall certainly live.” She chuckled, and once again, he was struck by the cadence of her voice. Her pronunciation was rounded with a foreign flare. American? She did not speak like a servant, but neither did she sound wholly English. For the first time in what had been months of a terrible lethargy of the spirits, the tiniest flicker of intrigue stirred within.
Swallowing against a throat that had gone dry, he said, “Fetch me water.”
Her gaze flew up to meet his, her fingers pausing. Such direct eyes, a deep brown at odds with her lighter hair and fair skin. They chastised him. “No manners?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “You dare criticize me?”
At that, the corner of what he realized was a very pretty set of lips tilted upward. A housemaid he had not noticed in the room brought her a different glass filled with water. The woman turned to him, a sparkle in her eye. “Your lack of observation is forgiven, as you’re no doubt groggy, but I am not a maidservant. I shall speak to you however I wish.”
“Point taken, madam.”
“As well as it should be.” She reached behind his head, gently lifting him to allow his mouth to connect with the cup. “A gentleman always admits to being wrong.”
He almost choked on his water, but managed to swallow without his laughter killing him. The chuckle that had bubbled up at her words was quickly sobered by reality. In truth, he was no gentleman, but he did not intend to disclose such a thing.
He drank deeply, ignoring the ache in his midsection and concentrating on filling the thirst that beset him. All the while he was aware that she studied him. Not in the way he was used to being studied, though.
He was well aware of how ladies used to ogle him. They wanted his family lineage, his wealth. They liked his darkly handsome features and green eyes, telling him so on numerous occasions in which propriety was lightly skirted. With their fluttering lashes, their colorful fans, their shallow giggles, they admired his elegant cravats, his French tailoring, his expensive rings.
And he had enjoyed it until ten months ago.
They knew nothing of his damage now. And he enlightened no one, for should society know, it was almost certain that he’d be sent to an insane asylum. Or at best, confined to his estate, talked about with condescending pity while someone else enjoyed his title, his lands and his inheritance. Little was known about his disease, but most assumed it stemmed from mental illness.
He knew he wasn’t crazy, but he couldn’t return to his old way of life until he found a cure.
Therefore, due to the uncertain nature of his illness, he had hidden away at a little cottage he owned in northern England for these past few months. He had ignored his duties, both to Louise and to the St. Raven estate where she lived.
Until he’d received the letter from his sister threatening to take Louise from the St. Raven estate and send her to a girls’ school on the Continent. That threat, combined with yet another governess quitting, urged him to leave his self-induced solitude to collect his wayward niece from St. Raven and take her back to his cottage in the north.
Then they’d been attacked by bandits. He’d successfully coerced the criminals to follow him away from his party, but alas, had not been able to keep them from attacking him. Thankfully his party had followed at a distance and found him.
He shuddered to think of what might have become of them all, but this woman insisted Louise was well. She was his main concern.
He grew aware of the woman staring at him. Her gaze was intense. Scientific, even. Completely devoid of personal feeling. As if he was a specimen beneath the light. He shifted, handing the cup back to her.
She took it, a puzzled expression on her face. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but whatever are you doing so far from London in such finery? Especially with the Season in full swing.”
She did not sound contrite over her impertinence. He met her curious look with a crooked smile. “Ah, that is a question I do not care to answer... Mrs.?”
“How is our patient, Miss Gordon?” A man who looked to be the epitome of physicianhood walked into the room. He must be the village apothecary. He came to stand above Dominic. The man rubbed at his finely tuned mustache, studying him with all the objectivity of a cat studying a mouse.
These people were all the same.
“Your patient is fine.” Dominic wrestled himself into an upright position, despite the razor-edged pain beneath his ribs. “I must be on my way to London. Duty calls.” He couldn’t stay here. Should he have an episode, there was no telling how this doctor might respond.
“Hmm.” The apothecary turned to Miss Gordon, who looked a tad perturbed that Dominic had answered for her. Or perhaps he imagined the peevish set to her mouth. The woman amused him for some very odd reason. He had been gone from society too long, he supposed.
Nothing had ever induced him to take residence in the cage of responsibility foisted on his older brother, the earl of St. Raven, until his brother and sister-in-law had died in a tragic carriage accident, leaving him heir to the estate and guardian to one little girl, who refused to do what she was told.
And yet he adored her. His brother had entrusted him to care for Louise, and he was not going to allow anyone to take that responsibility from him. Not even his little sister.
“Duty?” asked Miss Gordon.
“Yes, a twelve-year-old girl in need of a new governess.” He paused, eyeing the woman before him. “You don’t perchance know of someone looking for a position?”
“I do not.” Henrietta set her jaw, eyeing Lord St. Raven sharply. Did she have a sign on her head proclaiming her situation? Either way, she’d already ascertained that he was not someone she wished to work for. No doubt the girl was as difficult as he was, and she had no experience with children anyway.
What did she know of teaching? Nothing, which was why it was best to find a position with a sweet, biddable child.
“In that case, bring me Jacks and ready my carriage for departure,” he said in a voice that resonated with an irritating earl-like authority. He was a man obviously used to being obeyed.
“You are not going anywhere.” Annoyed by the determination on her patient’s face, she gave him a stern look. “There is no telling what internal damage you may have suffered. To get up, to be active, could worsen your condition.”
The man scowled at her. And it was a dark scowl indeed, on such a handsome face. She crossed her arms and sent the apothecary a pointed look. “Do you not agree?”
“I do agree.” He stroked his chin. “Are you sure we should not bleed him? His humors are visibly imbalanced. His coloring, for example.”
“We will not be using leeches. My uncle, Mr. William Gordon, says they are ineffective, and that conclusion is based on years of observation and experience.”
“A fine physician. I’ve seen his works in various medical journals.” The apothecary dipped his head. “No leeches, then.”
Grunting, their patient pushed himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. She examined his physique for any other weaknesses, any inordinarities. Pain whitened his lips, but did not soften the stubborn jut of his well-defined jaw. He was a larger and broader man than Henrietta had realized. When he’d been lying down, it had been easy to forget his size. Her own stature had often been called average, as had most everything about her besides her intelligence.
“I’ve business to attend while you are wasting time discussing bloodsuckers and the humored color of my skin. Send for my valet. Instruct him as to my needs.”
A rustling of skirts and a perfumed puff