A Family For The Widowed Governess. Ann LethbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
her ear and gaped back at him. ‘Lord Compton,’ she said. She glanced down at herself and winced.
She straightened, holding her shovel before her like a shield. It did nothing to hide her lovely figure. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure?’
Devil take it. The woman must be one of those freethinking sorts. No wonder she had seemed so odd the day before. Was she really the sort of person he wanted teaching his girls?
‘I...er...’ He still held his calling card in his hand. He held it out.
She made no move to take it.
He cast around wildly for something to say and decided, as usual, that the truth was best. ‘I apologise for my interruption. Having received no answer at the front door and hearing sounds of activity, I came to enquire when you might be expected home.’
She frowned. ‘I see.’
‘I came to apologise for my rudeness. I should have thanked you for bringing my daughters safely home. My concern overrode my good manners, I am sorry to say. So...thank you.’
She leaned her shovel against the stable wall and folded her arms. ‘Apology accepted.’
He did not feel as if it was accepted. It seemed to be more a question of it being tolerated as being due, but not particularly welcome.
‘I saw your notice in the post office,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Again, she swept back that unruly curl. The rest of her hair was severely restrained beneath her plain widow’s cap. ‘Were you interested in drawing lessons for your daughters?’
Hah. Finally, he had caught her interest. Why he might have wanted to see the sharpening of her gaze, and the curiosity in her expression, he could not imagine. And now what was he to say? No? ‘I was interested in discussing the matter, certainly.’
‘I see.’
Good lord, the woman was positively enigmatic with her answers. In his experience, most women were garrulous in the extreme and said little of import. This one seemed to put a world of meaning into every syllable.
‘When might you be available to discuss the matter?’ he said firmly, determined to take charge of this one-sided conversation. ‘Shall I call on you tomorrow?’ When he returned he would tell her he had changed his mind. She was not the sort of influence he wanted for his children.
She waved an arm. ‘Now is as good a time as any.’
Blast.
She upturned a bucket and perched on it. He leaned against one of the posts supporting the rails of the nearest stall. There was only one equine occupant. A small grey mare with a dark circle around one eye. The animal looked well fed and well cared for.
‘Where is your groom?’ he asked, unable to contain his question any longer.
She started. ‘Um... He is not here at the moment. He has gone to visit his sick mother.’
Jack narrowed his eyes on her face. Her gaze did not meet his. He knew a lie when he heard one. He’d become an expert, both at home and with his work for the Parish. ‘It would have saved us both embarrassment if someone had answered the front door,’ he said, sounding more irritated that he intended.
She raised her chin. ‘The servants have the day off.’
Another lie. He hated lies and deceit, and this lady was not very good at either. He was sincerely doubting the wisdom of this visit. He was going to have to extricate himself from the situation as best he could.
‘Are your daughters interested in learning to draw?’ Lady Marguerite asked, clearly anxious to change the topic from the issue of her servants. For some reason, despite he didn’t trust her to speak the truth, her worry troubled him.
With the exercise of a good deal of self-control, he avoided staring at the shapely legs encased in buckskin and neatly crossed at the ankle. ‘I honestly do not know,’ he said. ‘I saw your advertisement quite by chance. I have not given it proper consideration.’
She sighed. There was something resigned about that sigh. It only added to his disquiet. Nevertheless, she straightened her spine and now looked him in the eye. ‘My fee is one guinea per hour for both girls. I would suggest two hours of lessons two afternoons a week. At least, until they have mastered the rudiments. I require payment by the week in advance.’
Well, that was frank speaking. He narrowed his eyes. ‘May I enquire as to your qualification for such instruction?’
She looked startled, then blushed, a beautiful wash of colour that rose from her neck to her forehead. He relaxed. The woman was nowhere near as controlled and detached as she made out.
* * *
Marguerite felt herself go hot all over and knew that her face would now be scarlet. She hated the way she blushed at the slightest thing. And it wasn’t just because he was handsome and looking at her with an intensity that for some reason made her stomach flutter. This time it was justified. Blast it, she had been so taken with her idea about giving lessons, she hadn’t given a thought to qualifications.
Or at least... ‘I can show you some of my work,’ she said. ‘But I must be honest. While I took lessons as a girl in the schoolroom, I have never taught anyone.’
He pursed his lips. Such a stern, serious man. A tall man with broad shoulders. In the old days, when her brothers ran riot on their estate, they might have described him as a bruiser of a man. But he was more than that. He was a nobleman and he was a gentleman in his prime. A very attractive gentleman, for all that he seemed to view the world with suspicion.
He clearly hadn’t liked apologising to her, or expressing his gratitude. And why on earth had he come around to the back of her house? Any rational gentleman would have simply written a note on his card, stuck it beneath the knocker and left. On the other hand, he was the local magistrate. Perhaps he made a habit of prowling around other people’s property.
In the dim light of the stable, the way he stood looming over her, he looked almost menacing. As if he would arrest her and lock her up in a heartbeat, given the opportunity.
Dash it all. She had had enough of being intimidated by a man. She glared back.
And besides, now she had admitted she had no qualifications to teach his children, he would politely refuse to employ her and go, leaving her to her embarrassment at being found mucking out the stables in a pair of old buskin breeches she had found while she was looking in the attic for rags with which to clean the windows.
The next job on her list.
Dash it, she should be drawing, not undertaking menial tasks. But until she could pay for the return of her sketch, she could not afford to hire anyone to help with the chores.
‘Very well,’ he said.
She looked at him blankly.
‘I will look at your work.’
Relief filled her. ‘If you would give me a moment, I will bring some out.’
He gave her a considering look. ‘Why don’t we go inside? I will make us a cup of tea while you fetch down your portfolio.’
‘Make tea?’ she said, scarcely believing her ears.
‘I used to do so all the time when I was at university. I am sure I have not forgotten the way of it.’ He tipped his head on one side. ‘By the time the kettle boils you will have had a chance to...er...freshen up.’
Her mouth dried. He meant her to change her clothes. Heat scorched her face. The man probably thought her completely harum-scarum. Not at all the right sort of teacher for his children. But if she could convince him to hire her, it would make her life so much easier.
‘I will meet you in the kitchen in ten minutes,’ she said. She left the barn, back straight and head held high, and tried not to imagine him watching her as she marched into the house.
*