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.
* * *
She was almost finished dressing when she heard the kitchen door open and close. Was he leaving? Had she taken too long? The sound of china rattling set her mind to rest. He must have lingered in the stable to give her time to prepare herself. She had not expected such courtesy from such a dour man.
She glanced in the mirror and pinned a stray lock under her cap. There. That would have to do. She ran down the stairs and into the kitchen.
His Lordship was nowhere to be seen.
‘Lord Compton?’
He emerged from the pantry. ‘I found some biscuits,’ he said and grinned. He looked so startlingly handsome, she stared at him open-mouthed. She’d been saving those biscuits for the next time the vicar came to call. The new vicar was a very pleasant young man. And single. Not that Marguerite had any interest in single gentlemen. But he always looked as if he needed a good meal and always wolfed down her biscuits.
His smile faded. ‘I am sorry, I should not have gone poking around in your pantry.’
She let go a breath. ‘No. It is perfectly all right. I am glad you found them. I like biscuits. They are shortbread, I believe. My favourite.’ Stop. He’d think her a fool for gabbling on like this. Indeed, there was a very odd look on his face. Disapproval, she thought.
She gestured to the table, where cups and saucers and the steaming teapot awaited. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ She set her portfolio away from the teacups and took her seat. He took a chair opposite. She poured the tea and they sipped at it and nibbled on shortbread. This batch had turned out even better than the last, but if she didn’t make some money soon, she would not be able to afford the butter to make more.
‘Let me see your drawings,’ he said after a few moments. She appreciated his getting down to business right away. She was beginning to feel uncomfortable about inviting a gentleman to take tea in her kitchen. It felt far too intimate to be alone with such a very handsome gentleman. One whom she found more attractive that she would have believed possible. As a rule, she preferred to give handsome, charming gentlemen a wide berth. She certainly didn’t want to start tongues wagging in the village. Fortunately, the kitchen was at the back of the house, so passing neighbours were unlikely to know of his presence. Except...
‘Oh, my goodness. What did you do with your carriage?’ Was it parked outside in the lane?
‘I left my horse at the inn,’ he said.
She let go a sigh of relief.
His mouth tightened. ‘The pictures?’
She pulled the portfolio closer, undid the worn blue ribbon and spread out samples of her still-life drawings before him.
After a moment of perusal, he lifted his gaze to meet hers. ‘These are excellent,’ he said.
Not a connoisseur, then. ‘They are accurate depictions of the countryside hereabouts.’
He looked puzzled.
‘I am a technician, my lord. I replicate what I see. I do not bring any great flair to the work.’
He shook his head. ‘If either of my daughters could be taught to draw nearly as well, I would
