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 consider the prospect. Tutoring an unmarried man was scandalous, yes, but they were in Scotland, away from the rest of society. No one would know of her efforts to transform him.
Her heart softened at the thought of helping the laird win the heart of Lady Regina. If he allowed her to help him, he could become one of the most well-mannered gentlemen in London—a suitor Lady Regina would be proud of.
‘Would you grant me one day to help you?’ she asked. ‘If my instruction is not of any use, I promise, I will leave.’
He expelled a heavy sigh. ‘As I’ve said, I have no need for your instruction, Miss Goodson. My mother made a mistake.’
Frances’s brain was spinning with frustration, but she forced herself to remain calm. ‘Let us start with the evening meal. I will watch you eat.’
‘I ken how to eat,’ he retorted.
‘I will need to speak with your cook to ensure that several courses are served. In London, you will be expected to attend supper parties where Lady Regina is in attendance. There are subtle ways to ensure that she is enjoying herself.’
He eyed her as if she’d spoken a foreign language. ‘Why would I care?’
Frances steeled herself against his annoyance. ‘If your bride is happy, then you will enjoy a pleasant marriage. This arrangement might be a moment of joy in your life.’ She offered him a bright smile, but the look in his blue eyes narrowed upon her. For a moment, she felt like a deer staring back at a wolf, half-afraid of being devoured.
‘Alban will show you to a room where you can rest before supper tonight. Then you will depart in the morning.’ He started to turn, but she felt the need to correct him.
‘Locharr, you should acknowledge a lady with a nod before you depart. Or a bow if she is of a higher rank. Lady Regina will expect you to know this.’
His expression held a wicked gleam, but he gave a sweeping bow that almost felt like mockery. Frances bobbed a curtsy, but inwardly wondered how long he would allow her to stay.
Two hours later
Lachlan wanted to cheerfully murder his mother. Why would she hire a governess for him? Did she think he was a baw-heided lad of six? He saw no reason to bring Miss Goodson all this way for naught. It irritated him that Catrina had interfered in their lives like this.
He had kept himself apart from the world for the past two years, since Tavin had died, and he preferred the isolation. His wounds from the fire had healed but not the guilt in his heart. For a time, he’d forgotten about the arrangement, until Lady Regina’s mother had written to him, asking him to come to London. The countess had explained that the wedding could take place in May, if he had no objections.
The thought of marriage made him feel nothing at all. It was an arrangement, and he saw no need to court Lady Regina. He intended to arrive in London, arrange for the licence, and be done with the wedding. Why, then, had Catrina intervened? Did she think he would behave like a foppish gentleman, with his hair tied in a neat queue, bowing before his bride-to-be? Damned if he would embarrass himself in such a way.
The governess sat across from him in the dining room, braving a smile. He had to admit that she was bonny in her own way. Her hair was pulled into a tight topknot, though the blonde curls were escaping in soft tendrils around her face. She had green eyes with flecks of brown in them, and they reminded him of a river—beautiful with a hint of mystery. Her grey gown, however, was worn and colourless. It was too short for her, and he noticed several seams that revealed where she’d mended it. It’s all I have left, she’d said about the position. And aye, it might be true that she needed the work.
Miss Goodson had chosen a chair near his, and beside her, she had brought a sheet of paper, along with an inkwell and a pen.
‘Do you always bring a pen and paper to the dinner table?’ he remarked. ‘I didna think that was good etiquette.’
She brightened. ‘You are correct, Locharr. Under normal circumstances, I would never do such a thing. However, I intend to take notes on what lessons you’ll need. That way, I can be of use to you.’
‘You’re no’ staying,’ he pointed out. ‘I am granting you a meal, but there’s no need for notes. I ken how to use a fork.’
Miss Goodson set down her pen and took her napkin, folding it in her lap. ‘Of course, you know that. But there is still a great deal to learn about etiquette in London. There are many unspoken rules.’
Lachlan eyed the door, wondering if it had been a mistake to allow Miss Goodson to join him at supper. He was accustomed to taking a tray alone in his room. It had been years since he’d had a formal meal, and he wasn’t about to change his habits.
The governess appeared entirely too cheerful, as if she thought she could talk her way into becoming his tutor. There was a brightness about her, of a woman filled with joy and enthusiasm. Perhaps she thought it would change his mind about sending her away. Far from it. It made him want to push back, to behave like a wicked barbarian. And so he glared at her, letting her glimpse his bad mood.
‘Is something the matter, Locharr?’ Miss Goodson appeared concerned. ‘You seem angry with me.’
Good. His plan was working.
‘It doesna matter what I think of you. You’ll be gone, soon enough.’ He kept his tone deliberate, not bothering to be nice. It would be cruel to lead her on, to let her think she had a chance of staying—even if she did need the position to support herself.
Miss Goodson’s expression dimmed, but she picked up her pen once more. They waited for Alban to bring in the food, but there was nothing yet. The clock ticked away a few more minutes, and finally, Lachlan called out, ‘If you dinna bring the food out soon, Alban, you’ll have to fetch shovels to bury us! For we’ll both be dead of starvation!’
Miss Goodson’s eyes widened at his shouting. Her pen scratched rapidly over the paper, but she did not correct him. Aye, he knew he wasn’t supposed to bellow for his servants, but Alban might not hear the bell. The elderly man’s hearing had worsened over the years.
His younger
