he easily recognised Lady Cicely’s less-than-subtle attempt at coercion; he hesitated to call it actual blackmail, although he could not help but be aware of his grandmother’s recent attempts to introduce him to suitably marriageable ladies—suitable according to Lady Cicely, that was. Adam was having none of it. The ladies. Or the marriage. ‘I have to attend a vote in the House tonight, Grandmother.’ After which he fully intended to retire to his club for the rest of the evening, where he hoped to enjoy a few quiet games of cards and several glasses of fine brandy.
‘Then perhaps tomorrow evening?’ Lady Cicely pressed. ‘It is so long since the two of us spent any time together…’
Deliberately so, on Adam’s part, since he had realised what his grandmother was about. He had absolutely no interest in marrying again and his life really was now such that he had little time for anything other than his responsibilities to the House of Lords and his many estates. The dinners and balls, and all the other nonsense of the Season, held no interest for him whatsoever.
‘We are together now, Grandmother,’ he pointed out practically.
‘But not in any way that—never mind.’ Lady Cicely sighed her impatience. ‘It is obvious to me that you have become even more intransigent than you ever were!’
Adam’s mouth tightened at the criticism. Well-deserved criticism. But his grandmother knew the reason for his intransigence as well as he did; having been married for over two years, and so been dragged along as his adulterous wife’s escort to every ball, dinner, and other society function during the Season, and to summer house parties when it was not, Adam now chose, as a widower these past four years, not to attend any of them. There was no reason for him to do so. Most, if not all, of society bored him, so why would he ever choose to voluntarily put himself through those days and evenings of irritation and boredom?
Even so, he instantly felt a guilty need to make amends for the tears he now saw glistening in his grandmother’s faded grey eyes. ‘I may be able to spare an hour or two to join you for dinner tomorrow evening—’
‘Oh, that is wonderful, Adam!’ His grandmother’s tears disappeared as if they had never been as she now beamed up at him. ‘I shall make sure to serve all of your favourite dishes.’
‘I said an hour or two, Grandmother,’ Adam repeated sternly.
‘Yes, yes,’ she acknowledged distractedly, obviously already mentally planning her menu for tomorrow evening. And her guest list. Some of which would no doubt be several of those eligible females Adam wished to avoid! ‘How is the new girl working out?’
‘New girl?’ Adam’s mind had gone a complete blank at this sudden change of subject, not altogether sure he understood the meaning of his grandmother’s question; surely Lady Cicely could not be referring to the woman he had briefly taken an interest in the previous month, before deciding that she bored him in bed as well as out of it?
‘Amanda’s nursemaid.’ Lady Cicely clarified.
Adam’s brow cleared at this explanation. ‘Mrs Leighton is not a girl, Grandmother. Nor is she Amanda’s nursemaid, but her governess.’
‘Is Amanda not a little young as yet for a governess? Especially when you know as well as I that society does not appreciate a bluestocking—’
‘I will not have Amanda growing up to be an ignoramus, with nothing in her head other than balls and parties and the latest fashions.’ Like her mother before her, Adam could have stated, but chose not to do so; the less thought he gave to Fanny, and her adulterous ways, the better as far as he was concerned!
‘—and you never did explain fully why it was that you felt the need to dispense with Dorkins’s services after all these years?’
Lady Cicely was slightly out of breath as they ascended the stairs to the third floor of the house where the nursery was situated.
Nor did Adam intend explaining himself now. Having the nursemaid of his six-year-old daughter make it obvious to him that she was available to share his bed, if he so wished, had not only been unpleasant but beyond acceptable. Especially as he had never, by word or deed, ever expressed a carnal interest in the pretty but overly plump Clara Dorkins.
Now, if it had been Elena Leighton, Amanda’s new governess, then he might not have found the notion of sharing her bed for a night or two quite so unpalatable—
And where, pray, had that particular thought come from?
Since the death of his wife Adam had kept the satisfying of his carnal desires to a minimum, considering them a weakness he could ill afford. And, whenever those desires did become too demanding, even for his now legendary self-control, he only ever indulged with those ladies of the demi-monde whose company he considered he could stand for longer than an hour, possibly two. Less-than-respectable ladies, who expected nothing more than to be handsomely paid for the parting of their thighs.
Adam had certainly never so much as thought of forming an alliance with one of his own employees, hence his hasty dismissal of Clara Dorkins two weeks ago.
Admittedly Elena Leighton, Dorkins’ replacement, was quite beautiful in an austere way; she always wore her silky black hair secured in a neat bun at the slenderness of her nape, the severity of her black widow’s weeds emphasising the pale beauty of her face rather than detracting from it. Her eyes were a strange light colour, somewhere between blue and green in her heart-shaped face, and surrounded by thick dark lashes, her tiny nose perfectly straight above bow-shaped lips, her jaw delicately lovely, neck and throat slender. Nor did those severe black gowns in the least detract from the willowy attractiveness of her figure: firm breasts above a slender waist and gently swaying hips—
Dear God, he thought, appalled with himself. When had he noticed so much about the looks and attraction of the widow he had recently employed to tutor his young daughter?
‘Mrs Leighton…?’ his grandmother prompted curiously.
‘I believe she was widowed at Waterloo,’ Adam said distractedly, still slightly nonplussed by the realisation he had actually noted Elena Leighton’s physical attributes. The woman was his employee, for heaven’s sake, not some lightskirt he could take to his bed for a night and then dismiss. Moreover, she was a widow, her husband having died a hero’s death during that last bloody battle with Napoleon.
‘Old or young…?’
Adam raised dark brows. ‘I have no information whatsoever on the deceased Mr Leighton—’
‘I was referring to his widow,’ Lady Cicely chided with a small sigh.
Until this moment Adam had given no particular thought to Mrs Leighton’s age, but had assumed her to be in her late twenties or early thirties.
He scowled now as he realised, when he thought about it carefully, that it was the lady’s widow’s weeds which gave her the impression of age and maturity, that, in fact, she was probably considerably much younger than that…‘As long as Mrs Leighton carries out her employment to my satisfaction then I consider her age to be completely immaterial,’ he dismissed as he stepped forwards to push open the door to the nursery before indicating that his grandmother should precede him into the room.
Elena looked up from where she had been studying a book of simple poetry with her small charge, her expression one of cool politeness at the entrance of her employer and his paternal grandmother.
A
