the only light in the room besides the oil lamp on the desk. A decanter and glass stood on the desk, mute testimony to what the duke had been doing in the dimly lit room. On the corner of the desk was a small pile of letters.
Cleybourne pawed through them and pulled one out. Jessica’s copperplate writing adorned the front, and it remained sealed. He broke the seal now and opened it, bringing the sheet of paper closer to the lamp to read it.
“I will tell you what it says. I am Miss Carstairs’ governess, Jessica Maitland, and her great-uncle, General Streathern, passed away a few days ago, leaving her entirely orphaned and still underage. As you were named in her father’s will as her guardian if her uncle could not serve, he thought that you were the proper man to become her guardian upon his death.”
The duke let out a low curse and dropped Jessica’s letter back onto the table. He looked at her again, still frowning.
“You don’t look like any governess I have ever seen.”
Jessica’s hand flew instinctively to her hair. Her thick, curly red hair had a mind of its own, and no matter how much she tried to subdue it into the sort of tight bun that was suitable for a governess, it often managed to work its way out. Now, she realized, after the long ride in the carriage, a good bit of it had come loose from the bun and straggled around her face, flame-red and curling wildly. Her hat, as well, had been knocked askew. No doubt she looked a fright. Embarrassed, she pulled off her bonnet and tried to smooth back her hair, searching for a hairpin to secure it, and the result was that even more of it tumbled down around her shoulders.
Cleybourne’s eyes went involuntarily to the bright fall of hair, glinting warmly in the light of the lamp, and something tightened in his abdomen. She had hair that made a man want to sink his hands into it, not the sort of thought he usually had about a governess—indeed, not the sort of thought Richard normally had about any woman.
Since Caroline’s death, he had locked himself away from the world, eschewing especially the company of women. The musical sound of their laughter, the golden touch of candlelight on bare feminine shoulders, the whiff of perfume—all were reminders of what he had lost, and he found himself filled with anger whenever he looked at them. The only woman he regularly saw besides the maids and housekeeper was his wife’s sister, Rachel. She was, perhaps, the most painful of all women to see, as she looked more like Caroline than anyone, tall and black haired, with eyes as green as grass, but he was too fond of her to cut her off, and she, out of all the world, was the only one who truly shared in his grief.
But never, in the four years since Caroline had died, had he looked at a woman and felt a stab of pure lust. Oh, there had been times when he had felt a man’s natural needs, but that had been simply a matter of instinct and the amount of time that had passed since he had known the pleasure of a woman’s body. It had not flamed up in him because of the look of a particular woman’s hair or the curve of her shoulder or the sound of her voice.
It seemed absurd that he should feel it now, with this harridan of a governess. God knows, she was beautiful—vivid and unusual, with startlingly blue eyes and pale, creamy skin and that wild fall of hair—and her tall, statuesque figure could not be completely toned down by the plain dark dress she wore. But she was also loud, strident and completely without manners. He did not know if he had ever met a less feminine-acting woman.
He did not want her in the house—neither her nor the young girl whose guardian she claimed he was. He had come here to end his days in this place where his life had stopped four years ago, even though his heart had continued vulgarly to beat. How could he do it with this virago and some silly girl in the house with him?
“How do I know that any of this is real?” he asked her abruptly. “What proof do you have of it?”
Jessica had tried unsuccessfully to wind her hair back into a knot, but finally she had simply let it go. She bridled at his words. “I would hate to be as suspicious as you,” she said bitingly. “First you assume we are some sort of rapacious husband-hunters, and now you doubt whether a poor orphaned girl is actually your ward.”
“One learns to be suspicious through hard experience,” Cleybourne said flatly. “Well? If your story is true, there must be some proof.”
“Of course there is proof.” Jessica had stuck the folded will and the General’s letter into her pocket when she emerged from the carriage, and now she reached in and pullled them out, handing them over to the duke. “Here is the General’s will, as well as a letter that he wrote to you, explaining the circumstances. I do not have a copy of his death certificate with me, however, if you doubt whether he has actually died.”
Cleybourne’s mouth tightened, and he snatched the papers from her. His eyes ran down the will until they reached the clause naming him guardian of General Streathern’s great-niece, Gabriela Carstairs, the daughter of Roderick and Mary Carstairs. He sighed, folding the will back up. Poor Roddy. He remembered well when his friend and his wife had died, both felled by a vicious fever that had swept through the south of England that year. Their young daughter had survived only because the doctor had insisted that she and her nurse be quarantined in her nursery, never visiting her parents.
He opened the letter and read it, squinting to make out the scratchings of an ill old man. At one point, he exclaimed, “Vesey is her only living relative! Good God!”
“Precisely.” Jessica was relieved at his reaction to Vesey’s name. From the way the man had been acting, she had been afraid that he might decide to hand Gabriela over to Lord Vesey rather than trouble with her himself. “The General was afraid that Lord Vesey might try to wrest the guardianship away from you—I’m not sure how, exactly. That is why he insisted that we leave immediately after the reading of the will and drive straight here. It has been a long and exhausting journey. Gabriela is very tired.”
“Yes, of course.” His eyes flickered to her, and he noticed for the first time the pale blue half circles of weariness and worry beneath her eyes. “You, too, I should imagine.” He sighed and laid the documents on his desk. “Well, there is nothing for it but for you to stay here, of course.” He paused, then added stiffly, “My apologies for your reception when you arrived. I had no idea who you were. I—everyone will tell you that I am not a sociable man.”
Jessica felt like retorting that this was scarcely news to her, but she held her tongue. The man might be a snob and a boor, but she did not want to offend him so much that he took Gabriela out of her care. She swallowed her pride and said, “Thank you, Your Grace. We are in your debt.”
“I will direct Baxter to set you up for the night.”
“Thank you.” Jessica started for the door, then paused and swung back to him. “I—I suppose that you would like to meet your ward. Shall I bring her here?”
“No!” His answer was swift and adamant, and his face, which had relaxed its lines somewhat, was suddenly as set as stone. He apparently realized the rudeness of his response, for he added, “That is, I think it would be better not at this time. I am sure that Miss Carstairs is quite done in by her journey. Meeting me would only be an unnecessary burden to her.”
Jessica met his eyes unflinchingly for a long moment. “Very well,” she said quietly. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Yes.”
She turned and went out the door, passing Baxter, who was worriedly hanging about in the hall. She heard the duke call to his butler as she marched back to the entryway, seething as she went. One would think the man could have had the courtesy at least to meet his new ward! Simple politeness would have compelled most people to greet
