man had strong features that didn’t seem completely English. His unfashionably long hair, combed back and tied in a thin black grosgrain ribbon at his nape, seemed darker close to his head, as if the sun had teased gold into each strand only as it grew. Not an English blonde. In fact, with his strong nose and well-defined lips, with his high cheekbones, he could almost be of Italian descent. A Roman in his ancestral past perhaps? A warrior Roman who’d conquered some fair English maiden?
And she should stop being fanciful. She had no time to be fanciful. She raised her hand, politely coughed into her fist, hoping he’d speak again before they both froze here, mute, into eternity.
Chance struggled to come up with a reasonable question, one that had nothing to do with asking her why such a strikingly handsome woman as herself would wish to be nanny in someone else’s household. A woman like this should be wed, with children of her own.
“I’ve yet to see your letters of recommendation, Miss Carruthers,” he said at last, reminding himself that he was in charge here, after all.
“As to that,” Julia began, then sighed. “I have none, sir, as I am new to London. In truth, I have never worked as a nanny, although I believe I am qualified. I most thoroughly enjoy children, and my education has not been lacking.”
Never been employed as a nanny? That seemed fair, in some twisted way, as he’d never before employed a nanny. It might be better if neither of them knew how they should go on and just muddled along together. With Alice in charge, of course—he’d learned that much, at least, in the past six months. “And that slight accent? Do I hear a bit of Kent in your speech, Miss Carruthers?”
Julia smiled. “I didn’t think it was obvious, Mr. Becket. But, yes, I was raised in the village of Hawkhurst. My father, now deceased, was vicar of a small church there, although he came originally from Wimbledon.”
“Hawkhurst, you say. Very near the beginnings of the Marsh,” Chance said, his tone now flat. “Then I would suppose you have no great wish to go back?”
Julia frowned. “If you are asking if I would enter your employment here in London just to leave it so that I might return to Kent? No, sir, I would not do that. There is nothing for me there now that my father is gone.”
“Ah, the classic story,” Chance said, suddenly more comfortable. “The dear child of an adored father, cut adrift and near penniless when the man died, was taken to his final reward on the wings of angels. Surely, Miss Carruthers, you could have come up with better than that? You’re sounding very much like one of the penny press novels my late wife devoured along with her sugared treats.”
Julia stood up, her gloves falling to the floor. She bent to retrieve them, knowing that were she a man, she would then employ one of them to slap this man’s face and challenge him to a duel. If she were a man.
As a woman, however, there was only retreat, but she would do her pertinacious best that it would not be ignominious, and hang the consequences. “I believe we’re through, Mr. Becket. You enjoy your amusement at my expense, and I will show myself out.”
Chance came to his feet, holding out his arm as if to block her escape. Prickly thing, wasn’t she? And he was desperate. “A thousand apologies, Miss Carruthers, my remarks were entirely uncalled-for, as well as rude. My only excuse is that it has been a rather trying day.” He spread his hands, palms up. “If you had references…”
Julia took a breath, reminded herself of the slimness of her purse. And knew that didn’t matter. “I do not, sir. I have only my word and my name, which clearly are not sufficient here in sophisticated and extremely impolite London. Again, sir, good day to you.”
Physically tackling her probably wouldn’t work. Damn, Chance swore to himself. The one prospect who seemed even marginally acceptable, and he’d bungled things badly. Worse, he’d somehow allowed her the upper hand, it would seem, because now he was all but groveling, as if she would be doing him some marvelous favor if he hired her. Confounding woman! “I wish you would reconsider. And I do apologize again.”
Julia hesitated. She really did need the money she would earn. It would be nice to know she had a roof over her head when the sun set tonight, one she did not have to pay for out of her meager funds. She turned, took another look at Chance Becket. His eyes really were the color of a storm-tossed sea…which should have less than nothing to do with her decision. “I…um, that is—”
“Papa? Buttercup is very hungry.”
Both Chance and Julia swiftly turned their heads toward the doorway.
“Alice,” Chance said abruptly, “you were to remain upstairs.”
The child’s bottom lip came forward in a pout. “I’ve been upstairs forever, Papa.”
Julia was entranced. From her lovely dark blond curls to the tips of her white satin slippers, the child could have modeled for one of Botticelli’s angels. Clearly she was her father’s child but redone in a delightfully soft and feminine form. “She’s precious and the very image of you, Mr. Becket,” Julia said quietly. “How your heart must swell each time you look at her. How old is she?”
Chance answered before he could think too much about the surprising comment or the question. “Alice is five. Her mother’s been gone for six months, and I’m afraid I’ve allowed her to run a little wild. She should be in the nursery.”
“She should be where she’s happy to be,” Julia said, smiling at the child. “And clearly she wishes to be with you.”
Chance ran a hand over his hair, then impatiently pushed at a lock that escaped the ribbon. “I should introduce you.”
“Yes, thank you, but I think Alice and I can get to know each other on our own,” Julia said, already walking toward the child. She went down on her knees a few feet away from Alice and said, “Hello. I’m Julia and I’m very pleased to meet you, Alice. Is that Buttercup? She’s very pretty.”
Alice looked at the yellow rabbit tucked under her arm. “He’s a boy.” She held out the toy. “See? Papa and I tied a blue ribbon around his neck. Isn’t he a boy, Papa?”
Chance walked across the room to stand beside his daughter, one hand on her shoulder. Mine, his gesture announced without words, although he didn’t consciously realize what he was doing. Treat her well or prepare to deal with me. “This week, yes, Buttercup is a boy. Where is your nurse, young lady?”
Alice shrugged. “She’s napping, Papa. She’s always napping.”
“When she isn’t nipping,” Chance growled quietly, and Julia looked up at him, seeing her opportunity and immediately seizing it.
“I could take up my duties today, Mr. Becket. At this very moment.”
“Really, Miss Carruthers?” Chance leaned down to kiss his daughter’s head. He should have thought to produce Alice earlier, for she seemed to be his trump card. “Run along upstairs, poppet. I’ll come join you very soon.”
But Alice was looking at Julia, who was still on her knees on the carpet. “You’re pretty. Mama was pretty. Would you like to come to tea?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart. We’ll have to ask your papa.” Julia got to her feet and looked at Chance. Waited. Then he smiled, and her heart skipped a beat.
“So
