governesses and companions. She knew from experience that her life would be lived in isolation, neither truly a member of the family, nor part of the servants’ hall. Neither above stairs, nor below. An odd thought came to her of generation after generation of ghostly governesses and companions, doomed to a grey existence on the half-landings. Just as well, too. It made her preferred reserve far easier to maintain.
Her stomach churned slightly, but she breathed deeply and otherwise ignored it. It was partly due to tiredness. With all the work of packing up the house, she had scarcely had more than five hours sleep a night, and last night she had barely slept at all. She never could sleep properly the night before a journey, for dreaming that the coach had gone without her and she was running after it, crying out for it to wait, not to abandon her…
She wondered if she dared lower the window and lean out. No. It would be presumptuous, and she would become sadly rumpled and dusty. Not at all ladylike. She set herself to endure, leaning back and closing her eyes.
Leaving Gloucester midway through the second day, Julian knew Miss Daventry was not a good traveller. He had without comment lowered all the windows. Not that she complained, or asked for any halts. But he could imagine no other explanation for the white, set look about her mouth, or that when they stopped, she would accept nothing beyond weak, black tea. She hadn’t eaten a great deal of dinner or breakfast either.
He knew the signs from personal experience, only he had outgrown the tendency. There was little he could do about it, he thought, watching her. She was pale, and her eyes were closed, a faint frown between her brows. Oh, hell! ‘Miss Daventry?’
‘My lord?’ The eyes opened. He blinked, still not used to their effect. The shadows beneath them were darker today than yesterday. It shouldn’t bother him. Noblesse oblige, he assured himself. Nothing personal.
‘Miss Daventry, perhaps you might change seats with me?’
Somehow she sat a little straighter. ‘I am very well here, my lord. Thank you.’
He was not supposed to feel admiration—she was the governess- companion, for heavens’ sake! His voice devoid of expression, he said, ‘I think “well” is the last word that applies to you at this moment. Certainly not “very well”. Come, exchange places with me.’ Determined to expunge any misleading suggestion of personal feeling, he added, ‘I cannot sit here any longer feeling guilty.’
Blushing, she complied, scrambling across past him.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said, still slightly pink.
He inclined his head. ‘You are welcome, Miss Daventry.’ Detached. Bored, even. ‘Of course, should it be necessary, you will request a halt, will you not?’
She squared her shoulders. ‘That will not be necessary, my lord. I should not wish to delay us.’
He raised his brows. ‘I assure you, Miss Daventry, a brief halt will be a great deal more preferable than the alternative— won’t it, Parkes?’
The valet, thus appealed to, permitted himself a brief smile. ‘Indeed, sir. I’ve not forgotten how often you used to ask to be let down.’
Julian laughed at Miss Daventry’s look of patent disbelief. ‘Perfectly true, Miss Daventry. But I became accustomed eventually.’
A small smile flickered, and a dimple sprang to life. ‘I fear I did not travel enough as a child then. I remained staidly in Bath.’
‘Bath? I understood from your brother that your home had always been in Bristol.’ Where the devil had that dimple come from?
Miss Daventry’s pale cheeks pinkened again and the dimple vanished. ‘Oh. Harry was very small when Mama moved to Bristol. And I went to school in Bath when I was ten. When I was older I became a junior assistant mistress.’
She subsided into silence, turning her head to watch the passing scenery.
Julian returned to his book, glancing up from time to time to check on Miss Daventry. He told himself that he was not, most definitely not, looking for that dimple. He had seen dimples before. But, really, for a moment there, the staid Miss Daventry had looked almost pretty. Spectacles and all. And her mouth was not in the least prim when she smiled. It was soft, inviting…
There was something about her. Something that made him want to look again… The eyes. That was all. Once he became accustomed to them, she would have no interest for him whatsoever. In the meantime she was suffering from carriage sickness and it behoved him to care for her. No more. No less.
Reminding himself of that, Julian reburied himself in his book, only glancing over the top every ten pages or so.
Aware of his occasional scrutiny, Christy tried to ignore it, repressing an urge to peep under her lashes. Her heart thudded uncomfortably; the result, she assured herself, of having so nearly revealed too much. Her pounding heart had nothing to do with those brilliant eyes that seemed to perceive more than they ought. It wasn’t as if he cared about her, Christy Daventry. She was in his charge, therefore he owed it to himself to make sure she was comfortable. If she were not, it was a reflection on himself. He was being kind to her in the same way he would care for any other servant. Or his dog or horse. Admirable, but nothing to make her heart beat faster. Noblesse oblige. That or he was ensuring she wasn’t sick in his beautifully appointed carriage.
But the bright glance of his blue eyes was hard to ignore. She was infuriated to find herself drifting into a daydream where his lordship’s remarkable eyes were focused on her. And not because he was concerned she might be sick all over his highly polished boots.
Ridiculous! She knew nothing of him. Except that he was thoughtful enough to find a companion for his stepmother, kind enough to change seats with the carriage-sick companion, and sensible enough not to drive his sister into revolt. Heavens! She was rapidly making him out to be a paragon.
Lord Braybrook was no paragon. The lazy twinkle in his eyes, combined with unconscious arrogance, suggested he was the sort of man a sensible woman steered well clear of. Assuming he had not already informed the sensible woman that he had no designs on her virtue, as though the idea were unthinkable. And a very good thing too. Christy had a sneaking suspicion that when his lordship did focus his attention on a female, good sense might come under heavy fire.
Oh, nonsense. He was probably horrid on closer acquaintance, the sort of man who kicked puppies. Yes. That was better. No one could like a man who kicked puppies. Or kittens. A pity she was having so much difficulty seeing him in the role. Much easier to see those lean fingers cradling a small creature… rocking it.
She smothered a yawn. Such a warm day…rocking…like a cradle. No, that was the coach. It was beautifully sprung and she felt much better now, facing forwards. Far less disconcerting to have the breeze from the open window in her face and see the world spinning towards her and away, rather than just spinning away in front of her…rocking, rocking, rocking…
Later, some time later, she was vaguely aware of being eased down to the seat, gentle hands removing her bonnet and spectacles, tucking a rug around her, a light touch feathering over her cheek…a dream, a memory, nothing more. Christy slept, cradled in dreams.
She awoke in near darkness to a touch on her shoulder and a deep voice saying, ‘We are nearly there, Miss Daventry.’
Dazed, she sat up. Strong hands caught her as the coach swung around a turn. Coach?
