She fished Lord Braybrook’s card out of her pocket, frowning. Anyone could have an elegant card embossed. Except, how could anyone but Lord Braybrook know of Harry’s interest in Miss Trentham?
Miss Trentham, who, according to the perfunctory description in Harry’s last letter, had blue eyes and black hair—Christy muttered a distinctly unladylike word—just like Lord Braybrook’s. Indeed, if they were anything like her brother’s blue eyes and raven hair, then Miss Trentham would be nothing short of a beauty. She had never realised eyes could actually be that blue, outside the covers of a romance from the Minerva Press. Or that penetrating, as though they looked right into you and saw all the secrets you kept hidden… Oh, yes. He was Lord Braybrook right enough. And she had accepted a post as companion to his stepmother and a sort of fill-in governess. It must be a most peculiar household, she reflected. Most ladies of rank would hire their own companions and the governess.
She snorted. It was all of a piece with his arrogant lordship. Marching into her home as though he owned it. Taking up far too much of her parlour with his shoulders…why on earth was she thinking about his shoulders? It hadn’t been his shoulders that had forced Goodall to back down, it had been that stupid card with his name and rank on it. Lord Braybrook. A title and Goodall had been bowing and scraping his way out backwards. Where was she? Oh, yes. His arrogant lordship, telling her what to do, taking the beastly uncomfortable settle instead of the wingchair, taking the tray and moving the tea table for her— lighting a fire she could not afford, although if she was leaving on Thursday there was enough fuel to last.
At least she was warm now. It had been a kindness on his part. Of course some men were considerate, but she must not linger over it as though he had done it for her.
Drat him! Cutting up her peace, arranging her life to suit his own convenience, dismissing her concerns about propriety in the most cavalier way, and—
Well, he did come around in the end…
Only because he had to, or you wouldn’t have accepted the position!
Which begged the question: why—despite his desire to have her give Miss Trentham’s thoughts a more proper direction— did he still persist in thinking her a proper companion for his stepmother and younger siblings?
She had flown at him like a hellcat, been as rude as she knew how and argued with him when he showed a wholly honourable concern for her comfort and welfare on the journey to Hereford.
Why hadn’t he simply retracted his offer of employment and walked out?
And why was she even bothered about it? Why not do as he suggested and accept his money without argument? In a ladylike way, of course.
The seething, rebellious part of her mind informed her that she was going to have trouble accepting any of his lordship’s dictatorial pronouncements without a great deal of argument. Ladylike or otherwise.
In the meantime, due to his lordship’s rearrangement of her life, she had not enough time for everything. Certainly there was no time for pondering the odd feeling that she had just made the most momentous decision of her life. Or had it made for her. As for the ridiculous notion that Lord Braybrook was somehow dangerous—nonsense! Oh, she had no doubt that to some women he might be dangerous, but she had heard the scorn in his voice.
Believe me, I’ve no designs on your virtue.
That stung a little, but when all was said and done, she was a dowd. Perhaps a little more so than was necessary, but that was all to the good if it deflected the attention of men such as Lord Braybrook.
There had been that look, though, the feeling that he truly saw her, Christy, not merely Miss Daventry… She shut off the thought. Only a fool needed a lesson twice. The last thing she wanted was for him to notice her at all. Men seemed to have difficulty in comprehending when no was short for no, I don’t want to go to bed with you rather than no, you aren’t offering enough.
Crossly she pushed away from the door. She would not be sorry to leave this house. Once it had been happy enough, when Mama had been alive. But now it was filled with memories of nursing her dying mother. One must go on. And apparently, come Thursday, that was precisely what she would be doing.
As for Harry—was he mad? How could he imagine himself a suitable match for the Honourable Miss Trentham? A viscount’s sister, no less! The least investigation… She knew the answer of course: his Grace, the Duke of Alcaston. The Duke’s patronage had given Harry ideas dizzyingly far above his station.
Why could Lord Braybrook not behave like any normal man, forbid the match and see that the importunate suitor was denied the house? She had that answer as well; he thought it might drive his sister into revolt, and if his sister was as used to getting her own way as he was, then he had a point.
Unless… There was one way in which she might ensure Lord Braybrook could take that action without his sister uttering a word of protest. A single letter to his lordship would suffice. She looked at the bureau bookcase, hesitating.
Writing that letter would work, but at the cost of an appalling betrayal. Telling tales under a self-righteous cloak. And it was important for Harry to acknowledge the reality of his situation. Somehow she had to persuade him that his course of action was wrong. She needed to see him. Harry would ignore her letters to him. She must see him, try to persuade him of the wrongness of his intention to ensnare Miss Trentham or any other woman without telling her family the truth.
It might even ruin Harry if the truth were generally known. She wasn’t sure, but she could not take that risk. As a last resort she might have to tell the truth, but it would drive a wedge between them and she had no other family. None that she cared to acknowledge.
And there was another consideration—the money Lord Braybrook offered. She did have some money. Enough to manage if she were very careful, and prices didn’t rise. But there was little left over to hoard against illness or chilly old age. With this position, she could add to her meagre nest egg. Even if it were for a year or less, she would earn far more than she could in any other position, and she would save her keep as well.
She could pack up her books and take them with her. Braybrook had said his man of business would help; very well, she would ask him to sell the furniture bequeathed to her by Mama. It might not fetch very much, but every penny helped, and she was damned if she’d leave it for Goodall to sell on Harry’s behalf!
Accepting Lord Braybrook’s offer was the sensible thing to do. As long as she remembered her place. Separate. Apart. If only she could succeed in teaching Harry that lesson.
There was no real choice. She must go into Herefordshire and make Harry see the truth—that a greater gulf than mere money lay between the Daventrys and the Trenthams. If she failed, then, in the last resort, she must tell Lord Braybrook the truth herself.
Despite the fire warming the room, she shivered, imagining his disdain, the brilliant eyes turned icy. She stiffened her spine. It didn’t matter. There was no question of her being upset by his contempt.
That sort of thing only hurt if one committed the folly of allowing someone too close. A warning voice suggested that in breaching her reserve and triggering her temper, Lord Braybrook had already stepped too close. She must ensure he never did so again.
Chapter Three
