was not a handsome man. The good light showed that her impression outside on the pavement had been correct. At least, she corrected herself, as she plodded along in his wake, trying to lift her tired feet up out of the thick carpet, he was not a classically handsome man. Neither Lord Byron’s romantically tumbled locks, nor Mr Brummell’s much-vaunted beauty need fear competition from the Earl of Standon. On the other hand, he was unmistakably a very virile, masculine creature and she knew perfectly well that his size was provoking a thoroughly unwise desire to cast herself upon his broad chest and beg to be looked after.
Jessica reminded herself that she was not a woman who could afford to succumb to romantic notions, but one who lived by her intelligence and common sense, and that what she was striving for in life was respectable, dull, safe security. Men played no part in that ambition and aristocrats who frequented brothels, however kind they seemed, and however much one wanted to wrap one’s arms around as much of them as possible, were the shortest way to the primrose path that led inexorably downwards to shame and degradation. Look at Mama.
Well, possibly shame and degradation were rather strong words for it in Mama’s case, but it had certainly led to her being cut off without a penny, shunned by her family and living the sort of life that Jessica had sworn, at the age of fourteen, that she would never, ever, risk. Mama had thought the world well lost for love; then, when that love itself had gone, she had lived on her wits, her beauty and her charm.
As far as Jessica was concerned, falling in love ranked somewhat below wagering one’s entire substance on a lottery ticket as a sensible way of carrying on for a woman.
Sensation novels promised true love would find you if you only waited long enough and the Old Testament was littered with prophets being sustained entirely by faith and passing ravens, but a good education and hard work seemed more positive routes to security, food on the table and a roof over her head to Jessica than prayer and patience.
Lord Standon stopped and Jessica walked into the back of him. ‘Sorry. It is this hat.’
‘I believe you might safely remove it now, Miss Gifford.’ He opened the door and she stepped inside, pulling off the tall-crowned hat as she did so. There was no point in being a ninny about this. She must do what she had to do to get her life back on course. This was an interlude, then she could get back to being Miss Gifford, superior governess—pianoforte, harp, water-colours and the Italian tongue included.
They had entered what was presumably the Chinese bedchamber. Jessica stood inside the door while his lordship touched a taper to the candelabra standing around the room, trying not to be overawed by the fine painted wallpaper, the golden silk hangings or the rich carpet. It was, when all was said and done, merely a room for sleeping in. She swallowed, hoping that whatever happened before the sleep was not going to occur here under the jewelled eyes of dragons. Common sense and resignation were not proving as fortifying to the spirits as she might have hoped.
‘There should be night things at least.’ He pulled out drawers and turned over fabrics. ‘Yes. Help yourself.’ A carved panel opened at a touch and revealed hanging rails. ‘And there are robes in there as well, and slippers. Will you be able to find your way down again? Jordan will show you where the library is.’
So, it was not going to happen here and now in this room. Jessica placed the tall hat on a chest and nodded, managing her breathing somehow. ‘Thank you, my lord. I will not be long.’ He smiled and went out, closing the door behind him. Jessica went to look down into the open drawer at the fine lawn and rich Brussels lace, the satin ribbons and the shimmer of silk. It seemed she was going to lose her virtue whilst lavishly dressed—if that were any consolation.
Gareth stood frowning down at the meal his butler was setting out on the side table in the library. ‘Jordan, Miss Gifford was kidnapped by bullies from a brothel as she arrived on the stage this evening.’
‘Tsk. Shocking. One hears about such things, of course. How fortunate you were able to assist her.’ The man shook his head at the wickedness of the world and adjusted the position of the cruet slightly. ‘Miss Gifford will doubtless be hungry, my lord. Snatched meals at post inns are not sustaining fare and I presume she has had nothing since. I will bring a slice of fruit pie in addition to the sweetmeats.’ He regarded the table, apparently satisfied with its arrangement. ‘Will Miss Gifford be staying with us long, my lord?’
‘Until I have settled her future, Jordan.’ There was a tap and the door opened. ‘Ah, that is better.’ Gareth regarded the slim figure in the open doorway and found himself fighting back a grin. Top to toe in Julia’s luxurious lingerie, Miss Gifford still managed to look like a governess. Her hair was braided down her back, her feet were neatly together and her hands clasped at her waist. She had managed to find the plainest of the robes and, from the lack of frills showing under it, one of the simplest of the nightgowns.
The memory of her naked, her hair in glorious disarray around white shoulders, those small, high, rounded breasts pressed against his shirt front, filled him with a pleasurable glow that none of the exotic pleasures promised at Madame Synthia’s had evoked. Something must have shown in his eyes, for her chin came up a fraction and those wide green eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. However naïve Miss Jessica Gifford had been in stepping into a brothel-keeper’s carriage, she was not lacking in either courage or perception.
‘Come and sit down by the fire and eat, you must be hungry.’ He pulled out a chair for her and waited while she came and seated herself, managing it neatly and without glancing down at the chair as he pushed it in. Used to dinner parties. Gareth added the fact to his slim mental dossier on Miss Gifford. Obviously a superior governess, and one with much to lose from this night’s events.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ She waited, hands folded in her lap while Jordan pulled out a chair for him. ‘I confess I am a trifle peckish.’
‘Tea, Miss Gifford? Or lemonade, perhaps?’ Gareth saw her glance from the waiting butler to the opened bottle of white Chablis standing in an ice bucket by his side.
‘Wine, if you please.’ There was a touch of defiance about the choice. Dutch courage, he thought, wondering just why she was still so tense. There would be a period of uncertainty while she recovered from the shock, no doubt, but she would feel better in the morning. Mrs Childe would find her ready-made clothes and she could visit some agencies. He had no doubt she would soon find a suitable appointment; in the meantime he would have to find her somewhere to stay. Maude would help.
She was eating elegantly, he noticed, yet with a single-minded approach that was making inroads into the cold meats before her. Her lack of the vapours appealed to him and he plied her with food until she sat back with a sigh of repletion. ‘Thank you, my lord. I cannot remember when I last ate anything beside the merest snack.’
‘You have travelled far to London?’ Gareth picked up his wine and stood to pull back her chair. ‘Shall we sit by the fire?’
She gave him a long, searching look from under lashes that seemed ridiculously lavish for such a neat, self-contained creature. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said at last, picking up her own half-empty glass and moving to the chair he indicated.
‘I have come down from Leicestershire,’ she explained. In the big, masculine, winged chair she looked more fragile than he had thought before. Despite her poise, she also seemed vulnerable in a way that was different from her panic in the brothel. Her eyes were wide and watchful on him and she seemed braced for something. ‘My last position ended when my pupil went to stay with her grandmother in Bath. I have…had…a position with Lady Hartington to teach languages to her two older daughters. I understand that Lord Hartington was at that place tonight.’
‘Yes.
