Grace said, eagerly. Mayhap she was worrying about nothing. He did not sound as though he planned to send her away. ‘It is in my bag upstairs.’
‘Go and get it now, please. I shall also require the name of the principal of the school and the address.’
‘The...the principal?’ Grace’s heart sank. ‘Wh-why do you want that when I already have a letter from Miss Fanworth?’
Out of the four friends, she had been Madame Dubois’s least favourite pupil, always the centre of any devilment. You are the bane of my life, the Frenchwoman had once told Grace after a particularly naughty prank. Of course, that was before Grace had Clara—thank goodness Madame Dubois had never found out about that escapade—and Grace’s behaviour had improved considerably since then. Perhaps Madame would not write too damning a report about Grace’s conduct at school.
The Marquess continued to regard her steadily. ‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ he said, ‘and it is not for you to question my decision.’
‘No, my lord.’
Grace rose to her feet, keeping a wary eye on the dog as she did so. His feathery tail swished from side to side in response and she quickly averted her eyes.
‘Are you scared of him? Brack, come here, sir.’
Ravenwell walked around the desk to stand next to Grace and she quelled her impulse to shrink away. She had forgotten quite how tall and intimidating he was, with his wide shoulders and broad chest. He carried with him the smells she had previously noted: leather, the outdoors, and soap. Now, though, he was so close, she caught the underlying scent of warm male and she felt some long-neglected hunger within her stretch and stir. His long hair had swung forward to partially obscure the ravaged skin of his right cheek and jaw, but he did not appear to be deliberately concealing his scars now and Grace darted a glance, taking in the rough surface, before turning her wary attention once again to Brack. The dog had moved closer to her than she anticipated and now she could not prevent her involuntary retreat.
‘It is quite all right. You must not be scared of him.’
There was a hint of impatience in Ravenwell’s tone. Grace peeped up at him again, meeting his gaze. He might be intimidating in size, and brusque, but she fancied there was again a hint of humour in his dark brown eyes.
‘Try to relax. Hold out your hand. Here.’
He engulfed her hand in his, eliciting a strange little jolt deep in her core. Her pulse quickened. Ravenwell called to Brack, who came up eagerly, sniffed and then pushed the top of his head under their joined hands, his black-and-tan coat wiry under Grace’s fingers. The dog had a disreputable look about him, one ear flopping almost over his eye whilst the other was a ragged stump. Grace swallowed. Ravenwell wouldn’t keep a dangerous animal indoors. Would he?
‘All he wants is some attention,’ Ravenwell said, his warm voice rumbling through her.
Grace’s chest grew tight, her lungs labouring to draw air.
‘Where are the other dogs?’
‘Brack’s the only one who is allowed inside.’ Ravenwell released Grace’s hand and moved away, and Grace found she could breathe easily again. ‘I reared him from a pup after his mother died.’
Grace stroked along Brack’s back, feeling very daring. ‘I am sure I will get used to him.’
She imagined telling the other girls about this: how they would laugh at her fear of a simple dog. Then, with a swell of regret and sorrow, she remembered she would never again share confidences with her friends. They could write, of course, but letters were not the same as talking face to face—sharing their hopes and fears and whispering their secrets as they lay in bed at night—or as supporting and comforting each other through the youthful ups and downs of their lives. And those friends, her closest friends—her dearest Joanna, Rachel, and Isabel—had supported and comforted Grace through the worst time of her life. Theirs had been the only love she had ever known.
She longed to hear how they all fared in their new roles as governesses and she knew they would be waiting to hear from her—wondering if she had found the baby she had vowed to trace. But they would not know how to contact her—none of them, no one from her former world, knew where she had been since she left the school or where she was at this moment in time.
She must let them know.
‘My lord...if you are to write to Madame Dubois, do you think...might I write to Miss Fanworth too? I should like her to know I arrived safely.’
‘What about your aunt and uncle? Will they not also wish to know you are here?’
‘Yes, of course.’
She uttered the words, but she doubted they would concern themselves one way or the other as to her welfare, as long as she did not end up back on their doorstep, costing them money. She had visited them before starting her quest to find Clara. They had made it clear their home was no longer hers, now she was an adult.
‘I shall write to them as well.’
‘You may write your letters in here. Ned rides into the village most mornings with the post.’
‘Thank you.’
Grace ran upstairs to fetch her letter of recommendation, deliberating over her strange reaction to the Marquess. There had been a moment...when he had been standing so close...when he had taken her hand... She shook her head, dismissing her reaction as nonsense. It was fear of the dog, that was all. Nevertheless, she would avoid using the book room to write her letters whilst he was present. She would wait until her disturbing employer was elsewhere in the house.
Nerves knotted her stomach when she returned downstairs and handed him Miss Fanworth’s letter.
‘I must go now and see to Clara.’ The words tumbled from her, and his brow rose. ‘I shall write my letters later, so they will be ready for the morning. Thank you.’
She did not wait for his response, but hurried from the room, feeling her tension dissipate as she closed the door behind her. She went to the kitchen, where Clara was eating some bread and butter with a bowl of broth. The room was warm, and steamy with a mouthwatering aroma that made Grace’s stomach growl in protest, reminding her she had not eaten since her breakfast that morning.
A man with ruddy cheeks, small blue eyes and sleeked-down mousy hair sat beside Clara. He was helping her to spoon the broth into her mouth, in between supping from a tankard of ale. He grinned at Grace, but Mrs Sharp—sitting on the opposite side of the scrubbed table—scowled as she entered.
‘What did his lordship want with you?’
Grace tilted her chin. ‘I suggest you ask him, Mrs Sharp,’ she said. ‘If he wishes you to be privy to our conversation, I am sure he will enlighten you.’
Mrs Sharp’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing more. Grace switched her attention to the man, whose grin had widened, his eyes almost disappearing as his face creased.
‘Good afternoon,’ she said. ‘My name is Grace Bertram and I expect you already know I have come to take care of Clara.’
The man bobbed to his feet and nodded. ‘Pleased to meet you, miss. I’m Sharp—husband of this one.’ He winked
