Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 01] (8 page)

"Now Mrs. Fairchild, don't be a goose. The house is faultless, as you well know. Why, the floors and furniture fairly glisten with beeswax and there isn't a speck of dust anywhere."

The older woman managed a wan smile. "I suppose things aren't too shabby, but I should hate to disappoint His Lordship. Oh, he asked that you present yourself to him in the library at six."

"Very well. Now calm yourself."

Mrs. Fairchild nodded. "Yes, of course." She cleared her throat, then added. "You will be punctual? Mister Edward does not tolerate sloppy habits at Highwood."

Jane nodded, not trusting her tone of voice to hide her true feelings. From what she knew of the man so far, she didn't give a fig for what the Marquess of Saybrook could tolerate.

She certainly found it hard to tolerate the apprehension he seemed to bring out in everyone at Highwood.

Even the footmen and parlor maids were affected by the air of nervousness that had descended upon the house. They rushed about, unloading the traveling carriage and freshening the rooms with a hushed seriousness, engaging in none of the usual cheerful banter. Jane did not even receive so much as a smile from any of the distracted servants as she made her way up to her room to make ready for her first interview with her employer. Heaven knows she needed to freshen up her hair and gown—she must look a fright after all that had happened.

The mirror over the washstand told her that she wasn't wrong. A goodly number of tendrils had worked their way loose from the severe bun at the nape of her neck and dangled in disarray around her ears and throat. Behind the errant curls there was a distinct smudge on her left cheek. The wildflowers, still clutched in her hands, had scattered their petals across the bodice of her gown, while its hem was covered with dust. It was hardly a picture to inspire confidence in an employer. She sighed longingly as she thought of her abigail at home and a nice hot bath. Then she began to scrub the dirt from her face and to rearrange her hair.

Jane found that she was curious to finally meet the marquess. She knew his house, his lands, his possessions, his dependents and his servants. From that she had formed a very definite picture of him.

And now she was to meet him in person.

She finished sponging the hem of her gown, for she had decided not to change into her better grey merino one, but to remain in the distinctly less flattering shade of brown. As she regarded her reflection she almost grimaced at the plain, rather unattractive face that peered back at her.

But, she sighed, it had been decided that it was best to look as unremarkable as possible—not that it seemed to matter here at Highwood. Well, the hairstyle certainly accomplished that, along with the walnut leaf rinse which had dulled her once glorious hair to an insipid shade nearly as ugly as that of the dress.

She picked up a pair of spectacles from the dresser. Though only made of clear glass, they added an even dowdier touch to her appearance. She had made sure to wear them occasionally around the house so everyone was used to seeing them on her. Propping them firmly on the bridge of her nose she felt ready to meet His Lordship. Now, if she could just remember to squint...

A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts. Mrs. Fairchild had left nothing to chance. She dutifully followed Glavin downstairs to the library.

The marquess was standing with his back to her, seemingly engrossed in the blazing hearth, when Jane quietly entered the room. She stopped near the threshold, not merely out of deference but out of surprise. The gentleman before her was over six feet tall, with long legs, narrow hips and a broad, muscular back, accentuated by the snug cut of his elegant swallow-tailed coat of claret superfine. There was a lazy, cat-like grace that radiated from his person, as well as something that hinted at a veiled power beneath the lean, hard body. Thick dark hair—not grey, very dark—fell to the back of his collar while his shirt points were moderate, allowing him to turn his head with ease. Her surprise turned to shock when he did so.

Those sea-green eyes!

"You!" she blurted out.

"Please take a seat—Miss Langley, is it?" he said coolly, neither his voice or expression giving the slightest acknowledgement that they had ever laid eyes on each other before. He motioned to an armchair while he seated himself at a massive oak desk facing her.

Jane sat, too stunned to say anything.

Lord Saybrook let the silence last what seemed to be an interminable amount of time before continuing.

"I must congratulate you on your progress with my ward during the short time you have been here. He seems to have actually learned something."

She had recovered her wits enough to detect the faint note of sarcasm in his voice. "I take it you have no high opinion of governesses then, my lord?"

"No," he admitted. "I do not. Most of them I have met have been either vapid or cruel. But you appear to be neither."

Jane kept her eyes focused on her primly folded hands resting in her lap. How was one to respond to such a compliment, if compliment it was?

"With such an opinion, I wonder that you would bother hiring one at all," she said softly.

"It is necessary," was the curt reply. There was another silence. "I have also found my ward to be more... lively. I take it I have you to thank for this as well?"

Jane couldn't resist the opening. "Oh, it is really nothing, my lord. Children naturally respond to a little love and attention." She smiled innocently. "His name is Peter, by the way—in case you have forgotten."

A flush stole across his face, she noted with satisfaction, and his jaw set grimly. So, she had managed to effect a crack in his icy manner. But when he spoke, his voice was quite even.

"You may go now."

Without any further ado, he turned his attention to the papers on his desk.

It was Jane's turn to feel the heat of anger. To be dismissed like a... a servant! But as soon as she thought it, the very irony of the situation nearly made her smile in spite of herself. She rose silently and left the room, conceding the last word to him. After all, he had had an unfair advantage in the meeting. But she felt she had held her own, and even scored a hit herself.

Yet the whole meeting had infuriated her, only serving to confirm her suspicion that the marquess was a cold, hard man. When she reached her own chamber she was still fuming over the bored, sardonic look on his face, the way his eyes raked over her as if they didn't even see her. She made a vow that he would never intimidate her as he seemed to have done to the rest of the household. Not that it mattered. From what she understood, His Lordship never stayed more than a week or two at a time. But if he wanted to cross wills with her, she was ready!

* * *

The thick oriental carpet muffled the sound of Saybrook's well-polished Hessians as he paced before the fire in his library. The polished paneling glowed in the flickering light, conjuring up evenings long past when he would creep in to find his mother reading by the hearth. The memories caused a sudden lurch in his chest, a longing to make this his home again, a place of warmth, of laughter, of life rather than a place he avoided as much as possible. He loved the smell of the leather books, the familiar furniture, the carved moldings—missing one acorn that he had whittled away with a new pocket knife...

He shook his head as if to banish the painful thoughts.

They plagued him whenever he came back. Most of the time he was able to keep them at bay. So good had he become at hiding his feelings he could almost believe he had none, none at all. Perhaps that was why he felt half dead.

His lips compressed. Thank God it was only a couple of weeks a year that he had to return to deal with his affairs. His steward was a capable, honest man who ran the lands well. There was no doubt that all would be in order and decisions could be made swiftly. Of course, he would inspect things himself, and see that his tenants had been looked after properly. But that shouldn't take too long.

And Mrs. Fairchild ran the manor as well as his mother had. A poor relation from that side of the family, Mrs. Fairchild had come to Highwood when he was still in leading strings. Saybrook grimaced as he remembered how many times she had borne the brunt of some childish prank of his or Liza's—it was a wonder she did not hold him in the greatest distaste! But her good nature had never wavered and now she was delighted with the responsibility of caring for his estate and ward while he absented himself for months on end. Did she have an inkling as to his reasons? He sometime thought she looked at him with—no matter. She ran the house and servants with a gentle, yet firm hand.

Saybrook allowed himself a small smile.
Servants.
Most of them had been there for years. The governess was the only new face—and a rather interesting if dowdy one at that. He almost chuckled, recalling her look of dismay at discovering her errant rider and new employer were one in the same. Oh, she had tried to hide her emotions, but her expressive features did not cooperate. Miss Langley would make a poor gambler, for what she was thinking was quite clear.

He thought back to the afternoon. She had been quite angry at his manner. It made him curious as to how a girl of her position would dare to challenge her betters, but he shrugged it off. No matter that her manner was sadly deficient for a servant, he rather liked a show of spirit. Manners she would soon learn.

More importantly, she had done wonders with his ward. The boy was less painfully shy though there was still a wariness in his eyes that shouldn't be there in one so young. Saybrook ran his hands through his thick locks. It was his own fault, he knew, if the boy was afraid of him. He should spend more time with him, but...

He kept pacing, lost in thought, until Glavin knocked to inform him that his supper was served. With a heavy sigh he left the library, wishing that the short stay was already at an end.

* * *

Jane took supper in the kitchen with Mrs. Fairchild and Peter, as had become their habit. It was informal and cozy, with the delicious smells emanating from the copper pots and Cook's constant stream of banter and neighborhood gossip. She felt the atmosphere was good for the boy, and no one argued with her—indeed no one argued with any suggestion she made around Highwood, but seemed to accept her suggestions naturally.

Mrs. Fairchild was still distracted and monitored every dish that was carried to the dining room, much to Cook's offense. So Jane forbore questioning her about His Lordship, though there were many things she wished to know. She was not so reticent when she took Peter up to bed.

"I thought you told me your uncle was old?" she said as they climbed the stairs.

Peter looked perplexed. "Why, he is, Miss Jane. I heard Mrs. Fairchild say he is nearly eight and twenty."

"Oh, I see. That's positively ancient!" Jane laughed and rolled her eyes. How silly of her.

After she had finished reading to Peter she noticed that he seemed restless and loath to see her go. So after putting the book aside she sat on the edge of the bed and fondly brushed the locks from his forehead.

"Are you happy your uncle has come for a visit?"

Peter gave her a strange look then cast his eyes down to his blanket.

"He doesn't like me," he finally blurted out.

Jane's arm slipped around his frail shoulders and squeezed gently. "Why Peter, what fustian! Of course he likes you," she said with forced cheerfulness while fearing that, with a child's natural perception, he had indeed sensed the truth. "You must realize that your Uncle is very busy, with many demands on his time. I'm sure he does not mean for you to think he doesn't care," she added lamely.

The boy nodded miserably. She could feel his shoulder hunch under her touch and found herself wondering whether the poignant scene would wipe the arrogant sneer from Lord Saybrook's face. Remembering the cold, carefully controlled manner of earlier in the evening she doubted it. And it made her dislike His Lordship even more. But she couldn't bear to see Peter so downcast. Without thinking, she came up with a plan.

"How would you like to surprise your uncle—and make him very proud of you?"

The boy looked up in wonder. "How?"

"I heard Henry talking about the village fair. There is to be a riding competition, one for children as well as adults. I think you've come along so nicely you should be part of it. We'll make it a surprise."

"I don't know," he faltered. "I don't... do you really think..."

She squeezed him harder. "Of course you can! You and Tarquin are best of friends now and you've been off the lead for days. By week's end you'll be trotting and shall be quite ready for the fair."

"He might not be there." Peter was trying to keep the growing excitement out of his voice.

"Oh, he'll be there. Leave that to me," smiled Jane grimly. As she well knew, any of the surrounding gentry in residence would be bound by tradition to put in an appearance. And furthermore, if she had to jam a pistol in to his elegant ribs, Lord Saybrook would be there. Of course it was to be hoped that such extreme measures would not be necessary. Surely even an unfeeling guardian could not begrudge such a small demand on his time.

But she would deal with that later. Right now she was rewarded by seeing the look of happiness on the boy's face.

"It will be a big surprise, will it not?" he said with unconcealed delight.