The Governess Affair
Page 9

Safe, the back of her mind whispered.
He left her hands wrapped in the towel, like some oversized muff, and then picked up the metal flask. It looked like the sort of container in which gentlemen stored gin—flat and thin. But he unscrewed the cap and a curl of steam escaped.
Serena sighed in longing. He poured the contents—a glorious golden-brown—into the teacup, and then held it out to her. “I don’t know how you take your tea,” he said, “and I had no way to bring the cream and sugar out here. I added both. I can only hope the result is palatable.”
She maneuvered a hand out of the towel and took the cup. Her hand was still shaking; he watched her with narrowed eyes. But the cup was warm—so warm that it seared her skin. And the tea… Oh, it was lovely. Strong and sweet, with a generous dollop of creamy milk.
The first sip seemed to thaw the ice in her fingers.
“Why are you doing this?”
“I told you,” he said. “I don’t hurt women.”
“You’re hardly responsible for my presence here. I’m here by dint of my own willful stubbornness.” She took another gulp of tea.
“Semantics,” he returned. “You’re here. Who is to blame, if I am not?”
“The Duke of Clermont comes to mind. You’re his charge, not the other way around.”
Mr. Marshall snorted. “Is that what you think?”
She took another swallow of tea rather than answer the question. “This is the best tea I have ever had,” she said. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me.”
Her gaze locked with his, and she found herself unable to look away. His eyes were brown—light, like the color of sunlight filtered through autumn leaves. He was so focused on her, the entire world seemed to melt away—the dark clouds overhead, the puddles underfoot. There was nothing but him.
It had been more than three months since she’d felt even the mildest hints of sexual attraction. She’d thought it had been burned from her for good, stolen by fear and the cold, clutching hands of dark memory. Apparently not. Her better sense could be swayed by two swallows of tea and an umbrella.
Safe. He is safe.
But no matter that he’d brought her shelter and warmth, there was nothing safe about him.
Mr. Marshall smiled at her—not the easy smile of a mild acquaintance, but a smile with a sharp edge. Still, he stayed on his half of the bench. Rain collected on the brim of his hat and dripped over the edges, but it did not make him look in the least disheveled.
“You could have sent another servant out with an umbrella. You didn’t have to come yourself.”
“I assumed it would unsettle you more if I fed you in person,” he answered.
“Feed me? You haven’t—”
“Ah. Thank you for the reminder.” He unfolded a package wrapped in waxed paper, revealing some squashed sandwiches filled with a strange green and pink mixture.
“I shouldn’t.”
He snorted. “You shouldn’t be standing in a square in the rain. Your hands shouldn’t be so cold that you can’t properly wrap them around a teacup. I hate to think what you are doing to your lungs, breathing this cold, wet air for hours on end. You’re risking your health. In what possible world can you do all those things and yet not have a sandwich?” He held out the waxed paper to her. “Eat.”
“You’re trying to browbeat me again.” Still, she took his offering and nibbled at the edge. She wasn’t sure what was in it—some kind of smoked ham, maybe. Diced cucumber was easier to recognize. It was delicious, although she suspected that had more to do with her hunger and the cold than the actual sandwich.
He refilled her teacup.
She swallowed. “You’re too kind.”
“No, I’m not,” he contradicted. “I’m deliberately confusing you out of a desire to assuage my own meager excuse for a conscience. To add to my sins, in defiance of all society’s rules, I wish to become better acquainted with you. Don’t imagine there’s anything akin to kindness behind my selfish behavior.”
The umbrella had slowly tilted to one side behind them, and it had begun to drip on the towel—plop, plop, plop, slow and steady.
“Society’s rules?” she said. “When a gentleman condescends to a ruined woman, it’s called kindness. No matter what his motives might be.”
He straightened the umbrella. “I’m no gentleman.”
She stared at him—at his well-made coat and the half-sandwich still wrapped in waxed paper, set off to his side. “You work for a duke.”
“You’re a lady who had to stoop to governessing. I make a good game of it, but my father was a coal miner in Yorkshire. I’m the fourteenth of sixteen children. I made my living with my fists for a handful of years.”
“You sound as if you’re from the north.” But not quite. He spoke in a clipped rhythm that made her think of London—fast and frenetic. There was a hint of a burr there, a roll to his words. But it had softened and smoothed out. “But how does a miner become a…a…”
He smiled. “I don’t know what I am, either.”
“Nonetheless. You’re in charge of a duke’s finances. I would have thought one required a certain amount of education in order to do that.”
“Charity school,” he said. “Also, I was small for my age, and so my mother convinced my father I was too young to go into the mines. She did that for years. He never could keep track of all his children. So when my younger brothers passed away, he became confused as to my age. I got rather a better education than might otherwise have been usual.”
He was looking off into the distance as he spoke. But for all that his words seemed matter-of-fact, there was something about what he’d said—the thought of his mother lying to his father for the sake of his education, and his father not noticing—that sent a chill down her spine.
“I was fourteen when they first expected me to go into the mines.” He turned back to her. “Old, really. Old enough to know better. I had watched the mines age men before their time. A year in the mines was worth ten years out. It was death working there—the only question was whether that death came slow or came on quick.” He handed her another sandwich. “I was a miner for three days. I couldn’t stand feeling that I was enclosed on all sides. So I ran away from home.”
“What did you do instead?”