Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Where are the twin terrors of the ton?” a voice boomed, echoing up the grand staircase.
The following Tuesday, the somber atmosphere of Welton House was shattered by the arrival of a carriage that sounded more like a parade.
Morgan Sedgewick, the Duke of Kirkhammer, sauntered into the foyer with a footman trailing behind him, laden with boxes wrapped in bright ribbons.
“It is a pleasure to see you, Your Grace,” Mr. Jones said as he opened the door.
Arthur and Philip didn’t wait for permission. They scrambled down the stairs, nearly toppling a poor footman who stood at the bottom. “Uncle Morgan! Uncle Morgan!”
Ambrose emerged from his study, a faint, rare smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re late, Your Grace. And you’re already overstimulating them. Really, must you make such a scene?”
“Nonsense! I am providing the fun that you so meticulously prune out of their lives, Welton,” Morgan laughed, tossing a box to Arthur. “You should have been a gardener.”
He then paused, his eyes landing on the woman standing at the top of the stairs, watching the chaos with an indulgent smile.
Miss Lewis descended slowly, her posture as elegant as ever, showcasing her perfect frame.
Ambrose let his eyes roam over her, as all were looking at her and would be unable to witness his blatant staring.
A reluctant smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he bit his tongue, willing his poker face to return.
“Ah,” Morgan breathed, his playful expression shifting into one of genuine intrigue, raising a knowing eyebrow at Ambrose.
He stepped forward, sweeping into a bow that was far more theatrical than necessary for a servant’s entrance.
“And this must be Miss Lewis. His Grace told me you were capable, but he neglected to mention you were a vision of spring in the middle of a cold London autumn. What a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
“You are too kind, Your Grace. And I assure you that the pleasure is all mine,” Imogen said as she finished walking down the stairs, then curtsied gracefully. “I am merely the one who ensures they don’t burn the library down.”
“A most valiant task,” Morgan joked, taking her hand and brushing his lips just above her knuckles. “If you ever tire of this old man’s company, my estate is in desperate need of such… grace.”
Ambrose’s smile vanished instantly at his words.
His friend’s flirtations with women had never given him a second thought, until now.
A sharp, cold pang of jealousy shot through him, a sensation so sudden and sharp it made his hands clench tight by his sides, that he could hardly name it.
It took everything he had not to punch his dearest friend square in the nose.
“That’s quite enough, Kirkhammer. She is here to work, not to be the subject of your mediocre poetry,” he settled on.
Morgan chuckled, winking at Miss Lewis, whose cheeks became pink at his charm. Ambrose was jealous once more. He knew she must have found his lightheartedness refreshing, a stark contrast to the brooding intensity that usually filled his home. He shook his head as he led them into the drawing room.
The next hour was a whirlwind. The boys tore into their gifts—mechanical soldiers and illustrated books—while Morgan sat on the floor with them, narrating battles.
When the butler announced that it was nearly time for the boys’ supper, Arthur grabbed Morgan’s sleeve.
“You must stay for dinner, Uncle Morgan!”
“Oh, please,” Philip said, tugging on the other. “We have plenty; I am sure of it! Maybe we can even all dine in the grand room!”
“You have to!” Arthur cried. “I want to tell you how Miss Lewis showed us science experiments!”
Morgan looked up, putting on a tragic, theatrical face. “Alas, my brave knights! A true peer of the realm cannot simply sit at a table uninvited. It is against the ancient laws of… well, of everything I suppose.”
Philip turned his wide, pleading blue eyes toward Ambrose. “Uncle Ambrose, please? Can he stay?”
Ambrose sighed in protest, though he couldn’t hide the softening of his gaze. “Very well. Morgan, will you join us?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Morgan grinned.
“And Miss Lewis!” Arthur shouted, running over to her. “Oh, she must dine with us tonight, too! She tells the best stories!”
“Oh, no, Arthur,” she said with a delicate smile. “That wouldn’t be proper. I’ll eat in the schoolroom, as usual.”
“But it’s better when you’re with us,” Philip whispered, reaching for her hand. “The table will be too big without you.”
She knelt to him then, speaking gently. “My dear boy, I am part of the staff. It isn’t the way things are done in a grand house like this. The Duke and his friend have matters to discuss that—”
“She will dine with us.”
The command was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade. Ambrose stared at her, his expression unreadable, his jaw set firmly as he awaited her retort. And everyone else, in turn, stared at them.
“Your Grace, it isn’t necessary,” she said, her voice a soft protest. “It is most kind, but I wouldn’t want to cause any—”
“The boys would like your presence,” Ambrose interrupted, his blue eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made it hard for him to breathe.
“And as you are responsible for them, it is only practical that you are there to manage them properly. Besides, I am the master of this house, and I am telling you to sit for our supper. I won’t take no for an answer, Miss Lewis. ”
Morgan’s eyebrows shot up with a click of his tongue. He looked between his friend and the governess, a knowing, mischievous glint in his eyes. Ambrose cast him a dark look.
“Very well, Your Grace. If you insist,” she answered.
“I do,” Ambrose said shortly. He turned to Morgan, his tone returning to a business-like clip. “Come, Kirkhammer. Let the boys finish their afternoon lesson. We have things to discuss in the study before the meal.”
As Ambrose led his friend away, he didn’t look back. Yet, he could still feel the phantom heat of Imogen’s blush as if it were a part of his own body.
Behind him, Morgan leaned in and whispered, “Practical for her to attend the dinner, eh? You’re about as subtle as a cannon blast, Welton.”
Ambrose ignored him, but his heart was hammering against his ribs. He had just invited a maid to his table in front of another Duke, friend or not. He was breaking every rule of his class, and the worst part was, he didn’t regret it. Not at all.
In the privacy of the mahogany-paneled study, Morgan didn’t even wait for the door to click shut before he let out a low, appreciative whistle.
“Practicality, Ambrose? Really?” Morgan leaned against the desk, his eyes dancing with amusement as he pressed.
“You’ve invited a governess to a formal dinner with Dukes.
If you wanted a child-minder, you could have sat her at a side table at most. You want her at your right hand because the woman is a marvel. ”
“A marvel? What is the meaning of this?” Ambrose sighed.
“She’s quite proper for a servant. She’s also, quite frankly, the most beautiful thing to grace this house since… well, ever. I can see why you’d want to admire her.”
“She is an employee, Morgan,” Ambrose snapped, though his focus on the decanter of brandy was a fraction too intense. “The boys are unpredictable. She is the only person they respond to. It is a matter of household management.”
“And I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury,” Morgan quipped with a dry laugh. “You’re smitten, you old rake. She may be an employee, of course, but I think you’ve met your next conquest.”
“I have no time for such things,” Ambrose barked, tiring of Morgan’s jest. “She is here to manage my wily young lads, nothing more.”
“You’ve got it worse than a green lad at his first ball from the way I am getting a rise out of you. I think the old rake has met his match with the governess…quite racy for someone who is usually so calculated in his acquisitions …”
Ambrose slammed the decanter down, the glass ringing. “If you’re finished with the romantic fiction, we have the matter of the Cornwall shipping lanes to discuss. Or did you come here solely to irritate me?”
“You make it so easy, Your Grace.” Morgan held up his hands in mock surrender. “Business, it is then. But don’t think I didn’t notice you nearly growled when I kissed her hand.”
An hour later, Imogen stood in front of the mirror in her small chamber, smoothing the skirts of her best gown, which was not saying much.
It was a simple, high-necked dress of dark forest-green wool, devoid of lace or embroidery.
To a lady of the ton, it would look like a burial shroud.
Yet, to Imogen, it felt like armor. She had coiled her hair into a sophisticated crown of braids, a style she used to craft for Julia, though it felt strange to wear it herself.
When she entered the dining room, the boys’ eyes went wide.
“Miss Lewis! You look like a princess!” Arthur shouted, jumping in his seat. “Or like Maid Marion!”
“You look very pretty,” Philip added quietly, a small smile touching his lips.
“Thank you, my darlings,” Imogen murmured. Her heart warmed at their thoughtful compliment.
The Duke of Kirkhammer stepped forward, his eyes sweeping over her with bold admiration. “A princess? No, Arthur, your vocabulary fails you. Miss Lewis, you look like a painting that has stepped out of its frame to shame every other woman in London. That green is the exact shade of a hidden glade.”
“A rhyme, Your Grace,” Imogen said as she felt the heat rise to her cheeks, a genuine blush staining her skin. “You are far too eloquent for your own good, I fear. Thank you for your kindness, hyperbolic as it may be.”
The Duke of Welton stood at the head of the table, his gaze burning a hole through her chest.
“Miss Lewis,” he said, his voice low. “Thank you for joining us.”