Chapter 4 #2
“I was not tense, Miss Shelby,” he said mildly.
But as if reacting to something in the room, Victoria the wolfhound lifted her head and looked at her master.
Meriel found herself childishly wanting to point out that even the dog noticed.
“Your Grace, when Mr. Sherlock approached us, you were obviously worried.”
He set down his coffee and rose to his feet. She wondered if he was trying to intimidate her, for he came closer and stared down at her.
“Miss Shelby, have you ever been a member of a noble household?”
“No, Your Grace.”
He seemed about to say something of a serious nature—and then it was as if a light went out behind his eyes, hiding what she wanted to see there. His irreverent grin was back, along with the leering way he looked at her.
“Then you’ve not perchance made a study of how a nobleman behaves?”
She blushed again, far too easily of late. “No, Your Grace.”
“Then you don’t really know what I was thinking, do you?”
“No, Your Grace.” She lifted her chin, beginning to grow angry because he was mocking her, and she was unable to stand up to him.
“So you understand that I don’t need to explain myself to you, my son’s governess.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she said stiffly.
He smiled, and she realized with shock that he was no longer staring into her eyes, but at her mouth. She’d allowed herself to be kissed several times, and she knew what that look from a man meant.
Long ago, when she was still the center of attention among her own class in London, she had responded with anticipation—from curiosity’s standpoint, of course. She had been kissed, and though it had been pleasant, the experience had been disappointing.
Now, as she looked at the duke, all she could do was be stunned by the pure feeling of anticipation that swept over her, through her, even though she still burned from his mockery. Appalled, she realized she wanted to taste him.
She backed away quickly. She would not let this happen. A man like the duke would take advantage of her and then release her from his employ.
“Will Stephen be joining you for luncheon, Your Grace?” She prided herself on how normal her voice sounded.
“I have an engagement elsewhere,” he said.
His lazy smile was gone, and she could not allow herself to be stared at a moment longer.
“Then I wish you a good afternoon,” she said, then escaped.
~oOo~
All afternoon, Meriel was torn between pride that she’d stood up for Stephen, and anger directed at herself for not realizing what having dinner with the duke every night would mean for her. She would have to suffer his attention, and devise ways to distract him without jeopardizing her employment.
Dressing for dinner was an exercise in futility—what was she to wear? Her best gowns were far too lovely for a governess to wear—especially a governess who was trying to stay unnoticed. She certainly would not allow the duke to think she was deliberately attracting his attention.
She finally chose a black silk gown that she had worn to her father’s funeral and dressed it up with a simple cameo at her throat.
From now on, this would be her only evening gown.
The few beautiful gowns she hadn’t wanted to part with remained concealed at the back of her wardrobe.
She wore her hair in the plain, severe style she now favored, pulled back off her face, with not a curl showing.
Beatrice the maid had stopped by earlier to tell Meriel when the duke expected her for dinner. Her attitude had remained cool, and Meriel hadn’t bothered to ask why. How could the servants be upset that Stephen needed to have dinner with his own father?
When she finally collected Stephen—looking adorable in his miniature frock coat and trousers—and went down to the dining room for dinner, the duke was being waited on by his footmen.
The first course was already being taken away.
Every click of silverware echoed in the cavernous room that could easily seat fifty.
Beatrice the serving maid was bent near the duke, wiping crumbs from the tablecloth. The girl didn’t meet Meriel’s gaze.
The duke finished chewing and regarded Meriel with amusement. “So punctuality is not one of Stephen’s lessons?”
Stephen, uncomprehending, stared between them.
Meriel felt her face redden. “Your Grace, we are five minutes early.”
“You are almost a half hour late, Miss Shelby.”
He did not seem angry, which was even more frustrating, because she was angry—angry with herself for believing the innocent-looking Beatrice, whose pretty face was flushed with excitement as she hovered near the duke.
Meriel bit her lip. So now was she in some sort of contest with a maid for the duke’s attention? Shouldn’t Beatrice care that it was Stephen she hurt more?
Stephen gripped her hand tighter, his happy face collapsing slowly into worry. “Father, did I do something wrong?”
“Of course not, Stephen,” the duke said. “Miss Shelby did.”
She flinched.
“But you have missed only the first course. Come eat with me.”
For the first time, Meriel wanted to flee a room because of embarrassment. She’d always prided herself on being punctual and prepared for any situation. She refused to let a jealous maid control her actions.