Chapter 7 #2
The youngest marquess in the ton, Lord Hartford was in his third decade of life and had eyes the color of molten chocolate.
She had only been near enough to hear him speak once, at a country ball three years ago.
Ivy had witnessed an old servant woman spill a glass of port on the marquess’s coat sleeve, and Ivy had frozen to the spot, terrified of what would come next: his face would redden and his eyes would glitter with malice.
He would strike as swiftly as a snake and leave the servant’s cheek bruised.
But that had not happened. Ivy had watched with astonishment as Lord Hartford had kindly begged the woman not to fret, and then had asked the host to borrow a coat.
Hartford had treated the servant with more kindness than Ivy’s father had treated his own wife.
In that moment, Ivy had known that if she were forced to marry, she wanted her husband to be Lord Hartford.
Not because of his title or visage—although he was beautiful in the way of a painting or a sunset, he had not once made her heart flutter—but because he was kind.
Unfortunately, Hartford was a marquess while she was not even a lady.
Her dowry was painfully modest, and there was the not-so-insignificant complication that he did not even know she existed.
One of the girls squawked with surprise as a gust of wind ripped through the clearing, pulling leaves from the trees and cycloning them over their heads. They raced around, trying to snatch them from midair.
Brackley cleared his throat and rubbed the back of his neck, pulling her from her memories. “I do not think your brother—Barnes—would be pleased to know you are here.”
“Why?”
His jaw clenched. “Our friendship did not end on the best of terms.”
She dearly wanted to ask more even though it was not her place as a governess to pry into the viscount’s personal relationships. Then again, the Dove had asked her to discover as much as she could about his character.
“Barnes can be difficult,” she said cautiously, waiting to see if he would take the subtle invitation to expand on his rift with her brother, but he remained silent. Realizing he was not going to elaborate, she added, “Fortunately, he does not know about my position here, nor does he need to.”
Brackley’s lips twitched at her defiance. “Very well. There is one other matter I wish to discuss. Have you… have you noticed anything out of the ordinary when it comes to the dowager?”
“Out of the ordinary? I did see her use a spoon to eat a piece of lamb. ’Twas quite awkward.”
Brackley gave her a frustrated look. “No. I am asking if perhaps she seems focused on a particular goal to you.”
Ivy knew exactly what he was hinting at, but she could not help teasing him a bit more. He was so grumpy and gruff all the time that she found perverse pleasure in needling him. She nodded solemnly. “Yes, indeed. We are all aware of Lady Brackley’s plans.”
He inhaled sharply.
She lowered her voice to a whisper and canted her head. “The lady despises the drapes in the breakfast room, and I do believe she is plotting to have them ruined.”
Brackley’s green eyes met her dancing gaze. “Are you playing with me, Miss Bennett?”
“I am simply answering your uncomfortable inquiry, my lord.”
He made a rumbling noise, never removing his eyes from her face.
His presence was imposing, his height blocking out the thin autumn sun at his back, and yet Ivy did not feel a single flicker of fear.
A man who treated his eight sisters with care and compassion was not the sort of man a woman had to fear.
“I must warn you that it is I who prefer to do the playing.”
Ivy’s breath hitched at the dark undertone of his voice. He had not said anything untoward exactly, but the way he had imbued his words with a hint of something mysterious and forbidden made her mouth go dry and her heart skip a beat.
“What… what do you like to play, my lord?”
Olivia raced up to them and held out a fat red maple leaf to the viscount. “Brother, this is for you!”
Brackley tore his eyes from Ivy and accepted the leaf.
Ivy staggered backward as if she had been released from a spell.
There was something intoxicating about Owen Brackley’s intensity, something that made a woman feel as if an earthquake could not shake his attention from her.
Perhaps that was what his Prussian mistress had found so compelling.
Once Olivia had given Brackley a leaf, all the girls decided they must as well.
It could have turned into a lesson on different tree types and other useful information, but when Octavia threw a handful of leaves at her older sister, a gleam entered the viscount’s eyes.
Before Ivy could protest, and she had to be honest, it would have been a token protest at best, he was engaged in a leaf fight with all eight girls.
They screamed and giggled as he roared and swung them around, leaves showering them in a fall of gold, red, and russet.
Ivy watched from the side, a smile hovering on her lips.
She could not believe this man, who chased a three-year-old through the leaves and tickled her until she collapsed with laughter, had anything to do with the hysteria in London.
His prior visits to the affected women in London had to be a terrible coincidence, and she needed to prove it.