Rules for a Proper Governess
Page 59
“About every aspect of my bloody life.”
“Oh.” Her anger wound down a little. “Are they all like that? What do they want, whoever they are? Money?”
“No.” Sinclair shook his head. “He’s asked for nothing.”
“Ah, you know it’s a he, then?”
“I don’t know,” Sinclair said impatiently. “I’m only guessing.”
“Hmm.” Bertie’s look turned speculating. “Are you thinking a woman would write a longer letter and use her own hand? Not sure she would. When you get a threat like that, though, it’s usually for money, or for you to keep out of the way of some villain making money. But they haven’t asked for nothing?”
“No.” Sinclair took the key from his desk, locked the drawer, and dropped the key into his pocket. “We don’t know. I’ve given the letters to Fellows, and he’s trying to help me find out who’s writing them.”
“Bet he’s not getting anywhere. Scotland Yard blokes like murders and violent robberies, not taunting letters. But I could give it a go. What did the others say?”
Sinclair’s temper splintered at the thought of her tracking down whoever could think up such contemptible drivel. “You’ll not be giving anything a go. You’ll be taking my children to Scotland when Andrew is well enough to travel.”
Her look turned eager. “Andrew keeps telling me about your house there. It sounds ever so nice.”
“It is.” The loch and hills could soothe him, even if Sinclair had hated the place the first year or so without Daisy. Too much empty space. “Though we won’t have time to go there first. We’ll go straight to Kilmorgan for the Christmas gathering.”
“The kids too? The duke lets them come?”
“Oh, yes,” Sinclair said in dry tones. “Hart likes the house to be overflowing—McBrides, Mackenzies, Scrantons, Ramsays, Fellowses, and anyone Hart wants to sway to vote his way on whatever he’s got his party in a froth about. He crams them in.”
Bertie bit her lip, her frown charming. “Might be a bit difficult, that. I think the duchess likes me—at least, she’s kind to me. Lord Ian said he thought his wife would like me too. But you’re saying there’ll be English aristos there?”
Sinclair felt a modicum of relief at the change in topic. “Yes, and I don’t give a hang what they think of you. They should be grateful I’ve found someone who can keep Andrew away from the matches.”
“It’s not the aristos I’m worried about. I think I can learn enough to fool your brother-in-law, and maybe other gents and ladies who don’t know me, but if real governesses are there, I won’t be able to fool them. I’m just a girl from the backstreets, and they’ll know it.”
Sinclair smoothed back a lock of Bertie’s hair, mussed from his bed. “We all have to come from somewhere.”
“Not in England. You’re either born with a silver spoon in your mouth or in the gutter, and you don’t cross the line. A working-class man can learn how to make a lot of money, but everyone knows he’s still from the gutter. The sign of a true gentleman is that he don’t . . . doesn’t . . . do any work.”
“But I’m not English, am I?” Sinclair traced her cheek. “A fact too many people forget. The next head of clan McBride might be eking out a living in the gutters of some industrial city until enough heirs in his way pass on. Will he be any less able to lead the clan for all that? No—he’ll probably do better than someone born to do nothing all day. Do you know what we McBrides call a man who thinks he’s too much of a gentleman to work? Lazy.”
Her smile returned, lighting her eyes. “I like that.”
“They don’t call me the Scots Machine because I let others labor for me.”
Something sly entered her smile. “I could think of another reason for that name.”
Sinclair stared at her a moment, not understanding. Then he felt his cheeks burn. “Don’t embarrass me. I was . . . needy.”
“More like greedy.”
The burn worked its way down his body, making his arousal, which hadn’t much deflated, grow rigid again. “Greedy, was I?” Sinclair wrapped his fingers around her loose hair and gently tugged her closer. “I think I remember you wanting plenty.”
“Couldn’t help it.” Bertie slid her arms around him, her body under her loosened clothes warm and welcoming. “Could I?”
The desk was right there. It was covered with papers, but Sinclair shoved them to the floor and lifted Bertie onto it. Her unlaced and unbuttoned garments came away easily, baring her body to him. The lamplight touched her br**sts, the ni**les becoming a dark rose red as they tightened for him. The light brushed the hair between her legs, which he could see was already damp. Sinclair let his dressing gown drop to the floor, his hardness tight as he stepped na**d between her thighs.
Bertie reached for him, her teasing smile becoming languid as he touched her. They fit together so well, Sinclair thought, as he eased her h*ps forward and himself into her again.
The soft sound Bertie made caused Sinclair’s need to flare white hot. Soon they were rocking together, hands grappling, bodies flushed and streaked with sweat. Sinclair gave himself up to the fire of the moment, as her heat, and the completeness of her, welcomed him back.
Bertie barely made it back to her room before the maids and Peter started their morning rounds to deliver coal and stir fires. Bertie was flushed with warmth as she peeled off her clothes, even though her room was cool, only embers in the grate.
“Oh.” Her anger wound down a little. “Are they all like that? What do they want, whoever they are? Money?”
“No.” Sinclair shook his head. “He’s asked for nothing.”
“Ah, you know it’s a he, then?”
“I don’t know,” Sinclair said impatiently. “I’m only guessing.”
“Hmm.” Bertie’s look turned speculating. “Are you thinking a woman would write a longer letter and use her own hand? Not sure she would. When you get a threat like that, though, it’s usually for money, or for you to keep out of the way of some villain making money. But they haven’t asked for nothing?”
“No.” Sinclair took the key from his desk, locked the drawer, and dropped the key into his pocket. “We don’t know. I’ve given the letters to Fellows, and he’s trying to help me find out who’s writing them.”
“Bet he’s not getting anywhere. Scotland Yard blokes like murders and violent robberies, not taunting letters. But I could give it a go. What did the others say?”
Sinclair’s temper splintered at the thought of her tracking down whoever could think up such contemptible drivel. “You’ll not be giving anything a go. You’ll be taking my children to Scotland when Andrew is well enough to travel.”
Her look turned eager. “Andrew keeps telling me about your house there. It sounds ever so nice.”
“It is.” The loch and hills could soothe him, even if Sinclair had hated the place the first year or so without Daisy. Too much empty space. “Though we won’t have time to go there first. We’ll go straight to Kilmorgan for the Christmas gathering.”
“The kids too? The duke lets them come?”
“Oh, yes,” Sinclair said in dry tones. “Hart likes the house to be overflowing—McBrides, Mackenzies, Scrantons, Ramsays, Fellowses, and anyone Hart wants to sway to vote his way on whatever he’s got his party in a froth about. He crams them in.”
Bertie bit her lip, her frown charming. “Might be a bit difficult, that. I think the duchess likes me—at least, she’s kind to me. Lord Ian said he thought his wife would like me too. But you’re saying there’ll be English aristos there?”
Sinclair felt a modicum of relief at the change in topic. “Yes, and I don’t give a hang what they think of you. They should be grateful I’ve found someone who can keep Andrew away from the matches.”
“It’s not the aristos I’m worried about. I think I can learn enough to fool your brother-in-law, and maybe other gents and ladies who don’t know me, but if real governesses are there, I won’t be able to fool them. I’m just a girl from the backstreets, and they’ll know it.”
Sinclair smoothed back a lock of Bertie’s hair, mussed from his bed. “We all have to come from somewhere.”
“Not in England. You’re either born with a silver spoon in your mouth or in the gutter, and you don’t cross the line. A working-class man can learn how to make a lot of money, but everyone knows he’s still from the gutter. The sign of a true gentleman is that he don’t . . . doesn’t . . . do any work.”
“But I’m not English, am I?” Sinclair traced her cheek. “A fact too many people forget. The next head of clan McBride might be eking out a living in the gutters of some industrial city until enough heirs in his way pass on. Will he be any less able to lead the clan for all that? No—he’ll probably do better than someone born to do nothing all day. Do you know what we McBrides call a man who thinks he’s too much of a gentleman to work? Lazy.”
Her smile returned, lighting her eyes. “I like that.”
“They don’t call me the Scots Machine because I let others labor for me.”
Something sly entered her smile. “I could think of another reason for that name.”
Sinclair stared at her a moment, not understanding. Then he felt his cheeks burn. “Don’t embarrass me. I was . . . needy.”
“More like greedy.”
The burn worked its way down his body, making his arousal, which hadn’t much deflated, grow rigid again. “Greedy, was I?” Sinclair wrapped his fingers around her loose hair and gently tugged her closer. “I think I remember you wanting plenty.”
“Couldn’t help it.” Bertie slid her arms around him, her body under her loosened clothes warm and welcoming. “Could I?”
The desk was right there. It was covered with papers, but Sinclair shoved them to the floor and lifted Bertie onto it. Her unlaced and unbuttoned garments came away easily, baring her body to him. The lamplight touched her br**sts, the ni**les becoming a dark rose red as they tightened for him. The light brushed the hair between her legs, which he could see was already damp. Sinclair let his dressing gown drop to the floor, his hardness tight as he stepped na**d between her thighs.
Bertie reached for him, her teasing smile becoming languid as he touched her. They fit together so well, Sinclair thought, as he eased her h*ps forward and himself into her again.
The soft sound Bertie made caused Sinclair’s need to flare white hot. Soon they were rocking together, hands grappling, bodies flushed and streaked with sweat. Sinclair gave himself up to the fire of the moment, as her heat, and the completeness of her, welcomed him back.
Bertie barely made it back to her room before the maids and Peter started their morning rounds to deliver coal and stir fires. Bertie was flushed with warmth as she peeled off her clothes, even though her room was cool, only embers in the grate.
