To Love a Lord (7 page)

A smile played about Jane’s lips. It appeared her rainbow emptied out into the Marquess of Waverly’s home and, at the end of this particular battle, she’d have her riches—and then she’d be done with her father, the marquess, and any other arrogant, commanding nobleman.

“Mrs. Munroe?”

A gasp escaped her, and she spun around. The butler stood at the doorway. She relaxed. “Joseph,” she greeted, and with her momentary victory over the marquess and his intentions to send her off, embarrassment crept in at the boldness in commandeering the marquess’ breakfast room.

“As you will be a member of His Lordship’s staff, would you permit me to show you about the townhouse?”

If the marquess had his way, there was little reason for Jane to familiarize herself with any part of his lavish townhome except for the black front door with its dragon knocker. “I would be appreciative,” she said, instead.

He inclined his head, and then without waiting to see whether she followed, started from the room. Jane hurried after the older servant. Joseph moved at an unexpectedly quick clip for one of his advanced years. Every so often, his left leg hitched. That halting movement allowed her to fall into step beside him.

He grimaced as though in pain.

A twinge of sympathy tugged at her heart, and with it an equally strong loathing for the marquess, who’d not permit this man a deserved retirement. She opened her mouth to assure Joseph that she was not in need of an escort, but then he shot her a challenging glance. Jane promptly closed her mouth. Too often she’d been the object of people’s pity. She’d not subject the kindly servant to that emotion.

She would, however, use the opportunity to find out more of her employer and his willful sister. “You have been in the marquess employ long, Joseph?” she asked as they moved down the thin-carpeted corridors.

“I’ve been in service to the marquess and his family for forty years, Mrs. Munroe.”

Was it loyalty to the man’s father that kept him here? Periodically, Joseph motioned to a room—a parlor, a study—acquainting Jane with her new, temporary, but hopefully not
too
temporary residence. “And His Lordship requires you to continue at your post?”

He shot her a sidelong look. “The current Marquess of Waverly has offered me my retirement. I choose to continue in my role,” he murmured. Before she could ask the questions that sprung forth to her lips, he motioned to a closed door. “The library, Mrs. Munroe.”

It did not escape her notice that he sought to divert her questions away from the Marquess of Waverly. Hmm. The man inspired loyalty in his servants. She furrowed her brow and considered how such a rigid, unbending, and unfeeling man could rouse anything but fear and annoyance in a person. It mattered not. The person who would ultimately decide her fate was none other than the gentleman’s sister. As they turned at the end of the corridor, Jane put another question to the servant. “And what of Lady Chloe?” she asked. “Is there anything you might tell me of Lady Chloe?” Anything that would prove useful in winning over the likely spoiled, young lady.

A frown tugged his lips downward. The kindly gentleman grew a good deal less kind when presented questions about his employer or the man’s kin. “She is an honorable, spirited young lady.”

Spirited. There was that word again. And honorable. Together, two unexpected words assigned any of Mrs. Belden’s former students.

As they moved through the house, Jane committed the long halls and corridors to memory. Having been employed in the homes of other powerful nobleman, she’d learned to appreciate possible paths of escape. What seemed an interminable amount of time later, they reached Jane’s chambers. “His Lordship would likely afford you the use of the rooms, Mrs. Munroe.” She highly doubted that. Not when he was likely plotting, even now, the most efficient way to have her removed from his home.

With a murmur of thanks, Jane stood staring down the hall, long after Joseph had taken his leave, wondering at the austere nobleman who commanded such loyalty.

G
abriel stood at the corner of the darkened library, his gaze turned out to the quiet streets below. The half-moon that hung in the sky cast a soft glow upon the cobbled roads, illuminating the deep puddles left after days of cool, London rain. He looped his hands behind his back, following a lone, slow moving carriage as it rattled past. His sister still lay abed, incapacitated with her megrims. Oftentimes, the episodes would last the course of a day. In rare cases, they would last longer. Through each, he suffered the blame that came from his sister’s suffering.

He laid his forehead against the cool windowpane and took each lash of guilt. What manner of brother did not stop vicious attacks upon a mere child? The honorable one, the younger one, nearly took their father apart with his bare hands. What had Gabriel done? Nothing that mattered. A hungering thirst for a drink filled him, consuming and desperate. He strode over to the sideboard, made his selection, and decanter and snifter in hand, he then carried them to the leather winged back chair set up in the corner of the room. Gabriel claimed a seat and shifted the burden in his hands. He filled his glass to the rim and set the decanter at his feet.

The door handle clicked and he stilled. Shrouded in the dark of the room, he peered at the entrance. A frown formed on his lips as the tart-mouthed, insolent Mrs. Munroe slipped into the room. He should excuse himself. At the very least, he should announce himself. Instead, he remained immobile and took in the companion sent from Mrs. Belden as she stole a quick glance about the library. Then, she closed the door behind her and stopped. With the moon’s pale glow, he studied her. She caught her too-full lower lip between her teeth as though warring with herself over the decision to remain, but with a slight shake of her head, moved to the long row of shelving.

The amber contents of his glass forgotten, he continued to study the woman who, even after his dismissal, had challenged her way into staying in his home. She trailed the tips of her fingers over the leather volumes and paused on a black book. Gabriel squinted but the title was lost to the darkness of the room. Interest stirred as the young woman hesitated, tugged a book free, and then opened it. Head bent, with her attention fixed upon the tome, he used the opportunity to study her. What did one such as Mrs. Munroe read? And who was she? Stammering, fearful miss? Or bold-spirited, insolent minx?

With deliberate movements, he took a slow sip of his drink. All the while, the woman with her nose buried in the pages continued reading, unaware of his presence. For if she were, she’d have likely fled long ago. He’d wager she favored books about propriety and decorum and all things proper. After all, what else interested a woman who served as a stern instructor at an esteemed finishing school? On the heel of that was another question: How did a woman enter into such a position?

“Good evening, Mrs. Munroe.” He found an inordinate amount of enjoyment in her startled shriek. She flung her arms up and the volume sailed from her fingertips and landed at her feet.

“Ouch.”

Or more precisely on her feet.

He set his snifter down on the side table and stood. Despite the darkened room, crimson blazed upon Mrs. Munroe’s pale cheeks. He resisted the urge to smile as she hopped up and down on the uninjured toes in a move that was not at all proper and certainly not fitting behavior of one of Mrs. Belden’s distinguished instructors.

The lady chose that inopportune moment to glance at him. She narrowed her eyes. “Do you find enjoyment in another person’s pain?” she snapped.

Her words swiftly killed any of his earlier humor. A man who still bore the scars upon his back, he could never delight in another’s pain. “Forgive me. It was not my intention to laugh at you.”

“What was your intention, then?” she challenged. He gave his head a wry shake. Spiritless, indeed. “I was struck by the honesty of your reaction.”

The lady could have, and likely should have, taken those words as an insult. She peered at his face a long while and then shocked him with her slow nod. “I thought I was alone.” Ah there, the faint accusatory edge, words that danced around a reproach, but remained just shy of an insult.

Yes, pairing this one with Chloe would be dangerous for all manner of reasons. Fortunately, he’d wager all his holdings when presented with the option of retaining one of Mrs. Belden’s dragons or being spared a companion, if even temporarily, she’d choose the latter.

Poor Mrs. Munroe did not have a hope. As one who’d ceased believing in hope long ago, he recognized as much. The bespectacled miss, however, clearly still retained that useless sentiment. “Are you enjoying your stay, Mrs. Munroe?”
Your very brief stay.
He’d delight in packing this one up in a carriage, any carriage, closing the door, and having her ride off to Mrs. Belden’s where she belonged.

The color deepened on her cheeks. “Joseph indicated I might visit the library. I…” Her words trailed off. “Forgive me. I will take my leave.” She turned to go.

“Mrs. Munroe?” The quietly spoken words halted her retreat. She stiffened and turned back.

“My lord?” She darted the tip of her tongue out and traced the seam of her bow-shaped lips.

He followed that innocent, yet maddeningly erotic gesture. An agonized groan built in his chest. God help him, he was noticing plain, drab-skirt-wearing Mrs. Munroe.

“Of course you may use the library, or any other room, for as long you are here.”

“Thank you,” she murmured and dropped a curtsy, heightening the awareness of the station difference between them.

Gabriel studied her, this contradictory creature. One moment, hissing and snapping like a cornered cat in the kitchens, the next shy and hesitant. Having lived his life erecting barriers, he recognized Mrs. Munroe—the woman without a Christian name had crafted a carefully constructed facade. “How did you come to be an instructor at Mrs. Belden’s?” It was hard to say who was the more shocked by his unexpected inquiry—he or Mrs. Munroe with her gaping mouth.

She wet her lips and cast a quick glance about. “I’d venture the way any woman comes to find herself in such a post.”

The deliberate vagueness of her response didn’t escape his notice. It did, however, rouse his curiosity. “And how is that?” he asked the question of a genuine desire to know, even as he could not sort why it mattered that he knew—just that it did.

Mrs. Munroe scoffed. “I thought you didn’t care?”

He cocked his head and a frown formed on his lips. The woman possessed a deep cynicism for one so young.

She waved a hand about. “Oh, come,” she said. “Surely you’ll not feign any concern on my account, my lord.”

Gabriel folded his arms at his chest and winged an eyebrow upward. “I assure you, Mrs. Munroe, I do not feign interest on anyone’s account.”

“It is, as you said,” she lifted her shoulders in a slight shrug. “I am not your concern. After all, you’ve given me a letter and sent me on my way. My position with Mrs. Belden is secure and your obligation is concluded.”

Those words casually tossed out to his butler, and overheard by this woman, roused guilt in his chest. How must Mrs. Munroe have perceived those words? He’d spent the course of his life caring for, nay worrying about, the survival of his siblings and mother. “I meant no insult,” he said at last. However, there was no room within the deliberately small circle of those dependent upon him for anyone else’s happiness. But how should that truth appear to this woman?

She tipped her chin up at the mutinous angle he’d learned upon meeting her meant she prepared for verbal battle. “There was no insult there, my lord. There was a lack of feeling. Regard. Decency.”

“On what do you base your charge?” That terse question silenced her. Tired of her allegations that would paint him as a self-absorbed nobleman who cared about no one, he took a step toward her, and Mrs. Munroe retreated. “You would cast aspersions upon my character and for what? Because I met you, interviewed you, and found you wholly unsuitable to care for my sister?” He continued walking and with each movement, she backed away. Did she believe he intended her harm? At that truth, fury roiled all the deeper within his gut for altogether different reasons than the unfavorable opinion she’d developed of him. He abruptly stopped. “Should I have placed your pride in your capabilities as a companion above all else? Including that of my own sister’s needs and interests?” A mere handbreadth separated them and he expected her to retreat.

Instead, she remained rooted to the floor, her chest heaving. With fear? Anger? Desire? Where would
that
thought come from?

Then he dipped his gaze lower to her fathomless, blue stare and, God help him, if her eyes were water he’d gladly lose himself within their depths. He swallowed reflexively and urged his feet to carry him away from her but made the mistake of lowering his eyes further to her lush, full lips. No companion should have a mouth such as hers. With a pained groan, he lowered his head, praying she’d slap him in fury, but hoping more that she allowed him to explore the soft contours of her perfectly bow-shaped lips.

But as he touched his mouth to hers, she remained still. A slight, shuddery intake of her honey-scented breath hinted at her desire. Encouraged by that breathy sigh, he deepened the kiss.

She stiffened, and for an agonizing moment he thought she’d wrench herself free of his embrace but then she angled her head and accepted his kiss with a tentativeness that hinted at innocence and belied the
Mrs
. before her name. He moved his lips in a slow, determined path, brushing his mouth over the corner of her lips. “Surely you have a name?” How did he not know her name? How, when he knew she tasted of honey and smelled as though she’d been traipsing through fields of lavender?

“J-Jane,” she rasped and tipped her head back to aid him in his quest.

At the satiny softness of her long, graceful neck, Gabriel’s heart thundered in his ears. Or was that her wildly beating pulse under his lips? “Jane,” he repeated back, exploring the taste of her name. Short and yet, strength melded with the faintest hint of softness to that one syllable. “Perfect,” he whispered, taking her lips once more. It suited her in every way. He folded his arms about her, drawing her close and taking her lips under his again. A startled cry escaped her. He stiffened and drew back just as Jane punched him. Her fist connected solidly with his nose.