Rake with a Frozen Heart. Marguerite Kaye

      When they had finished eating, Rafe stood up. ‘Bring your coffee. We’ll sit by the fire, it will be more comfortable there. Then you can tell me your tale.’

      Awkwardly arranging the multitudinous folds of silk around her in the wing-backed chair, Henrietta did as instructed. Across from her, Rafe St Alban disposed his long limbs gracefully, crossing one booted foot over the other. She could see the muscles of his legs move underneath the tight-fitting material of his knitted pantaloons. Such unforgiving cloth would not show to advantage on a stouter man. Or a thinner one. Or one less well built.

      ‘I’m a governess,’ she announced, turning her mind to the thing most likely to distract her from unaccustomed thoughts of muscled thighs, ‘to the children of Lady Ipswich, whose grounds march with yours.’

      ‘They do, but we are not on calling terms.’

      ‘Why not?’

      ‘It is of no relevance.’

      Anyone else would have been daunted by his tone, but Henrietta’s curiosity was aroused, which made her quite oblivious. ‘But you are neighbours, surely you must—is it because she is a widow? Did you perhaps call when her husband was alive?’

      ‘Lord Ipswich was more of an age with my father,’ Rafe said curtly.

      ‘He must have been quite a bit older than his wife, then. I didn’t realise. I suppose I just assumed….’

      ‘As you are wont to do,’ Rafe said sardonically.

      She looked at him expectantly. Her wide-eyed gaze was disconcerting. Her mouth was quite determined. Rafe sighed heavily, unused to dealing with such persistent questioning. ‘His lordship passed away under what one might call somewhat dubious circumstances, and I decided not to continue the acquaintance with his widow.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘Really,’ Rafe said, wishing he had said nothing at all. The poor innocent obviously had no idea of her employer’s colourful past and he had no intention of disclosing it to her. ‘How came you to be in Helen Ipswich’s employ?’ he asked, in an attempt to divert her.

      ‘There was a notice in The Lady. I happened to be looking for a position and Mama said that it all looked quite respectable, so I applied.’

      ‘Your previous position was terminated?’

      ‘Oh, no, this is my first experience as a governess, though not, I hope, my last,’ Henrietta said with one of her confiding smiles. ‘I am going to be a teacher, you see, and I wished to gain some practical experience before the school opened.’ Her smile faded. ‘Though from what Mama says in her latest letter, that will be quite some time away.’

      ‘Your mother is opening a school?’

      ‘Mama and Papa together—’ Henrietta frowned ‘—at least, that is the plan, but I have to confess their plans have a habit of going awry. The school is to be in Ireland, a charitable project for the poor. Papa is a great philanthropist, you see.’

      Henrietta waited expectantly, but Rafe St Alban did not seem to have a burning need to comment on Papa’s calling. ‘The problem is that while his intentions are always of the best, I’m afraid he is not very practical. He has more of a care for the soul than the body and cannot be brought to understand that, without sustenance and warmth, the poor have more pressing needs than their spiritual health, nor any interest in raising their minds to higher things. Like statues of St Francis. Or making a tapestry celebrating the life of St Anthony—he is the patron saint of the poor, you know. I told Papa that they would be better occupied making blankets,’ Henrietta said darkly, too taken up with her remembered resentment to realise that she was once again rambling, ‘but he did not take my suggestion kindly. Mama, of course, agreed with him. Mama believes that distracting the poor from their situation is the key, but honestly, how can one be distracted when one is starving, or worried that one is expecting another child when one cannot feed the other five already at home? The last thing one would want to do is stitch a figure of St Anthony voyaging to Portugal!’

      ‘I don’t expect many of the poor even know where Portugal is,’ Rafe said pointedly. Papa and Mama Markham sounded like the kind of do-gooders he despised.

      ‘Precisely,’ Henrietta said vehemently, ‘and even if they did—are you laughing at me?’

      ‘Would you mind if I were?’

      ‘No. Only I didn’t think what I was saying was particularly droll.’

      ‘It was the way you were saying it. You are very earnest.’

      ‘I have to be, else I will never be heard.’

      ‘So, while Mama and Papa pray for souls, you make soup—is that right?’

      ‘There is nothing wrong with being practical.’

      ‘No, there is not. If only there was more soup and less sermons in the world….’

      ‘My parents mean well.’

      ‘I’m sure they do, but my point is that meaning well is not the same as doing well. I come across many such people and—’

      ‘I was not aware you had a reputation for philanthropy.’

      ‘No, as you pointed out,’ Rafe said coldly, ‘my reputation primarily concerns my raking. Now you will tell me that one precludes the other.’

      ‘Well, doesn’t it?’ Henrietta demanded. Seeing his face tighten, she hesitated. ‘What I mean is, being a rake presupposes one is immoral and—’ She broke off as Rafe’s expression froze. ‘You know, I think perhaps I’ve strayed from the point a little. Are you saying that you are involved in charitable work?’

      She was clearly sceptical. He told himself it didn’t matter a damn what she thought. ‘I am saying the world is not as black and white as either you or your parents seem to think.’ His involvement with his own little project at St Nicholas’s was extremely important to him, but he did not consider it to be charitable. With some difficulty, Rafe reined in his temper. What was it about this beguiling female that touched so many raw nerves? ‘You were telling me about the school your parents want to set up.’

      ‘Yes.’ Henrietta eyed him uncertainly. ‘Have I said something to offend you?’

      ‘The school, Miss Markham.’

      ‘Well, if—when—it opens I intend to be able to contribute in a practical sense by teaching lessons.’ Practical lessons, she added to herself, remembering Mama’s curriculum with a shudder.

      ‘Lessons which you are trying out on Helen Ipswich’s brats?’

      ‘They are not brats,’ Henrietta said indignantly. ‘They are just high-spirited boys. I’m sure you were the same at their age, wanting to be out riding rather than attending to your studies, but—’

      ‘At their age, my father was actively encouraging me to go out riding and ignore my lessons,’ Rafe said drily. ‘My tendency to bury my head in a book sorely disconcerted him.’

      ‘Goodness, were you a scholar?’

      ‘Another thing that you consider incompatible with being a rake, Miss Markham?’

      He was looking amused again. She couldn’t keep pace with his mood swings, but she couldn’t help responding to his hint of a smile with one of her own. ‘Well, to cut a long story short, which I’m sure you’ll be most relieved to hear I intend to do, I like being a governess and I like the boys, even if their mama is a little—well—high-handed. Not that I really see that much of her, governesses clearly meriting scant attention. Anyway, I’m sure there are worse employers, and the boys do like me, and if—when—the school is opened, I am sure the experience will stand me in good stead. It is due to do so in three months or so, by which time my current charges are destined for boarding school, anyway, so