The Unconventional Governess. Jessica Nelson
see you are walking without pain,” she said promptly.
“Is that why you were studying me so closely?”
Heat rose to her cheeks. Oh, where was that infernal fan Lady Brandewyne had shoved into her hands earlier? “You are a former patient,” she said, hearing a primness in her voice that quite pleased her. Let him do with that what he will.
“Which is why I’ve meandered over. To allow you all the inspection you may need.” His eyes crinkled, laughing at her.
It was probably better she didn’t have a fan or else she’d be tempted to swat him with it, and then Lady Brandewyne might need use of her smelling salts.
His proximity was sending her pulse speeding along her veins. He wore a light cologne that teased her senses, and his fashionable attire did not scream dandy as loudly as she thought it might. He looked rather dashing, and that was enough reason for her to lift her chin and straighten her backbone.
“I am quite finished. You are in the pink of health. You may go now and continue your flirtations about the room.”
Those dratted crinkles deepened. “A good doctor would take more time with her patient.”
“Former patient, and I am not a doctor,” she huffed.
He inclined his head, accepting the response. Then he gestured about the room, his long, tanned fingers contrasting with the white crispness of his cuff. “So which man is to be the winner tonight?”
She followed the direction of his hand sweep, her gaze narrowing. “What do you mean?”
“Your conquest...your intended. Who is it to be?”
Henrietta tilted her head, trying to figure out how he’d discovered Lady Brandewyne’s shenanigans.
His expression changed. “Don’t tell me you are not aware?”
“Aware of what?”
“Ah, that cross, suspicious tone. It tells me all I need to know.”
“You’re beastly, Lord St. Raven. Quit speaking in riddles and be out with it.”
“The guests here are a curious mingle of friends and men looking for a wife.”
“There are plenty of unattached females.” But her stomach was sinking. “Are you saying you know that this affair was created solely to marry me off?”
“There were several tells.” He tipped his cup toward her. “Your clothes, for instance. You are very pretty in that frothy confection of blues and satins. And slightly overdressed.”
“Says the man whose boots are reflecting faces.”
“They are Hessians, Miss Gordon. Do not fret, they can’t compare to your pearl-encrusted slippers that positively scream ‘marry me.’”
“I did not pick out the shoes, and the ruffles are a bit overdone.”
“Men like ruffles.”
She glowered at him, but then cast a surreptitious peek about the room, and realized he was correct. Several gentleman were staring at her. Waiting, perhaps? For her to finish her conversation with an earl who, by everything she’d overheard this weekend, had no intention of ever settling down.
To make matters worse, she had not heard from her governess-post inquiries. That left her at the mercy of Lady Brandewyne. Refusing to attend the dowager’s events would be the height of rudeness, in light of all that her ladyship had done for her.
“You’re looking very fierce, Miss Gordon,” St. Raven said lightly. “Is marriage such a loathsome prospect?”
“I have other goals.”
“When do you rejoin your uncle?”
Henrietta slid him a look. He had the appearance of sincerity, the clear green of his eyes inquisitive. “Why are you spending your time talking to me? Lady Anne is near the orchestra. She’s a beauty. Go cast your charm about her.”
St. Raven’s hand flew up, as though warding off attack. “Sharp words, and they would deeply wound me if there had not been the admittance of charm to soften the blow.”
Henrietta rolled her eyes, but a laugh escaped. “Of course, that is all you heard.”
“I retain important statements,” he said solemnly.
“Obviously not—” Her laugh cut off as she spied the baronet heading toward her. “This is a disaster.”
“Future husband?” St. Raven puckered his lips in a way that was both funny and attractive. “A bit mule-faced if you ask me.”
“One cannot help the bone structure one is born with.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “We cannot all have symmetrical features, my lord, nor look as though we have been made to model for a Richard Crosse portrait.”
“You know your painters. I’m impressed. And I believe you’ve given me another compliment. Two in one evening are noteworthy.”
“Facts are not compliments.”
“Miss Gordon.” The baronet had reached them, a hopeful look upon his face. “Would you care to waltz with me?”
Henrietta felt the worst sort of panic at that point. Not only because she had not expected to waltz, considering it a fanciful and slightly inappropriate dance, but also because she hardly knew how. Before she could formulate a response, St. Raven moved forward.
“I’m afraid Miss Gordon has already promised this dance to me.”
* * *
Dominic slid his arm around Henrietta, guiding her to the floor as the musicians began the first strains of the waltz. They had hardly started when she stepped on his toe.
“You see,” he said, leaning close so that his lips were near her ear. She smelled of roses, of something soft and tender and sweet. “It is a good thing I wore sturdy boots to protect my delicate toes from your adventurous feet.”
“You are ridiculous, my lord.” A dusky hue invaded her cheeks.
Satisfied for some absurd reason, Dominic shrugged. “Better to be ridiculous than a snooze.”
“You should not have claimed a dance with me.”
“I was bored and you were near, and the waltz happens to be my favorite dance.”
They swept across the room, Henrietta doing her best to follow his lead. He slowed somewhat for her halting steps, intrigued. “It’s not often I meet a woman who cannot dance.”
“I have had no cause to practice,” she said in a small, stiff voice.
A hard part of him, one he did not realize existed, softened like butter on a warm day. He had no desire to cause her to feel badly about herself. “You have been saving lives, not spending your time learning silly dances.”
“Sometimes lives were saved.” A sad look overtook her face, and Dominic felt instant regret. His fingers tightened around hers and he was acutely aware of the slenderness of her body beneath his palm. “You never answered about when you plan to join your uncle?”
He swirled her past the bandstand, containing his wince when her knee knocked into his shin.
“I’m looking for a position somewhere. My uncle has decided to leave me in England, and I fear he hopes I’ll marry.”
“But you won’t.”
“No.” Her gaze flashed up to his for the first time since they began dancing. There were bits of gold hidden in the darkness of her eyes. They were forthright, honest eyes. As though no one had taught her the art of guile or flirtation.
“Whatever will you do?” The music was slowing, the song almost finished. He guided them to an alcove, fully visible to retain her impeccable reputation,