The Unconventional Governess. Jessica Nelson
“Dom is not my father.”
* * *
Dominic sat back against the pillows, palming the sore place in his ribs and containing a wince. No need to let the dragon nurse in the man’s profession see his discomfort. How he loved Louise, but she’d exacerbated his pain in more than one way.
He could not let Barbara have her, but somehow he must find a way to be well again. To be a fit guardian.
“Are you in pain, my lord?” Miss Gordon edged near his bed while the doctor did something at the makeshift table they’d set up at the side of the room. “Can I offer you relief?”
“Now you’re solicitous,” he muttered. What an inconvenience this entire fiasco was. He’d been invited to several parties this week, but had sent his regrets. His past friends would never understand his illness. “When my valet has freshened up, send him to me.”
“I shall do so.” Her brisk tone left no doubt she would. That serious look on her face...did she ever laugh or make merry? He squinted up at her, scrunching his nose in such a way as to draw the lightest bit of humor to her dark eyes.
She did not smile, but an attractive blush stained her delicate skin. Almost too delicate, as though she’d been ill. He studied her more thoroughly as she turned to the doctor, murmuring in a low tone. Yes, her clothes hung a tad too loosely about her frame. They were not of the best quality, though certainly better than what a maid would wear.
He would know, as in the past he had made it his business to ensure his household was dressed to represent him. An illusion of perfection that, until the accident, he’d taken great joy in creating.
A groan caught up to him, gurgling inside. Louise. Whatever was he going to do with her? She absolutely hated his sister, Barbara. But could he really raise her when he had no idea of his future? If Barbara discovered his epilepsy, then he’d have a battle on his hands.
As though hearing the subject of his thoughts, Miss Gordon came back carrying a drink. “Who is the child?”
“What is this?” He took the cup, peering at the foul-smelling brew.
“Tea with a tincture of herbs to soothe the pain you’re in. The girl?”
The reiterated question was rude, yet Dominic found himself amused by her plain speaking. He sipped the tea, ignoring the wretched taste for the sake of his aching muscles.
“She is my niece,” he finally said, meeting Miss Gordon’s frank gaze. “Bequeathed to me last year when her parents died.”
“Bequeathed? What a terrible thing to say.”
“One more mark against me shall not make a difference. It is all adding up, is it not?”
“What is?”
“Your blatant disapproval. You do not know me, and yet you find fault.”
“Nonsense. I simply asked about the girl.” She had the grace to look away from him, as though acknowledging a slight deviance from the truth. “Your niece is—”
“A terror, I know.”
“Not at all.” She looked up then, a warmth to her eyes. “Her manners are lacking, but her absence of guile is appealing and she obviously holds a deep love for you. I can commiserate with her, as my own parents died when I was about her age.”
Dominic did not know what to say. Perhaps this explained the odd accent, the plainness of her clothes despite her regal bearing. “What happened?”
Her eyes flickered. “A fire. My father pulled me from the house. He went in for my mother. Uncle William took me in afterward. I assisted him in the medical field. I have traveled around the world with him and intend to continue to do so.” There was a shadow to her features, and her gaze lowered.
Neither of her parents had come out of that house.
The implication soured the air between them. A clench of empathy stirred within, and Dominic then experienced the most curious urge to know what she was thinking. He could not recall ever wondering such a thing about a woman. What made her different? Perhaps her obvious lack of artifice. The simplicity of her presentation combined with the gentility of her manners? Or perhaps it was such a simple thing as her refusal to fawn over him.
His ego could not recall such a neglect.
She cleared her throat. “Where is your niece’s governess?”
“She unexpectedly quit.”
“The governess gave you no warning? No time to hire someone new?”
“It all became too much for her, I suppose. I myself would never wish to teach children.”
“You never know what you must resort to in difficult situations, my lord.” Henrietta’s smile looked suddenly sad.
“That reminds me... I shall need to write her a letter of recommendation. Could you have writing utensils sent up to me?”
“You would reward a governess who has quite effectively left you in the lurch?”
“Why, no, dear Miss Gordon, but neither will I punish her. No doubt she is already fretting over her future. She will perhaps wonder what is to become of herself? A genteel woman of good family and no money, fallen on hard times. Who will take her on now that she has left her current situation? Without a letter of recommendation...suffice it to say, England is a harsh place for those caught between the servant class and the peerage.”
“You are very astute for one who wears such expensive clothing.”
“Another jab.” His lips quirked. “Miss Gordon, I think you should count yourself very fortunate that you are not in need of employment, for that sharp-edged tongue of yours could very well be your downfall.”
“Fiddle faddle,” she rejoined, but an odd expression had crossed her face.
“And what is the meaning of your distaste of the finer things?” he continued, enjoying her discomfiture. He thought she might deserve a bit of perturbation. “I enjoy silk cravats and well-made clothing, and there is nothing wrong with such enjoyment. You would begrudge me my clothes, but have me refuse to recommend my governess? Even knowing that Louise can be trying? You’re a hard woman, Miss Gordon.”
She searched his face, and so he kept his features blasé. Her inability to correctly discern his intentions showed upon her features. “Perhaps one must be strong to survive in this world.”
“Hardness will certainly deflect any arrows to that armor you’re wearing,” he said easily.
Behind them, the apothecary coughed. Or perhaps it was an ill-disguised laugh. Scowling, Henrietta set her shoulders. “I shall return this evening to check your dressings.”
“Please do,” he called out, chuckling at the stiff way she left the room.
At the very least, she would amuse him while he contemplated how to find Louise a governess while searching for a cure for his illness.
What a positively bothersome man.
His outlandish comments followed Henrietta the rest of the day.
Tea with Lady Brandewyne that afternoon furthered her agitation. Only moments into the expected social tradition, and Lady Brandewyne reached into the pocket of her dress.
“A letter came for you today. From your uncle.” She held out a thick square, her eyes keen despite her advanced age. “I have news.”
“News,” Henrietta repeated, sounding just like her uncle’s pet parrot. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, rather like the jostling of organs when a ship took a sudden dip into boisterous waves.
“Would