two

Dominic

This was only the fifth governess he was interviewing, and by the looks of her, she was every part as unsuitable as the rest.

The duke of Ashton brought a slender white finger to his temple. This was going to take longer that he had expected upon undertaking the task. His headache was worsening by the minute.

Why was this so blasted complicated? He'd endeavored to hoist the task of hiring a chaperone for his ward to his secretary, Mr. Frost, but the first he'd hired had proved inadequate within as many days, fleeing his house in tears.

Ashton grimaced to himself.

The chit was nothing more than a spoilt, selfish babe, entirely unfit for genteel company as of yet, but that was hardly his problem. Was it too much to ask that he'd find a drab lady of forty years of age or thereabouts, to accompany her to the milliner's and teach her to hold her tongue?

All he wanted was to be left in peace to continue his mindless existence of sport, pleasure and the occasional glass of port. Even these occupations were, of course, beginning to lose their luster, still they were a way to pass one's earthly days, especially if one found oneself neither inclined for company nor delighting in it, disillusioned of society's manners, and with a vastness of wealth at one's disposal.

Ashton placed his hands on the heavy oak desk that smelled faintly of old paper and tobacco. Daylight was streaming through the spacious windows, and outside a bird was trilling annoyingly in the chilly sunshine. The girl in front of him watched him, silent, waiting to be spoken to. She appeared neither eager nor indifferent, and yet her steady, honest gaze gave him a feeling that something wasn't quite right about her.

His grace stole a glance at the paper bearing her credentials.

"Miss Devon, is it?" he asked coolly. "Miss Beatrice Devon, of Darbyshire?"

The girl -she was scarcely more than that- nodded seriously. She hardly knew enough of him to be able to understand what one of these icy looks of his meant. She would find out soon enough.

Her appearance was rather pleasing to the eye; she was short and smallish looking, a bit on the slender side, but her cheeks were blooming with the pink color of health and her neck was long, slender and swanlike. Her dark curls were meticulously combed back on her head, trying to give her face a look of severity which eluded it, still in general her appearance gave off a muted air of elegance. She wasn't dressed elegantly though or, he marked as he took note of her frayed pelisse, even respectably.

"Miss Devon," he repeated, "I would be obliged to you if you were to stop wasting my time. You are clearly ill-suited for this position."

At that, he saw a spark of fire in her warm, clear eyes. "You cannot have read my credentials," she answered with a touch of authority in her voice that he hadn't expected.

"Oh but I did," he retorted. "The question is, did you?"

"I beg your pardon?" She looked perplexed, and perhaps even charming, if a fellow was inclined to admire this sort of innocent, waif-like look in a woman. He himself wasn't. He tapped a long finger to the papers in front of him.

"Or, can you read it, I should say?"

The girl appeared unfazed by his extraordinary question. She met his eyes unwaveringly. "You appear to have doubts," she replied calmly, "as to my reading abilities."

"Well, how else am I to explain your presence here? I placed an advertisement for a chaperone for my ward, a young… Miss of about sixteen years of age. I assume you are not much older than that yourself?"

"I will be nineteen this April, your grace," the girl answered with dignity. "And I humbly presume to tell you that I would be the best choice for a companion and chaperone for your young ward."

"Pray, enlighten me," Ashton dripped with sarcasm.

She inclined her head as though he had spoken with true civility. "I understand, your grace," she began gently, and for the first time Ashton realized that the girl might be young -too young indeed- but she had more grace and refinement in the way she spoke and carried herself than most ladies of his acquaintance. "I understand that the young girl in your care is in somewhat difficult… circumstances."

"She is unmanageable," he said simply.

The girl's eyes sparkled with appreciation at his simple statement. "Would then not a chaperone closer to her own age be viewed as more of a companion, and therefore be more willingly listened to and taken into account?"

The duke considered for a minute. There was some truth in her words. "And what makes you think, a mere child yourself, that you are the person she will listen to, even if I cannot inspire her respect?"

The girl's mouth trembled with a secret laughter. Ashton's cool exterior dropped like a cloak. Was she, a mere slip of a girl, laughing at him? But the expression disappeared from her face immediately, and he persuaded himself he had imagined it.

"You may take me on for a week, as a trial period," she pronounced majestically, as though she was the one doing him a favor.

His grace stifled a chuckle. He hadn't laughed in so long, his throat was rusty with it.

"Wait outside," he waved to the girl, and she obeyed at once.

That was more that the other ones had done so far, he thought. She was pleasing to look at, somewhat witty and obedient. Her age, appearance and birth, however, were so much against her that it was, of course, out of the question that he employ her in his household.