Chapter 3

3

W hy , oh why , did she have such a penchant for getting herself in trouble?

Phoebe stared at the pattern of scrolling vines covering the Aubusson rug beneath her feet, unable to stop her half-boots from making anxious little taps. Her back was wedged, straight as a riding crop, against the plush velvet sofa, while her fingers gripped its ornately gilded arm.

If her heart didn’t skitter so vehemently, perhaps she would laugh at herself and her latest tangle. At the way she’d fled the vicarage seeking some kind of refuge and had instead ended up in a drawing room at Beaumont Manor , awaiting an audience with the marquess.

Her mind raced in circles, taking her back through all the steps that had led her to this point. The arrival of the damnable letters. Her desperate run without a course. And then, the sight that had stopped her in her tracks.

With the way her vision blurred from the glare of sunlight and the sheen of her tears, she’d nearly missed the flash of white rushing in her direction as she bounded through a field, heading north of the village. However , a well-timed blink had pushed the white streak into her awareness, making her realize that just as determinedly as she raced away from Bowden , the streak hurtled toward it.

A streak, she’d determined after another series of blinks, that was actually a girl. That’s when Phoebe had halted, bending to catch her breath as her gaze remained on the scene and recognition set in. Not because she’d ever encountered the girl before, but because the closer she came, the more it had become apparent that her dark eyes were red-rimmed and haunted, and her face was drawn. In the unknown girl, Phoebe had seen herself: someone desperately trying to flee a world crumbling around her.

The girl had kept her mouth set in a determined line, as if nothing and no one could stop her. But at the same time, it was impossible to miss the way her thin shoulders sagged with exhaustion, and that her legs jerked unsteadily while she ran, as if she might collapse.

Naturally , Phoebe had called out to her as she passed, trying not to startle at the girl’s labored breathing. But fatigue or not, the girl had barely looked at her, seeming resolute in her mission to keep going.

Fortunately , a familiar meow had sounded at that exact moment, the timing of which couldn’t have been better. Phoebe alone may have proved insufficient enticement to stop the girl, but the cat’s cry made her pause, and her huge, sad eyes followed Phoebe’s across the field until they locked upon an orange mass of fur sauntering out from behind the trunk of a lone elm.

Aunt Harriet and Uncle Martin had disdained the large stray tabby that had started loitering around the vicarage, yowling insistently for scraps of food. Phoebe , on the other hand, had taken pity on the creature and given in to its demands, thus earning her a fast friend.

And allowing her a foray into befriending the girl, too. After Phoebe had uttered a few more gentle words of coaxing, the girl consented to follow her to the tree, where they both sank against the trunk so Phoebe could introduce the cat. Marigold , she’d called the animal for the color of her fur.

From there, the girl had revealed little about herself beyond her name, spoken in a low, toneless voice. Emily . However , it mattered to Phoebe not a whit, given that Emily , who looked even frailer up close, had been content to sit with her, sucking long mouthfuls of air into her lungs until she’d relaxed enough that her fingers no longer trembled when she stroked Marigold’s fur. Eventually , she’d even responded with enthusiasm to Phoebe’s stories about the cat, asking to hear more about the mischievous creature’s antics. An explanation of whatever had compelled Emily to run, and where her home was, could wait. Phoebe knew full well that these weren’t always easy topics to discuss, and she’d had no intention of prodding the girl before she felt ready to divulge the information freely.

Yes , it mattered not a whit until a horse had come thundering down the road and into the field, targeting their peaceful tree. Until a long-ago memory of broad shoulders and hair that glinted auburn in the sun had flashed in her head. Until that memory came to life, except instead of barreling away like a flash, the marquess had stopped to stare at them, making her heart pound out of her chest.

Even then, she’d been slow to make the connection. She’d watched the odd exchange between him and Emily , had answered his questions while hardly knowing what she said. But not until he’d uttered the words— I am in your debt, Miss Windham , for seeing to my daughter —had the identity of the girl she’d stumbled upon truly hit her.

What were the chances?

Furthermore , what were the chances that such an unlikely encounter would end with a request—no, a command—to go to the marquess’s home and listen to a proposition ?

She unclenched her fingers from the sofa arm and reached for her teacup, taking a sip of the lukewarm liquid. She could have said no. Should have said no. Yet there was something about the way Emily — Lady Emily had nodded and looked up at her with that sad, all-too-familiar expression that made refusal impossible. And something, in turn, about the way Lord Rockliffe had looked at his daughter. So brief Phoebe had nearly missed it, but the unfettered relief that flooded his features when he discovered the girl, before it became masked by his stony exterior, had been clear.

She drained the contents of her cup, although the dryness in her throat didn’t dissipate. It had proved disquieting enough to take tea in the drawing room with Lady Emily , Marigold , and the housekeeper, Mrs . Connelly , where not only was there no sign of the marquess, but no one so much as mentioned his name. However , having to sit and wait in silence, now that Mrs . Connelly had declared Lady Emily overtired and whisked her from the room, promising that Lord Rockliffe would be in directly, took her nerves to a whole other level.

She forced her feet to still against the rug, bringing her eyes to the ormolu clock and painted porcelain vases upon the mantel. To the gold-tasseled curtains framing the window beside it. To the terrace doors on the adjacent wall, whose gleaming panes of glass gave a perfect view of the sprawling greenery beyond, and even a little hint of the crystal blue lake?—

Oh , why had she turned her head that way? And why, despite everything, did the memory of her past sojourn to its shores run through her head as clearly as if it had happened yesterday? She could still see those powerful arms cutting through the water, could still feel the heat that had enveloped her body?—

“ Miss Windham ?”

Phoebe whipped her head around, sending her teacup clattering back to the end table. She should have heard his footsteps approaching from the corridor, should have noticed the door coming open. Except , in her state of distraction, she hadn’t, and suddenly, Lord Rockliffe was here, striding across the drawing room and toward the sofa.

“ My lord.” She pushed herself to her feet, bending into a stiff curtsey and watching his polished black boots approach, one footfall after another.

Ultimately , though, he didn’t stop at the sofa but at the wing chair alongside it, lowering himself onto the brocade seat. “ Do you require anything else?” He gestured toward the teapot and the empty plate that had formerly contained a stack of millefruit biscuits.

“ No , thank you.” She swallowed as she dropped herself back to the sofa, the crumbs of the biscuit she’d consumed with Lady Emily sticking in her throat.

“ Good . We may as well get right to it, then.” He leaned back in his chair, fixing her with an assessing gaze. Blue . His eyes were brilliant, peerless blue that seemed to pierce right through her. “ You are the vicar’s niece, you have worked as a lady’s companion, and you are currently seeking a new living situation. Do I have that all correct?”

“ You do.”

“ In that case, might you consider a governess position?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but no sound came out. Was he … was he really asking what she thought he did?

“ I’m offering you one, Miss Windham ,” he said, swiftly vanquishing any doubt. “ Lady Emily and I are newly returned from a voyage abroad, and she requires a governess without delay. I believe you’d be suited to the task.”

Of all the things he could have said … Of all the implications this could have … “ I cannot.” She could hardly get the words out fast enough.

“ Why ?” His eyes narrowed. He was a marquess, after all, clearly not used to having his requests denied.

Yet here she was, denying him. Where was she even to begin with her reasons why? “ I …” She could scarcely hear herself think above the pounding of her heart. “ I don’t think I’d be well suited at all. I have no experience. No references. You do not know me.”

For a moment, there was silence, the marquess’s long, gloved fingers drumming noiselessly against the leg of his breeches until at last, he deigned to speak again. “ Did you go to school, Miss Windham ?”

She swallowed again, half-wishing she’d requested more tea after all. Not that it could have fixed the aridity in her throat or made what she had to say work against her any less. “ I didn’t. My parents hired a governess.”

“ Well .” A muscle in his jaw twitched, and she could almost think him on the verge of smirking. “ In that case, I deem you sufficiently qualified.”

She pressed her lips together, feeling heat begin to creep up her neck. How was she to make him see? Her education wasn’t the problem, nor her upbringing. She was a baronet’s daughter, possessing knowledge of languages, writing, drawing, music, and dancing. The issue lay with her past. Her sins.

They require instruction from people of only the highest moral character . Aunt Harriet’s affronted words from when Phoebe had dared to suggest herself as a possible teacher for her cousins echoed through her head. The highest moral character … In other words, not her. And if the vicar and his wife considered her so distastefully unsuitable, the marquess would, too, if he only knew the reality of things.

“ In truth, Miss Windham , I’m not interested in hiring a governess with the best references or the most well-honed skills.” Lord Rockliffe’s shoulders stiffened against the back of his chair, and when he spoke again, his voice came out lower, more deliberate. “ My daughter is still recovering from the same fever that killed her mother. At present, I don’t care in the least what she learns about subjects like languages or painting. I just want her to have a companion who will make her happy again. Whom she esteems. From what I’ve witnessed thus far, you’ll be equal to the task.”

A familiar sting returned to the corners of Phoebe’s eyes. Not on her own account this time, but for the pale-faced, motherless girl who’d sat in the grass stroking Marigold , her thin body heaving as she struggled to catch her breath. Her troubles, too, had proved too great to outrun.

Phoebe hadn’t known. She’d been back in Bowden for too short a time, and too focused on the difficulties that followed her, to learn the latest news from Beaumont Manor . She’d known nothing about the marquess and his family being away from England . About him becoming a widower. About Emily grieving.

She blinked, forcing her impending tears to retreat. He had that look on his face again, breaking through the measured facade. Vulnerability . Her chest ached, and for a moment, her trepidation melted away, making her wish she could lean over and reach for him. That she could then run upstairs and hold the girl she hadn’t even known several hours prior in her arms.

But she couldn’t, of course, nor could she accept. The tragedy of their situation didn’t change anything about the shame of her own.

“ As for the matter of your salary.” Lord Rockliffe’s voice regained its commanding tone, his expression turning closed off once more. “ I’m prepared to offer two hundred pounds per annum.”

“ Pardon ?” She could feel her eyes go wide and her mouth even wider. Was the sheer overwhelmingness of the day causing her to mishear things? It was an obscene sum, far beyond what a governess could dream.

Yet dream she did; she couldn’t help herself. Eugenia had left her nothing, taking Phoebe’s plans and crushing them. The amount of money the marquess offered would change everything. Not only could she travel to Suffolk , just as she hoped, but with a year’s salary, she could afford to establish herself there. To have a quiet, comfortable home of her own. Her chest clenched anew, the sensation half painful, half hopeful.

Then again, a year was a long time. Three hundred and sixty-five days in which this could also come crashing down around her.

“ And what if I’m not to your liking after all?” She pressed her fingertips into the velvet seat cushion, steadying herself before she got carried away. “ As I said, my lord, you barely know me. What if, after a period, you or Lady Emily decide I don’t suit and would rather engage the services of someone else?” What if you discover the truth and cast me out, just like everyone else ?

“ Ah .” His fingers took up drumming again, back and forth over the tan-colored wool that hugged his thigh. “ If that’s of concern to you, we’ll implement a trial period. One month. Paid , of course.”

Strains of hope whirred within her, fighting above the endless doubts.

“ Fifty pounds,” he said. “ I think that’s a fair sum for the trial. Yours to keep whether you continue with the position or not.”

Fifty pounds . She bit down on her lip before her mouth gaped once more. Even that would be more than enough. Enough to travel north. Enough to put Ambrose’s proposal firmly out of mind.

Enough to sustain her when the arrangement at Beaumont Manor inevitably fell apart.

And until it did, she would have a home. A purpose. The potential, if his faith in her didn’t prove misguided, to make a grief-stricken girl’s days a little brighter.

“ I want you to start immediately. Today , if possible.” His eyes continued to bore into her with their intense, unyielding blue. He didn’t seem the sort who possessed an abundance of patience, and he awaited a response. No doubt realized he’d made her an offer that was more than generous.

In turn, she knew there was only one answer left to give. Although with it, she would also need to receive a particular reassurance. “ I’ll have to go to the vicarage to collect my things. I trust, in the meantime, that you can procure a written contract with the details of our arrangement?”

“ Of course.” He sprang to his feet so fast that she couldn’t be certain whether she detected another flicker of relief upon his face or had merely imagined it. “ My secretary will see to the contract, and I’ll call for the carriage to take you at once.”

She pushed herself upright as well, half-surprised her legs still supported her. She should have anticipated the whirlwind her words would set in motion, but it caught her off guard just the same. Because all of a sudden—and not for the first time that day—her life had changed, spiraling in directions she never could have imagined.

Catapulting her toward him .

She tensed, momentarily neglecting to breathe. She’d thought he was about to rush from the room, to solidify their arrangement before she had a chance to change her mind. Except he was still here, standing in front of his chair just as she stood in front of the sofa beside it. Close enough that she could detect the scent of the outdoors on him, along with a hint of sweat that came from exertion. Why did he not move? Why did he not stop peering at her? And why could she not stop peering back?

She’d always known he was tall and broad-shouldered, but up close, his large stature became so much more pronounced. Every surface of him appeared solid, and were she to place a hand on him, he would undoubtedly feel hot beneath her fingertips?—

A growl rumbled beneath the chair, causing her head to dart down just in time to see a flash of orange pop out and swipe at Lord Rockliffe’s boot.

He staggered, jerking his foot off the carpet. “ What the?—”

“ Marigold !” she cried as the identity of the covert orange attacker became clear. Had the cat been sitting there waiting this entire time? She hadn’t even known Marigold remained in the room, thought for sure she’d slunk away after Lady Emily .

She crouched down, sweeping the delinquent creature out from under the chair and into her arms. “ I apol?—”

“ I’ll call for the carriage,” he repeated, his boots already back on the floor, striding across the room. And then, just like that, he was gone. Never once looking back.

Leaving her alone in an opulent drawing room holding a perturbed cat while fighting to regain her ability to breathe.

She stared at the empty doorway, her hand sweeping over Marigold’s thick fur in an effort to calm them both. Yet she could still smell that masculine scent. Could picture his fingers drumming against his thigh, his blue eyes assessing her.

What had she just agreed to? On one hand, she’d saved herself. Procured the employment she desperately needed. Found a living situation where she’d be welcome instead of a burden. But on the other …

As if by reflex, her head turned toward the terrace door, giving her another glimpse of the lake beyond.

On the other, she couldn’t shake the niggling sense that she wasn’t done getting herself into trouble.