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  Shev lifted a brow toward his wide-eyed mother. “That was rather interesting, don’t you think?”

  She motioned frantically in the direction of Miss Crawford.

  He raised his eyebrow higher.

  His mother flapped her hand faster.

  When he did nothing, she commanded in a low, urgent whisper, “Do something, Marcus. Don’t let that governess get away.”

  Considering that Miss Crawford marked their fifth unsuccessful candidate, Shev had to give his mother’s demand its due. None of the others had panned out for one reason or another. And the last candidate who had come face-to-face with Jacqueline’s tantrum had displayed an unreasonable temper. Quite unlike Miss Crawford’s reaction.

  He set down his empty glass, cracked his neck, and braced himself for the challenging conversation ahead.

  The indifference that had numbed his mind dissolved the moment he turned to give chase. For the first time in years, every nerve in his body was alert and alive with anticipation.

  Chapter Two

  Anne Crawford dusted off what would likely be the last of the vegetables from her aunt’s small garden before placing them into her basket. The bone-chilling nip in the air over the last week was a good indicator that winter wasn’t far away.

  After fleeing her disastrous meeting with the Marquess of Shevington, she had come straight home and changed into her outdoor clothes. Nothing calmed her so much as spending an hour picking vegetables, deadheading flowers, or cutting herbs.

  Reading used to be her greatest pleasure. Not anymore. Not after that horrible night. Anne shied away from the memories that tried to push through her barrier. Instead, she reflected on her unsuccessful interview—for the hundredth time.

  The marquess had turned out to be one more disappointment in a long line of them since leaving Whitfield’s employ. How she had managed to seek employment with a widower, a guardian, and an unmarried new father—all men who were either lacking a wife or had a wife incapable of keeping them out of the governess’s bed—was beyond her.

  Even worse had been her physical reaction to the marquess. The instantaneous tightening in her stomach when his assessing gaze roamed over her as if he were looking for something in particular. The compulsive desire to study every facet of his handsome, aristocratic face, then start all over again.

  Standing well over six feet tall, with hair the color of rich coffee and long, sooty lashes framing eyes capable of boring through her reserve, he awakened every one of her senses. His athletic frame moved with negligent grace that somehow conveyed power, boredom, and refinement all at once. Combined, this made for a compelling package, one that would have had her declining the position even without the absence of a wife.

  “Miss Crawford?” her aunt’s maid of all work called.

  Anne straightened. “Over here, Nelly.”

  “A Mr. Keene is here to see you.”

  “Me?” She knew no one by that name. “Are you sure he’s not here to see my aunt?”

  “No, miss. He asked for you.”

  “Did he give any indication as to the reason for his visit?”

  “No, miss. Only that it was important he speak with you.”

  “Very well.” Anne pushed to her feet and glanced down at her dirt-smudged hands. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Five minutes later, Anne paused at the looking glass hanging in the corridor not far from where her mysterious guest awaited. Angling her head first one way, then the other, she checked to make sure she hadn’t missed any bits of garden debris in her hair or dirt smeared on her face.

  Anne sighed at her reflection. Everything appeared clean and as plain and unruffled as always. Pivoting on her heel, she headed toward the drawing room, curious about who would be calling on her this far outside London. Mr. Keene couldn’t be a local, for she knew everyone in Hayfurn.

  Molding her mouth into a congenial smile, she pushed open the door and found Lord Shevington lounging in a chair by the window. “M-my lord?” Disoriented by the unexpected sight of the marquess in her aunt’s parlor, she scanned the room in search of Mr. Keene.

  “Not whom you expected?”

  She gave her head a small shake. “You’re Mr. Keene?”

  Rising, he dipped his head in acknowledgment and fanned out his arm in a mock bow. “Marcus Keene, at your service.”

  “I don’t understand. Why the subterfuge?”

  “Would you have seen me had I given the maid my title?”

  Anne would have done anything to avoid this moment.

  “I didn’t think so,” he said when she didn’t answer.

  Marcus Keene. Anne fought back the despair. His handsome features had haunted her all the way home until she recalled his title and position in society. Only then had she been able to distance herself. Now she had a name. Something that reminded her he was a person. An individual. Someone who had dreams and hurts and memories. Someone capable of extraordinary acts of kindness and unspeakable evil.

  Someone who could love her. Someone who could turn his back on her.

  “Why are you here, my lord? Did I leave something behind?”

  “As a matter of fact, you did.”

  “What?” Anne scoured her mind. “I can think of nothing I’m missing.”

  “Your refusal.” He strode to her uncle’s favorite rust-colored chair and motioned to the smaller one. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?”

  “Of course.”

  He waited for her to sit, then melted into the worn depths of her uncle’s chair. Anchoring an ankle across his knee, he propped his elbows on the chair’s padded arms and steepled his fingers together. The image he presented was both negligent and forbidding, and far too considering. “I’ve come to give it back.”

  Had she missed an essential part of their conversation? “Give what back?”

  “Your refusal. I don’t accept it.”

  “I’m afraid you have no choice, my lord.”

  “You don’t understand.” He tapped his steepled fingers against his lips. “My mother wants you for Jacqueline. When my mother is happy, I’m happy. Therefore, I must do all within my power to change your mind.”

  A low tremor started deep inside her chest. “Your mother wants me? I am no one’s pet.”

  “Forgive me for my indelicate choice of words. My mother has an unmatched intuition when it comes to people.”

  His attention trailed over her much the same way it had at his town house. When his eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts, she wondered if he had found what he was searching for.

  “My mother believes you worthy of guiding her only grandchild through the next decade of her life.”

  Had the situation been different, he might have convinced her to accept his offer. But he was still a handsome bachelor, and she had proven herself to be too susceptible. “Lord Shevington, I am honored by your mother’s faith in me; however, I cannot be a member of your household.”

  “Because you believe I’ll ravish you?”

  He made it sound as though she thought herself a raving beauty no gentleman could ignore. Nothing could be further from the truth. Men like the marquess did not fall at Anne’s feet. They were more likely to step on them.

  “Hardly, my lord,” she said. “I’ve simply established a rule never to work for unmarried men.”

  “Miss Crawford, as delectable as you are, I have absolutely no interest in bedding a virgin.”

  Heat scalded her cheeks. “Lord Shevington, I don’t think—”

  “Virgins require a great deal of persuasion,” he interrupted. “A talent I do not possess. My sexual needs are base and immediate. I want, I ask, I take.”

  Pushing out of his seat, he moved toward her, his stride long and languid and intent. Her blood heated, pounding in her throat. Anne got the fleeting yet certain impression that every move the marquess made was calculated to elicit a particular response. In her case, trepidation and perhaps a small amount of anticipation.

  Stoppin
g before her, he studied her features. “If my announcement about virgins wasn’t enough to sway you, perhaps you’d be interested in one of my unbreakable rules.”

  His low, confident, slightly mocking voice both soothed and irritated her. Yet she couldn’t stop her gaze from landing on his indecently kissable lips. Warmth simmered in the pit of her stomach—no, lower. Deeper.

  “W-what rule would that be, my lord?”

  “I never dally with the women in my employ.” He waited for her focus to return to his piercing eyes. “Ever.” His shoulders expanded, and his voice grew deeper. “I have no need to prey upon the female members of my staff.”

  Prey upon. Such an interesting choice of words for an aristocrat who was nearly untouchable in the eyes of the law.

  His plain speaking unnerved her. She had never been around someone of his status who spoke so boldly, especially to the fairer sex. Did he do so for the pleasure of seeing her reaction? Could she afford to care?

  She had left the Whitfields’ household a month ago before securing another position. And now her inability to find suitable employment had caused her to become a burden to her aunt and uncle.

  Despite the inappropriate manner in which the marquess shared his rule, his declaration felt sincere. Could she trust him to keep his word? Could she trust herself?

  “You know as well as I,” she said, “that men break their code of honor all the time.”

  “Some do, yes. But I’m not one of them.” He cocked his head to the side. “What did you say to Jacqueline before you left?”

  “Pardon?” Was the man incapable of finishing one topic before moving on to the next?

  “You whispered something into the girl’s ear that made her cry. What did you say?”

  “I made her cry?” The last thing she had intended was to cause the child more grief. It had been obvious that Jacqueline had suffered greatly from being away from her mother.

  “And she left her grandmother’s presence rather abruptly thereafter.”

  “I assure you, my lord, I didn’t intend for my comment to elicit such a reaction.”

  “Then you won’t mind sharing what you said.”

  Anne hesitated. All she had wanted to do was make Jacqueline smile. A secret between the two of them. But she hadn’t thought it through. She had acted on instinct—and wound up hurting a child.

  “I mentioned something about second chances.”

  “Second chances,” he mused aloud. “An unusual topic to bring up to one so young.”

  Not wanting to expound, she produced her best authoritative governess voice. “I will visit your daughter tomorrow morning and apologize for my thoughtless comment.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Because it’s the right thing to do. I hurt your daughter’s feelings, so I must make amends.”

  “Jacqueline is five years old. No doubt a sweet or new ribbon will restore her normal banshee self.”

  Anne stared. Did he truly believe damage to a child’s feelings could be repaired by something so cold and impersonal? “It has been my experience that if you wish a child to act respectfully, you must first treat the child with respect.”

  “So you’ll accept the position?”

  She must be getting used to his abrupt changes in topic, because his question failed to jar her this time.

  “Obviously,” he went on, “I’m ill equipped to rear a child. Jacqueline’s been torn from her country and her family. She needs you, Miss Crawford.” His voice lowered. “I need you.”

  Had Anne believed in sorcery, she would have sworn he’d hidden a compulsion spell within his last three words.

  An image of Jacqueline sobbing into her pillow surfaced. How many times had she done so since coming to this foreign land? The girl must feel utterly alone, being so far away from her friends and the only family she’d ever known. The steel lock holding back Anne’s rash actions broke, and she heard herself say, “Three months, my lord.”

  “Pardon?”

  If Anne hadn’t been so terrified by the events she’d just set in motion, she would have celebrated her small victory of baffling this unflappable lord. “I accept the position of governess for three months. Long enough to help settle Jacqueline and find her a more appropriate governess.”

  A slow, triumphant smile spread across his too-handsome face, and Anne knew then she had made the biggest mistake of her life.

  Chapter Three

  Shev tiptoed toward the schoolroom adjacent to the nursery on the third floor of his London town house to see what mischief Jacqueline was causing her new governess today.

  Since Miss Crawford’s arrival at Shevington House five days ago, the banshee had lived up to her moniker. One look at Miss Crawford’s traveling trunk had been enough to send Jacqueline shrieking up the stairs, shouting, “Go away, go away. I don’t want you. Go away.”

  He had to give the governess credit. She hadn’t blinked an eye at her new charge’s hysterics. She simply smiled at his mother and housekeeper, complimenting both on such a beautiful, well-maintained home. Which, of course, immediately endeared her to his mother and Mrs. Frickert.

  “Jacqueline,” came Miss Crawford’s muffled voice, “if you practice your numbers, we can go to the park later.”

  Shev leaned closer, pressing his ear to the schoolroom door.

  “Maman said the sun is a spinster maker,” the girl said in French.

  Silence.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” the governess replied in English.

  “Spots. Maman said boys don’t like girls with spotty skin.”

  “There are ways to protect your skin from the sun’s harsh effects and still enjoy the outdoors.”

  Jacqueline prattled off more objections in her native tongue. The two had been playing tug-of-war over language ever since Miss Crawford announced they would begin working on Jacqueline’s English. The girl had only a rudimentary grasp of the language—enough to make her wants and desires clear, vociferously. And now she refused to speak the little bit she knew, convinced her mother or French father would arrive soon.

  When had Jacqueline’s mother begun teaching her daughter English? Shev wondered. The moment her doctor diagnosed her condition? From the instant the girl could speak?

  Giselle had been both intelligent and beautiful. She had been an accomplished lover and political conversationalist as well as a ballroom gossip. The latter two characteristics were the reasons why she had drawn his notice. He was in the information-gathering business, and Giselle enjoyed sharing the bits of political intrigue she came across.

  Had he been a better man, he would have mourned her return to France. But the only emotion he’d been able to muster was relief.

  “Can we get an ice?” Jacqueline asked, drawing him back to the war of wills going on behind the door.

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On you counting to ten in English.”

  Another long silence.

  “Jacqueline?”

  “Why do I need to learn English if I’m going home soon?”

  “Because for now you’re in an English-speaking household. A household full of dedicated staff whose job, in part, is to take care of you and keep you safe.”

  “Why can’t they learn French?”

  Shev lifted a brow, appreciating the girl’s tactic, but cringing at the selfishness of it.

  “Lord Shevington’s staff is very busy. Their duties don’t allow them enough time to learn a new language.”

  “He shouldn’t make them work so hard.”

  He. Another one of Jacqueline’s acts of defiance. She never referred to him as Father or Papa. Only he or sir.

  In truth, Shev didn’t mind. He certainly didn’t feel like a father. If the girl didn’t look so damned much like him, he would question her paternity.

  “To whom are you referring?” the governess asked. When Jacqueline said nothing, Miss Crawford announced, “No ice today, then.”

 
Jacqueline emitted a noise that sounded a great deal like a wounded boar—right before the schoolroom door swung open.

  The weight of his body propelled him forward. He grasped the frame of the door a mere second before he plowed into the governess.

  “Oh, my lord!”

  He straightened, scrambling for a legitimate reason for eavesdropping. When nothing came to light, he simply ignored the obvious. “Miss Crawford, my apologies for startling you. I came up to see if you and Jacqueline would like to take luncheon with us below.”

  Glancing over her shoulder, she motioned for him to step back so she could join him in the corridor. She closed the door behind her and led them a short distance away. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, my lord.”

  “If you’re still concerned about your virtue, my mother will be in attendance.”

  “I no longer fear you’ll act in an ungentlemanly way toward me. You—and your mother—have convinced me that you will honor your word.”

  It was a good thing the governess could not read minds. She would have known the exact moment his thoughts no longer matched his gentlemanly actions.

  Something about this unassuming woman compelled him to listen for her voice when he passed by a room, look for her coiffed head during a gathering, and strain for the smallest whiff of her delicate scent when nearby. As he did now.

  He had kept company with far more visually stimulating women, but never had he been so aware of their existence. His growing preoccupation with the governess had to stem from her desire to be around him as little as possible. Most ladies of his acquaintance tried to suffocate him with their nearness and nonsensical prattle.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He moved back a fraction more. “If you’re not concerned about your good name, I can only assume propriety makes you hesitate.”

  “That and—”

  “If you have not yet noticed, my mother runs this household in a less-than-conventional manner. I am only surprised she has not yet insisted you join us before now.”

  The Marchioness of Shevington ensured she never forgot about her humble beginnings. Once or twice a year, she invited her childhood friends to Shevington House for dinner and the latest gossip. Tradesmen, maids, physicians, shopkeepers, and even a known pickpocket had dined at his table.