Page 12 of The Defiant Governess (Intrepid Heroines #6)

Lady Matilda Farrington. A flighty, insipid girl now entering her second Season.

Jane had seen her at various routs and ball, and of course Almack’s, and had disliked her instantly.

The girl was one of those creatures who flirted shamelessly with gentleman with a title, young or old.

There was, however, no need to fear recognition.

Lady Matilda didn’t even deign to look at her as she lifted her elegant skirts and swooshed after her parents.

Saybrook followed Jane a little way off, out of hearing of anyone around them. Still white hot with pent-up anger, Jane launched into a tirade with not a thought as to what she was saying.

“It is beyond belief,” she hissed, “that one man can be so selfish, so unfeeling, so … monstrous! Whether you choose to treat your acquaintances and your servants with disdain—oh, I see the haughty sneer on your face—is entirely your own concern. But that you would deliberately hurt a child is outside of enough! Are you too blind to see that Peter is craving for your notice, though Lord knows why! If you don’t take a few minutes of your precious time to do your duty as a guardian … ”

She was so beside herself that she didn’t know quite how to finish the sentence. “Ooooo,” she sputtered, “If I were a man, I’d horsewhip you!”

Saybrook had gone rigid and his face was absolutely drained of color.

“And you needn’t bother telling me I’m turned out!” she added. “I will pack immediately.”

Turning on her heel, she stalked off, not bothering to note the marquess’s reaction. Now that she had vented her anger she felt drained, almost too weak to walk. But she took a deep breath and kept her chin up, refusing to let him see her waver.

She made her way to where Henry had tethered the horses. Had she really said such inflammatory things to the marquess? She was lucky he hadn’t called the constables to haul her off to Bedlam. With a sigh, she had to admit that her brother was right—there were times when she could be quite … rash.

Before mounting, she looked to where the riding competition was taking place.

Peter was in the middle of the ring, trotting in a neat circle.

She felt a rush of pride at how straight he sat in the saddle and how well he guided his pony.

From the corner of her eye she saw Saybrook leaning stiffly against the fence, watching as well.

So, at least she had accomplished something—other than getting turned out without references!

Peter would be in raptures, no matter that it was a false happiness.

The judges suddenly motioned Peter towards a little jump standing at one end of the ring.

Jane bit her lip in alarm. Peter had never attempted such a thing, but he was cantering towards it with nary a hesitation.

Up went Tarquin, and for a moment it seemed that the boy would be left behind.

But he regained his balance and kept his seat.

The small crowd burst into applause. So did Saybrook.

Peter reined in close to his guardian, a shy smile on his face.

To her great surprise, the marquess vaulted over the fence and patted Peter on the back.

Even from where she was, she could see the happiness on the boy’s face.

Well, she thought, at least the man could do his duty handsomely if he tried.

Peter was awarded a blue ribbon, then walked his horse, with Saybrook still at its head, toward where the marquess’s stallion was tethered.

Jane sighed and mounted her own horse. She had enjoyed it at Highwood.

Now what was she to do? On the ride back, she rued her impetuous tongue.

Once again, it had landed her in the suds.

Jane sat on her bed, surveying the meager pile of belonging ready to be packed in her small trunk.

She suddenly realized that she didn’t have enough money for the coach ride back to her father’s estate, even if she took outside passage.

Certainly, there was nothing for an inn.

To be sure, she was owed some payment for the time she had spent at Highwood, but she couldn’t bring herself to ask Saybrook for anything.

With a frown of dismay she wondered whether she might have to sleep in a field tonight.

After all, she hadn’t yet decided whether to go home.

But what else was she to do?

In the middle of mulling over the problem, a knock sounded on the door.

She sighed and bid whomever it was to enter.

Perhaps Mrs. Fairchild had heard of her being turned out and had come to say goodbye.

If so, Jane decided that she might be able to bring herself to borrow a few shillings from her.

But most likely it was a footman, ready to toss her out the door, she thought glumly. Which was no doubt what she deserved.

The door opened slowly and Peter’s smiling face appeared behind it. He rushed to her arms, already talking excitedly.

“Did you see my ribbon?” he demanded, not waiting for an answer. “I was a little scared—just a little—but I knew I could do it! Uncle Edward says that it was a tip-top performance!”

“It was indeed.”

“And I’m to have supper with him in the real dining room. With silver candlesticks and champagne!”

Jane laughed. “Oh, very grand.”

“Yes,” continued the boy, “And I asked if you could come, too?—”

“Peter!” she exclaimed. “You …”

“… and he said yes, of course, and that I should come and ask you to join us.”

Jane was thrown into a state of confusion. “But Peter,” she said gently. “It’s not proper for a servant to dine with the master.”

He looked at her in consternation. “But why not? Uncle Edward said it is quite alright.”

”He didn’t say exactly that, I’ll wager,” she muttered, but she didn’t have the heart to spoil the boy’s day. If the marquess could bear it, so could she. “Very well then, I shall be delighted to attend.”

“He says we are to be there at seven.”

“I shall come by your room ten minutes beforehand. You must look your best if you are to grace His Lordship’s table.”

When the boy had hurried off, she sank down on her bed, relieved that at least for tonight she didn’t have to worry about where she would sleep. Surely he wouldn’t expect her to leave in the dead of night?

As she considered the matter, she thought some more about Saybrook himself.

He must have a softer side—one she certainly hadn’t seen yet—not to want to spoil Peter’s enjoyment of the day.

After all, it was going well beyond the bounds of duty to include her at his dining table, especially after what had taken place.

Why, the very sight of her must put him off his appetite!

And obviously Peter had not been told she was leaving.

She shook her head. It had been a very strange day.

At the stroke of seven Jane ushered Peter into the dining room.

It was a vast space, with dark oak paneling and an impressive chandelier that winked sparkles of light from the myriad candles in among the crystal.

The table was just as imposing, massive with carved legs and a breadth that seemed to dwarf the three place settings at the end nearest the marble fireplace.

Saybrook was already in the room. A glass of champagne in his hand, he stood by the crackling blaze, staring into the flames as if lost in thought.

She noticed with a start how very handsome he was, now that his face didn’t have the cold, sardonic look that was normally chiseled on his features.

Silhouetted by the firelight, his profile seemed softer, more vulnerable.

At the sound of their steps he looked up, and the moment was gone. His mouth hardened and his eyes became cooler.

Though she had donned her best navy merino gown, Jane felt a flush of self-consciousness as she observed Saybrook regarding her.

His superbly tailored black coat, understated, yet elegant, fit him to perfection and a waistcoat of burgundy silk showed beneath it.

A white linen shirt rose to moderate points and the starched neck cloth fell in a perfect Waterfall knot.

His riding breeches had been replaced by pantaloons which fit snugly over a pair of soft Moroccan boots.

Jane felt woefully dowdy, then realized that it was likely exactly how she was supposed to feel.

With exaggerated politeness, Saybrook bowed slightly to her and indicated the chair to his right.

“Peter, perhaps you will do the honors with Miss Langley’s chair.”

Jane had not dared meet his gaze as yet, not knowing quite what to expect, or how to react. When she finally did so, his eyes betrayed no emotion at all, as if nothing untoward had occurred between them. For some reason, that made her feel even more uncomfortable.

Saybrook lifted the bottle of champagne from the silver cooler and filled the goblet at her place, then splashed a touch in Peter’s glass.

“A toast. To Peter’s equestrian accomplishments.” A smile. “My congratulations, lad.”

The boy colored with pleasure as the two adults lifted their glasses. He sniffed at the bubbly drink then cautiously tasted it.

“It tickles!” he cried. “And it tastes awful.”

“It improves with age—one’s own, that is,” remarked Saybrook dryly. “Don’t you agree?”

Jane managed a nod.

Two footmen brought in the first course, and if they were surprised at seeing the boy and his governess dining with the master their impassive faces gave no hint of it, though Jane was sure it would be the talk of the servant quarters.

Try as she might, Jane found it difficult to relax and take some enjoyment from the evening.

Usually she would appreciate the irony inherent in the situation and laugh at it, but tonight she felt only a certain glumness.

Her reticence led to rather long lapses in the conversation, though she did notice that Saybrook made an effort to converse with Peter, something he obviously had little practice in doing.

But the boy, still flushed with excitement, was happy to prattle on, regardless.