“It’s his military training. He wants them t’ follow orders. T’ march in drill. T’ never get dirty, and if they do, t’ clean their boots until they shine.”
Samantha lifted her eyebrows. “These children must be saints. Why, I’ll have nothing to do at all!”
Clarinda burst into laughter. “We’ll see about that, miss.”
“Psst!” the sound echoed up and down the second-floor corridor.
Samantha stopped on her way to meet Colonel Gregory, and glanced around. A door stood slightly open. Three young faces were pressed to the crack, and three hands gestured for her to come in.
“Did you want me?” Samantha pointed to herself. As if she didn’t know.
“Shh!” The children put their fingers to their lips, then vigorously gestured again.
Amused and intrigued, Samantha entered a stark bedchamber. Three narrow iron beds, spread with quilts, stood against the wall. A rigid row of dolls nodded on the window seat. Neither toys nor a rug cluttered a hardwood floor. Plain curtains hung at the windows. The girls’ room, Samantha realized, although it bore more resemblance to an orphanage than to the bedchamber of much indulged children.
Then, as six dark-haired children lined up before her, the ones at the door as well as the ones waiting inside, she realized—every one of these children were girls. The colonel had only girls.
She almost laughed. Since her conversation with Adorna she’d been worried about her responsibilities. Worried that, for the first time, she had taken on more than she could handle.
But aristocratic girls were sweet, modest, and easy to manage, and only a military man, trying to fit them into a military mold, could imagine this to be a difficult assignment.
“Greetings, my lasses! Are you my new charges?” Samantha asked merrily.
The tallest girl, a beauty with budding breasts and a officious expression, pulled a riding crop out from behind her back and slapped her ankle-high black boot with it. “You are the new governess?”
Taken aback, Samantha considered the lass, and the line of her sisters, all dressed in indistinguishable, plain, dark blue shirtdresses, cut to a child’s shorter length, with a white pinafore over the top. Each child’s hair was pulled back in a tight braid tied with dark blue ribbon. They all wore the same ankle-high boots, and they all wore identical expressions of distrust and aggression. “Yes. I’m Miss Samantha Prendregast.” Some second, cautionary sense made her add, “You may call me Miss Prendregast.”
“I am Agnes.” The girl indicated the next oldest should speak.
“I’m Vivian.” This child was as tall as her sister, strikingly handsome, with dark hair and brows that winged upward without curve.
Agnes pointed with her crop.
The next child, dark haired and blue eyed, announced, “Mara.”
Samantha had caught on now, and smiled warmly. “Good to meet you, Vivian and Mara. How old are you, Vivian?” She pointed at the girl.
Vivian answered, “Eleven.”
“And you, Mara?”
“Nine.”
Agnes glared at Samantha. “Don’t interrupt.”
“You’re young to be issuing orders,” Samantha said softly. “You may want to think before you continue.”
As if shocked at the soft reprimand, Agnes blinked, then recovered. “No.”
Her tone reminded Samantha of someone. Samantha frowned. Someone she had met recently. But who?
Agnes pointed to the next girl.
“Henrietta.” This child, a brunette with brown eyes, clearly didn’t quite understand the scheme to intimidate the new governess, and she curtsied to Samantha.
Never one to follow orders, especially from ruddy-mouthed children, Samantha interrupted. “What a beautiful name, Henrietta. You’re seven?”
Henrietta nodded, eyes wide. “How did you know?”
“I’m a good guesser,” Samantha confessed.
Agnes slapped her boot to get everyone’s attention, and pointed at a grinning, gap-toothed lass blessed with those same, unusually straight brows.
“Emmeline,” the toothless one said.
“Are you five years old?” Samantha asked.
“Yeth,” the child lisped, “and I losth my teeth.”
“So you have,” Samantha said, smiling. Emmeline was a pet.
With a scowl, Agnes pointed to the smallest girl, as dark-haired and dark-eyed as the older girls.
She stuck her finger in her mouth, and looked down at the rug.
With a sigh, Agnes said, “That’s Kyla.”
Kyla ran to Agnes and buried her head in Agnes’s skirt.
Agnes stroked her head and glared at Samantha as if daring her to make a comment.
“Kyla obviously adores you,” Samantha said. “And for good reason. You’re the one who keeps the family in harmony, aren’t you?”
“Yes. We don’t need you.” Agnes drew herself up. “We’ll explain to you why you should go home.”
Samantha drew herself up in imitation of Agnes. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can! You have to.”
“I have been sent to Cumbria with strict instructions from my employer to remain here and teach you and your sisters everything I know about geography, science, pianoforte, penmanship, literature, deportment—”
“I don’t need that!” Agnes interrupted.
Samantha raised her brows. “I would say you do.” Her gaze swept them. “You all do.”
Mara thrust herself forward. She had a disreputable air about her. She wore the same clothes as the others, but the skirt was wrinkled. A large, pink wet spot covered the bodice of the pinafore. Her hair was dressed like the others, but wisps had escaped and curled around her face. None of which stopped her from saying, “Papa doesn’t like governesses.”
“Your papa hired me.”
Vivian joined in the battle. “He fired the last five governesses, so he doesn’t like them.”
“How many governesses have you had?”
“Eleven,” Agnes said.
“Eleven!” Samantha hated to sound impressed, but she was. If success could be measured by insolence, these children had a marvelous record. “What happened to the others?”
Mara stumbled on the fringe of the carpet. “They left.”
Samantha caught her arm and steadied her. “Why?”
In unison, all six girls spread their hands, palms up, and shrugged their shoulders.
“Well. Eleven.” Samantha took a breath. “But you needn’t worry. Your papa will like me. Everyone likes me, especially children.” And if ever there were children who needed a governess, it was these. She stepped toward Agnes, the obvious instigator of this little rebellion. “And if he doesn’t like me, it won’t matter—because you will.”
Henrietta decided to insert herself into the situation. “No, we won’t!”
“No!” Agnes’s mouth firmed.
“I like her,” Emmeline said. “She’th funny.”
Samantha nodded at Emmeline, her newest ally. “I am, aren’t I?”
Kyla pulled her head out of Agnes’s skirt. “I like her, too.”
Emmeline’s little body stiffened with indignation. “No, you don’t. Thshe’s mine!”
Taking Emmeline’s hand, Samantha soothed her. “It’s all right. I told you, everyone likes me.” She sat down on the wooden toy chest and gestured to Vivian. “That’s why your papa won’t fire me.”
Vivian sidled closer.
Emmeline leaned against her.
“Besides, I’m from London, and I don’t know anything about living in the country.”
“Really?” Agnes asked.
Samantha could almost see the wheels turning in her head as she plotted mischief.
Too bad Samantha had different plans. “But I know heaps about fashion, and the uniforms you’re wearing are dreadful.”
Agnes and Vivian looked at each other, then at their clothes.
Samantha continued, “I’ve got some trim we could stitch on them
to make them prettier.”
“Oh, do you?” Vivian cried. “I’m sick of wearing this horrid old thing day after day.”
“Mayhap your papa could get us some material for new gowns. As a sewing project, of course.” She winked at Agnes.
Agnes glared.
Kyla hurried over, planted herself before Samantha, and asked, “Can I have a pretty gown, too?”
Agnes frowned and turned away.
She would have to fight for Agnes’s loyalty, Samantha realized, as she smoothed Kyla’s cheek. “Of course you can, pet.”
Without warning, the door slammed open and smacked the wall.
Eyes wide, Samantha came to her feet, clutching Emmeline’s and Henrietta’s hands.
A man stood in the doorway. He was tall, broad . . . familiar. He sported a healthy head of dark hair, cut neatly around his face and ears. Stark cheekbones with shadowy hollows beneath them. A square jaw, thrust forward and tight with determination. A thin nose. A long nose. Some might say a big nose, and one that quivered with disdain.
He swept the room with his gaze, lingering on each of the girls in turn.
They stared back, mute and defiant.
“Greetings, Papa.” Agnes swaggered toward him.
Now Samantha realized why the girl’s voice and manner was familiar. Agnes was just like her father. Imperious, determined . . . obnoxious.
The man from last night was none other than Samantha’s new employer, Colonel William Gregory.
Chapter Four
In the daylight, Colonel Gregory looked even more appealing—and more dangerous—than in the dark. He wore black. Black wool suit. Black boots, polished to an eye-blinking shine. A white shirt, stiffly starched and ironed. And a black cravat, tied with military precision. All tailored to fit him like a glove . . . a very well-formed, masculine glove.
He was the kind of man who caught a woman’s eye. He certainly caught Samantha’s, and her response to him created a vague sense of discomfort. She wanted to rage at him for leaving her in the dark. She wanted to fade into the cream-colored wall and watch him until she understood this shaky feeling in her knees and the clutch in her abdomen.
Or rather . . . not her belly. The constriction was lower, not painful, but . . . she didn’t know what it was, she only knew she didn’t like it.
The rage was easier to understand.
He stared at Kyla, who stood scratching her nose with her sleeve, and at Mara, who rubbed one foot against the back of her other leg. “Line up!” he ordered.
In a rush they formed a line, Agnes at one end, Kyla at the other. They stood at attention, like good little soldiers, shoulders back, chins up.
He strode to Agnes, made a right turn, and marched down the line. He stopped and indicated Emmeline should straighten her pinafore, and she did so at once. Then he marched back up and stopped in front of Mara. “Mara, what is that sucking sound?”
Mara looked around in confusion. “What sound, Father?”
“Oh, wait.” He leaned down until he was eye level. “I know what it is. It’s your boots sucking polish off of my boots.”
Mara looked down at her boots, scuffed and dull. Then at her father’s, with their shine that hurt the eyes.
As Mara’s eyes filled up with tears, Samantha found herself saying, “Do you care for your own boots, Colonel Gregory?”
He looked around at her, his annoyance plain. “I am an officer. Of course I do not.”
“Well, neither does Mara,” Samantha said cheerfully. “It’s something you have in common.”
Samantha heard several moist bursts of laughter, smothered at once, and Mara drooped as if a weight had been removed from her shoulders.
Colonel Gregory was not amused. In his deep, irritated, familiar voice, he said, “Miss Prendregast, when I sent for you, I expected you to obey the summons with all due alacrity.”
“In the future, I’ll remember that.” You big bully.
“In the future, I do not expect to find you lingering with my children and bribing them with cloth which you think to procure from me.”
He’d heard that, had he? Looking him right in the eyes, Samantha asked, “To whom else should I apply for the cloth, Colonel?”
A harsh crimson rose to his cheeks and forehead, and he looked right back at her. “If cloth is to be had, it would come from me. Which it will not.”
Agnes stepped beside her father, allying herself with him. “I told Miss Prendregast to go to you at once, Father, but she insisted on visiting with us.”
Astonished and impressed with Agnes’s ability to lie with a straight face, and in front of everyone, Samantha raised her eyebrows at the girl.
Agnes blushed fiercely.
Colonel Gregory watched the exchange. “I see.” He waved a hand at the other children. “At ease.”
The girls sighed and broke into three little groups, with Henrietta taking the opportunity to jab Agnes fiercely in the ribs.
Colonel Gregory turned his attention to Samantha, and Samantha wondered what she should say. What she should think.
Adorna would say he was like the mountains: magnificent, indomitable.
Samantha would agree, but she would add: hard, ruthless. His jaw was inflexible, his ears small and neatly set against his head, as if they’d been schooled to remain in their place. He held his full lips in a slight, smooth smile as he struggled to mask that scorn in which he held a woman who panicked at the onset of night.
She shivered. Night, in the wilds of the mountains. She was lucky to get here alive. Indignation flamed in her. Indignation that he, with a few well-chosen words, could have eased her terror. “Well.” She put her hands on her hips and looked him over. “At least I know why the coach arrived to pick me up.”
He made no excuse for his abominable behavior, but looked her over in return, his gaze lingering on the ruffles at the bosom and set into the sleeves at the wrists. “That gown is an unusual choice for a governess, Miss Prendregast.”
Last night, Samantha couldn’t see his eyes, but she could now. They were blue. Beautiful, deep, cobalt blue, and as cold as ice in the depths of winter, with dark brows that winged straight upward without curve, giving him a saturnine appearance. This was no elderly curmudgeon. He was a man in his prime, a man who ruthlessly passed on his physical characteristics to his children. No froth of pink could soften his demeanor. No wonder Clarinda had suggested the plain, green serge.
Emmeline ran to him and hugged his knee. “Father?”
He put his hand on her head and looked down at her. “Emmeline?”
“Everyone likthes Miss Prendregast, Father. She told uth thso.”
“Did she?” Condescendingly, he stared down his noble nose at Samantha. “Then I’m sure you shall like her, too.”
“And you, Father! You like her, too.”
“I am certain I shall . . . provided she has the correct references, and provided she demonstrates she’s capable of living in the country, and provided she teaches you children properly.”
Mouth puckered, Emmeline considered Samantha. “She’d better,” she said truculently.
For a moment, just a moment, Colonel Gregory’s eyes widened, and Samantha thought he was going to laugh.
The moment passed, leaving Samantha wondering if she’d imagined it.
He gently removed Emmeline from his leg and sent her, with a pat, to Vivian. “Miss Prendregast, if you would follow me?”
She most certainly would. She trailed him out of the door, and she wanted to speak so badly she had to bite her tongue to contain the words. But glancing back, she could see the children peering out, and it took little to imagine how they strained to hear the next chorus.
She wouldn’t sing for their pleasure.
The colonel descended the stairway ahead of her and past the double doors that led out to the back. They entered the grand foyer that rose two stories, past the second-floor corridors, above the marble floor. Built in the gallery style with large columns that suppor
ted the corridor above, the rectangular foyer was painted in shades of pale blue and gold. A huge crystal chandelier sparkled above them. Samantha glanced through the open doors, seeing a library, a game room, a ballroom. Colonel Gregory led her to one door on the left and stepped back to allow her to precede him.
She thanked him while cynically wondering if he was always so courteous to his servants, or whether he simply seized this opportunity to observe her backside. But when she glanced at him, his face was impassive. Apparently this prickly feeling along her spine was not his gaze on her, but her imagination, and this discomfort she experienced at being alone with him was nothing but a spinster’s overactive imagination.
Had she passed into the realm of desperate old maid, spinning imaginary liaisons in between planning lessons and cleaning up spilled milk?
Oh, now that disheartened her.
“Is there a problem, Miss Prendregast?” he asked.
“Not at all, sir, why?”
“You sighed.”
She supposed she had. “I was taking pleasure in the beauties of your home.” In its way, that was true. She expected his study to be stark and military. Instead, an ornate sense of India pervaded the room. Colors of burgundy and jade decorated the walls and drapes. An elaborate carpet in the same rich shades adorned the hardwood floor. Large, plush chairs invited her to sit before the large, mahogany desk carved in rope designs. “Last night. Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
He stood before her, the epitome of haughty mastery. “What purpose would have been served?”
“I wouldn’t have been so alarmed if I had known.”
“I wanted you to be alarmed. I don’t take lightly the occurrence of a strange young woman wandering about the district.”
“Do you often feel threatened by strange young women?”
“It depends on how strange they are.” He moved behind the desk. “Won’t you take a seat?”
She had been insulted, and by a master. With a flounce, she seated herself in a cushioned chair directly opposite his.
He remained standing. “I must tell you, I was not impressed with your response to me when you thought me a robber. You are inexperienced in such matters—”