The Earl and the Governess

William Stanton didn’t seem to be anticipating that. He leaned back into the sofa and crossed one leg over his knee. ‘May I ask why?’

Because she was already thinking about kissing him again and finding it hard not to stare at his lips. Because she didn’t think she’d ever be able to look at him the same way again.

‘Well, I…I should do so, since you’ll return Mary to school soon.’

‘I’ve made no plans yet.’ He rose and walked close, stopping just a few feet from her, his gaze wandering across her face. ‘I’ve no intention of kissing you again, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

She took a rallying breath. ‘I still think I should find another position.’

‘But I quite like you here.’

His voice was soft, seductive, and she fi nally met his gaze—a mistake, because she became trapped by his hypnotic eyes. Eyes that had gone dark, that travelled down her freckled nose to settle on her lips. He was leaning in—or was she imagining it? She felt her eyelids begin to droop. There’d be little harm in one more kiss if she planned to leave anyway. Just one, and then she’d pack her belongings.

Sarah Elliott grew up in Pennsylvania and studied English at Smith College. She moved to London in 2003 and lives there still. In addition to writing, Sarah enjoys cooking, art, antiques and classic films. She loves to hear from readers and can be contacted at [email protected]

Previous novels by this author:

REFORMING THE RAKE

THE RAKE’S PROPOSAL

www.millsandboon.co.uk

17 May 1822

Ouch.

William Stanton frowned and sat up, rubbing his injured head. He’d been sleeping peacefully until his driver had reined the carriage to an abrupt standstill, causing him to hit his head on the brass hook that held the velvet curtains back. He glowered at the front wall of his carriage, in the general direction of his driver’s back, but McGrath was already remonstrating loudly with some obstacle in the street.

‘Wot th’ bloody ’ell you doing?’

Will stuck his head out of the window and craned his neck to see what was blocking their passage. A vegetable-laden cart had apparently pulled out in front of them, and as it swerved to avoid them, it nearly overturned, losing half its load. The rotund greengrocer who’d been driving it was now collecting his belongings with deliberate slowness, picking up each cabbage head and carrot one at a time while smirking at McGrath.

Will sighed and sank back into his seat, regarding the scenery outside his window and wondering how long this would take. He’d been away for four days and was eager to get home. He’d neither planned nor desired to leave London in the first place; the event had been thrust upon him by one Miss Matilda Hume, headmistress of Miss Hume’s School for Girls. His goddaughter, Mary Weston-Burke, was a student there. She’d become his ward three months ago, when her father died—meaning, apparently, that whenever she decided to put a newt in her French tutor’s teacup it was now Will’s responsibility to sort things out.

Frankly, he thought Miss Hume had made rather too much of what seemed to be nothing more than a childish prank. There was, he’d pointed out during their meeting, no actual tea in the cup, and therefore the newt had not been in peril. Miss Hume was more concerned about Monsieur Lavelle, who’d nearly suffered une crise cardiaque.

He hoped he’d managed to smooth things over.Apparently young Mary was a bit of a hellion, although he’d not have known it from the sallow, quiet creature he’d treated to tea.

McGrath had chosen a direct, but not picturesque, route through east London. Shabby buildings, many with boarded-up windows, lined the pockmarked road, and the only businesses that seemed to thrive were public houses. The curious stopped what they were doing to stare at his gilded carriage with resentful eyes. Filthy dogs with protruding ribs sprawled on the pavement unattended, while a group of ragged children entertained themselves by rolling a hoop.

And then he noticed a rather pretty girl, walking briskly not far from his carriage.

Will had known enough beautiful women that most did not turn his head, but he made an exception this time, perhaps only because she looked so entirely out of place. She was taller than most of the people who surrounded her, including the men. He’d caught just a glimpse of her face, but he’d noticed high cheekbones and full lips. Her skin was fair, in keeping with her unruly chignon of red hair. He wondered if she had freckles, and he wondered where she was going and what she was doing there to begin with. She was nicely, although not fashionably, dressed. Her high-waisted muslin gown followed the lines of the current style, but made no other concessions to trends. She appeared modest, respectable and perhaps even rather severe. And that just didn’t make sense. For a woman with a face like hers, in a neighborhood like this, the only money to be made was on her back. But she definitely wasn’t a doxy.

He realised he wasn’t the only one watching her. Two men, sitting lazily on a wall in patched trousers and heavy labourer’s boots, allowed their heads to rotate as she passed them. She seemed to be oblivious to the attention and walked on, head held high.