Page 2 of When She Was a Governess
She sat in one of the chairs positioned in front of his desk.
“As you can see, I’ve received your resignation,” he said, each word deliberate. “And I find myself unwilling to accept it.”
Her breath caught. For a moment she could only stare at him, unsure if she’d heard correctly.
“I’m sorry, Lord Montrose, but you must. My brother insists.”
She found it hard not to stare at the man. Henry Montrose was, unfortunately, much too handsome. Tall and broad-shouldered, he carried himself with an ease that came from breeding rather than arrogance. His wavy hair, a shade somewhere between chestnut and mahogany, caught the firelight. She had a sudden impulse to run her fingers through his brown locks.
Where had that come from?
He was clean-shaven, his jaw strong, his mouth firm but not unkind. However, it was his eyes that unsettled her most. Brown and clear, and far too perceptive. They held a stillness that suggested deep thought, perhaps loneliness, and yet, when they turned fully on her, she felt seen in a way she had not often experienced in her life.
“I don’t understand, Miss Ford. Why does he insist?”
She swallowed. It still jarred her to hear anyone call her by her false name. However, she’d had no choice. Using her real name would have opened her up to unwanted scrutiny. “It’s a rather long story.”
He sat back in his chair, watching her. “I’ve all the time in the world, Miss Ford. There’s a storm coming in.”
The storm gave him more time? She put that aside to think about later.
“My brother is Lord Ashford.”
He stared at her, brow knitted. “Lord Ashford cannot be your brother.”
“But he is. James Ashford is also my brother. We are the three Ashford siblings who lost our position in society when our father was falsely accused of murder and hanged.”
“I know the story.” He frowned, shaking his head, almost as if he didn’t believe her. “You’re Sophia Ashford.”
“That’s correct, my lord.”
He didn’t speak for a moment, but when he did, his tone was deadly calm. The kind of calm that chilled Sophia to the very bone. Baron Langston had spoken that way, right before he lost his temper and pulled out his riding whip. Sophia covered her scarred right hand with her left, a habit she’d developed years ago.
“And why is it, Miss Ford, that you have lied to me and my staff about your identity? Or should I say, Miss Ashford.”
Anger flared for a quick second. How could he ask that question? Wasn’t it obvious? “It was prudent that I kept my noble birth to myself, my lord. Our family was in disgrace, leaving me with no choice but to become a governess.”
“I see.”
Sophia looked down at her lap. “I’m sorry I lied, my lord. However, it was necessary at the time.”
“And now?”
“And now, Sebastian—Lord Ashford—wants me to have a Season. To marry well.”
“Is this what you want?”
To Sophia’s horror, her eyes filled with tears. She brought her left hand to her aching throat. “It is not, my lord.”
“And may I ask why?”
“I shall not like to leave Amelia.” The words came out broken, and suddenly she couldn’t stop the tears. They spilled hot and fast down her cheeks, and with them came a sob she hadn’t known was building—deep and wrenching, pulled from somewhere behind her ribs. Her hand pressed to her mouth,trying to contain it, but another sob followed, then another. “I love her very much.” The confession came out as a whisper, raw and helpless.
His dark eyes glittered, although his expression softened slightly.
“My brother gave me a year, but the time is now expired. I must go to London.”
“To the marriage mart.”
