Page 2 of The Governess and the Brooding Duke
She might not have been prepared for him specifically, but she was more than prepared for moments where she was out of her depth.
Where she had to crane her neck as if trying to keep her head above imaginary waves, to keep herself from drowning.
This was what she did now.
She did not look around the stately, well-appointed library, she did not look down at her feet. She met those blue eyes, even though she was terrified to do so. And she smiled.
‘It is lovely to make your acquaintance, Your Grace. I have not read the letter the Earl sent you, so if there is anything in that letter you found lacking I shall be happy to supply the information needed.’
He frowned. The corners of his mouth only turned down just slightly, and yet it was as if the temperature of the room had changed.
‘You’re not English.’
Angst speared her like an arrow, or perhaps it was not her own angst, but that frank, assessing gaze of his.
She had not been wrong.
Hedidsee into her.
She was prepared for much, a woman in her position had to be. But she was not prepared for that.
No one outside of boarding school had ever questioned her origins. Notanyone. Her accent was good enough to fool the two employers she’d had, and any person she’d had casual acquaintance with. If anyone were to think there was something wrong about her accent, they might think she was simply a girl from Cheapside trying to sound above herself. But no one had ever suggested she wasn’t English.
Her story was easy. Concrete and well-practised. The child of a merchant who had befriended a duke, and upon his death, his child had earned the patronage of the Duke’s family.
A lie. A story stolen from the Duke of Kendal’s wife, but with permission. Because of her connections to the Laird of her clan, who had paid for her new life in England, Kendal had agreed to act as her patron in England. She had met the man only twice, and his wife four times. But she had been given their explicit instruction to use this story to give herself legitimacy, and so she did.
Yet here that story crumbled, beneath the stark blue gaze of the Duke of Westmere. She knew she could not lie to this man. Not outright.
In which case she had to hope that he didn’t ask the right questions. She had to hope she could bend around his sharp pointed questions and supply answers that were close enough. She also had to hope he didn’t score any direct blows she couldn’t recover from.
You could not bend around a sword if it had run you through.
‘No, Your Grace, I am not.’
‘MissSmith.’ It was a question, but a demand for information. A wealth of disbelief and condescension in those two simple words she’d chosen as her name.
Mary Smith might understand propriety, she also didn’t possess the ability to shrink. She was not a fearful girl any more, and she would not be cowed now. She had lived through too much horror to find the inspection of the peerage to be an assault.
Her secret to making her way through life was that she did not elevate people in her heart. Yes, she knew the rules of society. She observed them. She was practical in all things.
But she believed no man to be better than her, regardless of his title.
She did not shrink beneath the gaze of a man simply because he was male and had been born into an advantageous position.
‘A name that was given to me when I came to England to be educated. My benefactor is the former Lady Penelope Hastings, whom I met after she came to Scotland.’
‘I know the name.’
‘The Duke of Kendal took part in overseeing my safety in England.’ This was the truth.
‘Well connected.’ This was not said with admiration.
She did not require his admiration.
‘I am fortunate. There were not many opportunities for me in Scotland, and yet here the world has opened to me.’
She did not tell him she was from what had been a decimated clan in the Highlands, restored by Lachlan Bain upon his return from war with an English bride. Or that Penny had taken an interest in her, not because she was smart, but because she had been sad.
