Page 10 of The Governess and the Brooding Duke
Were they afraid of him? He had never put his hands on them, not once. But he did know that his expression could be formidable. His entire countenance, in fact.
He had been told so. Frequently.
Jane had been soft with them. And he had appreciated that. For all that they might have had their conflicts, their quarrels, Jane had been a wonderful mother. Loving. She had no problems demonstrating affection, physically and emotionally. He had considered her, in that way, a helpmeet. She had possessed something that he did not, and it was greatly appreciated.
And gravely, greatly missed.
‘This is Miss Smith,’ he said. ‘She is to be your new governess.’
He could’ve sworn that when his daughter smiled her teeth looked sharp. ‘I will tolerate no disrespect of Miss Smith,’ he said.
Her smile fell just slightly. Good. He did not need her concocting new ways to scare off a governess. There had been spiders in tea, there had been mice put into slippers. Shoe polish in cosmetics, and on it went.
He might have been proud of the innovation of it if it was not so wholly and catastrophically inappropriate.
Your father kept you in line. Perhaps what you remember as a house of horrors was what was necessary in order to keep the devil child in line.
He dismissed that thought.
He would not beat his children. He would not leave them outside all night to contend with the elements. A picnic in the afternoon in a drizzle was one thing.
His children would never fear for their lives.
And if they harassed a few more governesses because he refused to rule them with an iron fist, then so be it.
‘Hello,’ she said, her voice mild and pleasant. He didn’t mind the hint of Scotland, he decided then.
It was different.
Her voice rolled over certain words pleasantly. Melodically. The brogue itself was gone, but there was a rhythm that was very different from a typical English accent.
The children ignored her.
‘Elizabeth,’ he snapped. ‘Michael. Greet Miss Smith as she has greeted you.’
‘Hello,’ both children muttered.
‘It is very nice to meet you,’ she said. ‘How old are you, Elizabeth?’
‘I’m eleven,’ she said.
Far too old to be throwing tantrums and overturning tables, but he did not say that.
‘And you, Michael?’
‘I’m eight,’ he said stoutly.
He noticed a subtle shift in Miss Smith’s facial expression. ‘That’s very nice,’ she said. ‘Very good ages.’
‘They are not,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It’s a horrible age.’
Miss Smith seemed to think about this for a moment. ‘All right. If you insist.’
Elizabeth clearly didn’t know what to do with that. She blinked, and frowned, but had no rejoinder.
‘And the babe?’
‘He’s sleeping,’ Elizabeth said.
