Rules for a Proper Governess (11 page)

Bertie shut her valise with a snap, blinking back her tears. She’d go. She’d hurry down the stairs as soon as Sinclair was safely cuddling with Mrs. Thomalin, slip past Peter, and let herself out. Back to the cold darkness of a London winter.

In the next room, Caitriona cried out in her sleep.

Bertie found herself abandoning the valise and any thoughts of escape to hurry to the nursery. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t leave them alone, could she? Cat and Andrew needed her—that had been clear from the first day.

Cat was all right, sleeping peacefully by the time Bertie reached her bed. Whatever dream had disturbed her had gone. Cat’s eyes were closed, her breathing even, her arm snugly around her doll.

The doll stared up at Bertie in the light of the low-burning lamp, smiling as though to say all was well—she was standing guard. Bertie pressed a light kiss to Caitriona’s forehead and moved across the room to Andrew’s bed.

Which was empty. The sheets were rumpled, the pillow dented, and Andrew McBride was nowhere in sight.

Satiation. That was key. When bodily needs overtook the senses, it was time to relieve them so one could concentrate. Even doctors said that.

Sinclair looked into Clara Thomalin’s eyes as he shut the door on his upstairs study, taking in her smile, her blue eyes, her pleasing curves. She was pretty, willing, and as lonely as he was. Nothing wrong with passing a night together. They were grown people, had both been married and could be discreet, knowing the way of the world.

So why did Sinclair feel so much reluctance? This was bodily passion alone—it was for Clara as well, he could see. They’d come together, soothe their desires, and return to everyday life.

Clara’s smile widened as Sinclair slid off his frock coat then came to her and put his hands on her shoulders. Her bodice was cut to expose much flesh—shoulders, upper arms, and breasts to just above her nipples. Clara’s skin was cool, not much heat in it, and its color was what ladies called alabaster. Pure white, like a statue. A woman who hid herself from the sun.

Was the rest of her body as pale? Clara had very fair hair, true blond, no artifice. Which meant her hair elsewhere wouldn’t have much color either.

A contrast flashed through his mind—a young woman with dark hair, pink cheeks, and a mouth widening in delighted laughter. A Cockney accent and a teasing tone while she told him exactly what she thought of him.

Sinclair closed his eyes, shutting out the vision, as his lips met Clara’s cool ones. Clara knew exactly how to kiss—her answering pressure was demure enough to indicate she didn’t have this sort of liaison all the time, firm enough to tell him she’d shared a bed with a man before and liked it.

No unpracticed but enthusiastic kisses that meant she was excited to be kissing
him
. No shy smile when she drew back, no excited laughter.

Don’t think about it. Just get on with it.

Sinclair slid one arm around Clara and pulled her up to him. She wasn’t any warmer when closer.

He moved his hand to her breasts. Clara exhaled in satisfaction, but good Lord, this woman’s skin was
cold
. Perhaps he should summon a doctor—

Thump. Thump.
“Mr. McBride?”

Sinclair ripped away from Clara, his heart banging. She stepped back, startled and flushing. “Who?” she mouthed.

Bertie
. The name burst into Sinclair’s brain, but he said nothing.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. McBride.” Bertie’s voice was stiff and stilted, trying to mask the London backstreets in her words. “I need to come in.”

“The governess,” Sinclair said softly. He put a hand on Clara’s chilled shoulder. A shawl—that’s what the woman needed. It was December, for pity’s sake, and she’d bared a good portion of her body to the winter air. Astonishing she wasn’t sniffling with a head cold. “I’d better see to it.”

Clara nodded, understanding. She had children, she’d told Sinclair, two grown sons. They’d spent most of their childhood at school and now university. She’d looked surprised when Sinclair had mentioned that Andrew hadn’t yet been shipped off to a school.

Sinclair strode to the door and wrenched it open before he remembered he was in his shirtsleeves. Bertie stood on the threshold, her eyes bright, but not with mirth. She took in his loosened shirt and rumpled waistcoat with a look that told him she knew exactly what was going on in here.

“Andrew is missing,” she announced.

Clara, hidden from Bertie’s view by the door, looked concerned. Sinclair gave her the faintest shake of his head.

“Andrew is frequently missing,” he said to Bertie. “Find Macaulay and ask him to help you search the house. Macaulay knows all his hiding places.”

“I don’t have to search the house,” Bertie said. She had so much color in her—dark blue eyes, pretty flush of her cheek, red lips. “I know exactly where he is. If you’ll just let me . . .”

Bertie ducked under Sinclair’s arm and into the room before he could stop her. Her warmth spilled over Sinclair as she brushed past, and he wanted to lean into her, gathering her heat to him. He’d tumble her mussed hair, bury his face in it.

Bertie walked past Clara, pretending not to notice her, and heaved open the double pocket doors that led to Sinclair’s bedchamber. She swept inside Sinclair’s bedroom without hesitation, striding straight to his bed.

The room inside was dim, only one gaslight turned low for illumination. Bertie turned the light up with a competent hand, and threw back the covers from a lump in the middle of the bed.

Andrew exploded out of the blankets, launching himself directly at Sinclair, who staggered back as he caught his son.

“Papa!” Andrew shouted, flinging his arms around his father’s neck. “I was waiting for you!”

Andrew was so
warm
. Love flooded Sinclair, and he gathered his son to him in a hard embrace. Andrew’s love poured back over him, the boy generous with it. Holding him was like waking from a bad dream to relieving reality.

Andrew soon squirmed, not liking to be confined. “Put me to bed, Papa. And tell me a story.”

Sinclair was supposed to grow outraged, thump Andrew to his feet, thrust him at Bertie, and snap at her to mind her charges. Banish his only son so that he could get back to the business of carnal satisfaction.

“All right, Andrew,” Sinclair said. “I’ll take you up.”

He glanced at Clara, who looked disappointed but also understanding. The understanding made Sinclair soften a little toward her. She couldn’t help that her skin was as cold as a dead fish’s.

“Bertie, fetch Macaulay and tell him to see that Mrs. Thomalin gets home. I’ll lend her my carriage.” Sinclair made a bow to Clara. “Good night, madam.”

Clara returned the nod politely, as though they were still fully dressed in the reception room filled with people below. “Of course. Good night, Mr. McBride.”

Bertie, again pretending not to notice her, moved past Sinclair and through the door, her skirts holding her heat as they flowed past Sinclair’s legs. Sinclair followed her out, carrying Andrew up through the darkness to the bright warmth of the nursery.

By the time Bertie returned from fetching Macaulay and closed the door, Sinclair was tucking Andrew into his bed, the planned night with Clara Thomalin dissolving into nothing.

Bertie sat nearby, mending Andrew’s shirt—Andrew ripped his clothes every day, so there was always mending—listening while Sinclair told his son and daughter stories about his travels in the army.

He’d been to Egypt and the Sudan, had seen the wonders of the pyramids and tombs of civilizations long gone. The two children laughed or shivered, depending on the story, hanging on every word their father said. He really had a way with them, Bertie observed as she stitched. Pity he had to shut himself up with his dry papers and his stuffed-shirt fellow barristers all the day long.

After a while, eyes grew heavy and both Cat and Andrew began to yawn. Sinclair kissed Andrew’s forehead, then carried Cat, who’d come to Andrew’s bed to listen to the stories, back across to her own bed. He laid her in it and tucked the covers around her, making sure to include her doll.

When Sinclair turned to Bertie, however, the fatherliness fled and the sternness of the barrister returned. He beckoned for her to follow him out into the hall and firmly shut the nursery door.

“Andrew wanted to see you,” Bertie said quickly, before Sinclair could speak. “You can’t blame him.”

“I don’t. I blame
you
.” Sinclair folded his arms and fixed her with a severe look.

A delectable picture he made, to be sure. His shirt stretched across his wide shoulders, cuffs straining over thick wrists. His waistcoat hugged his tight torso, and his open shirt gave her a tantalizing glimpse of brown throat.

“I can’t chain him to the bed.” Bertie clenched her hands. “Or sleep stretched across the door. Wouldn’t matter—Andrew would just climb down the drainpipe. Letting him open the bedroom door himself is safer.”

Sinclair’s brows drew down, his frown unfortunately making him even more handsome. “I’m paying you to watch
them.”

“Only until you hire a new governess, you said.” Bertie shook her head. “You ain’t really angry because I wasn’t watching Andrew. You’re angry because you wanted to get into that woman’s knickers, and I stopped you. A mercy I did, wasn’t it? Imagine, you taking her all cooing and sighing into your bedroom and dropping her right down on top of Andrew.” She broke off with a laugh. “That would have been something to see.”

Sinclair took a step closer and unfolded one arm to point his finger at Bertie’s face. His cuff rode up his wrist, revealing a round, puckered scar. “
You
work for
me
. That means what I get up to in my own house is my business, and nothing for you to speculate on. ‘That woman,’ as you call her, is a friend to my sisters-in-law.”

“I saw them bring her in.” Bertie cocked her head, studying the tip of his finger. “A tart is still a tart—don’t matter that she’s in thick with duchesses. I saved you some bother, you know. She’d have found some way to twist you into marrying her so she could get her hands on your money. I’ve seen her
sort before.”

Sinclair’s mouth tightened. “Mrs. Thomalin is a widow with plenty of money—” He broke off, as though realizing he had no idea of her financial situation. “And I have no intention of marrying—” His words cut off as he drew a long breath. “Anyone.”

“In that case, she truly is a tart,” Bertie said.
And here’s me, pretending I’m all virtuous when I’d give anything to take her place.

Sinclair’s broad forefinger jabbed at Bertie again. “You have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Yes, I do. I mean, it doesn’t matter if she’s upper crust. People are people, ain’t they? She wants your body, but she’ll take your money too, if she can get it.”

“Stop.”

“I’m only saying what I see.” Bertie made herself shrug. “So you missed taking some time with her. Serves you right for never coming home, and being so grumpy when you do.”

Sinclair’s face went deep red. Bertie knew she’d gone too far, but the hurt that clenched her insides wouldn’t cease. Let him sling her out into the street—Bertie had survived before, and she would again.

With a great empty hole in her heart.

Sinclair took another step toward her, and Bertie moved back, until she found herself pressed into the wall. There wasn’t much in the way of furniture on this landing, just bare walls and one gas lamp between the two rooms.

Sinclair hemmed her in, his warmth driving away all chill. She could see nothing but him, hear nothing but his voice, the rest of the world receding into a vague blur.

He was speaking again, saying something-or-other, his broad finger an inch from her nose. He kept his nails nicely trimmed and clean, though his blunt hand was more suited to holding a sword than a pen. “Bertie, you—”

Bertie, her heart thumping, leaned forward and nipped the tip of his finger.

Sinclair froze, words dying, his gray gaze fixing on her mouth closing on his fingertip. His chest rose sharply.

“Bloody hell,” he whispered.

The next thing Bertie knew, she was flat against the wall, her hands lifted over her head. Her wrists were trapped in his grip, the wallpaper cool to the backs of her fingers. Sinclair leaned to her, close enough that the barest inch separated their bodies.

Bertie’s heart thumped and thudded, her hands confined under his strong, firm fingers. She smelled the cloying note of Mrs. Thomalin’s perfume on his clothes along with his crisp male scent and the sweetness of champagne.

Sinclair closed his eyes, head bowing a little, and leaned nearer. “You are so warm.”

“Well, it is stuffy in here,” Bertie whispered. Sinclair’s house shut out much of the winter cold.

Sinclair shook his head, thumbs caressing her wrists. He came closer still, his nose skimming her cheek. “So warm.”

Let me warm you then. I’ve got it to spare.

Sinclair pulled her left hand away from the wall. His long body was nearly against hers, but not quite. A breeze, if there was one, could pass between them. The light pressure of his thighs on Bertie’s skirts and his hands on her wrists were their only points of contact.