“Miss Lewisham, I shall remind you that I have hired you to govern my daughter, not myself, so please refrain from teaching me lessons.”
Her cheeks flamed, and she opened her mouth as he braced himself to be lashed with her tongue.
“You are correct, Your Grace, and I do apologise. I am but a lowly governess.” She spoke coolly to his surprise. They stared at each other for a moment, and she broke contact first, walking away without a word. Thomas stepped inside his carriage and took a seat, pondering her words.
A lowly governess? But she is just a governess? Am I to feel bad for this or be the one to blame? Such impertinence—why do I find it so attractive? He realised it hurt him that she would say such words. In his unkindness, what else would she think? It was clear to him this trip to London would be filled with the maddening chatter of his own psyche.
Chapter Eleven
Maribel stared out the window at the sky—which had brightened her day with sunlight and warmth yesterday—that was now melancholy, the shade of ash at the bottom of a fireplace.
Melancholy to match my mood and the deep unease that has settled inside me.
The duke—she would no longer think of him as Thomas—had kissed her fervently, like a man starved of thirst, only to bid her adieu as if she was the lowliest of his employees.
What treatment did I expect after resorting to such wantonness?
Cursing herself, she replayed the lustful exchange and was unable to prevent the flipping sensation in her stomach. Maribel could not deny she had willingly received his affection, nor could she deny that she had enjoyed it. She was left to wonder whether mere moments of bliss were worth everlasting regret?
“Miss Lewisham, did you hear what I asked? What am I to do next?”
Shaking herself, she turned to Clara, who sat beside her on the pianoforte chair. The child was watching her impatiently, awaiting her next instruction. Which was a welcome surprise. The events of yesterday must still resonate, as Lady Clara had been obedient and in a positive spirit, even suggesting Maribel begin her pianoforte lessons. Thankfully, Clara—who had played her a song as soon as they sat down—had an ear for music and a natural talent, one Maribel did not possess but could surely teach. Music fell on her ears without eliciting joy or displeasure. It was just sound, sound that could register as good or bad.
“I am sorry, My Lady, you will have my full attention. I want to understand your knowledge further. Press each key starting with A working to G, and between each stroke, I want you to wait a few moments to just allow the sound to wash to over you.”
Nodding, Clara began right away, and Maribel could not help but feel pride at the obedience she demonstrated.
Her father has not the faintest idea about how best to raise this young lady.
The thought of Thomas made her jaw tense. He insulted her. He kissed her. He admonished her.
Blazes! Why can I still feel his lips upon my own? Was I branded?
Maribel was prepared to admonish herself for such a missish thought, but the loud clanging of the pianoforte broke through her rumination.
“How sweet, Miss Lewisham, it is a kitty!” squealed Clara.
Maribel glared at Mr Whiskers. He should know better than to demonstrate such impolite behaviour! He returned her glare with a sniff and moved his attention to Clara, who was happily patting the length of his back, telling him how sweet he was. He purred with satisfaction and hopped onto Clara’s lap and curled up.
“Can we keep it? What shall we call it? How do we know if it is a boy or girl?” Clara peppered her with these questions, not taking a breath. Her excitement was palpable, and Maribel withheld a sigh. Mr Whiskers had captured her heart, and this was a side to Clara she had not yet seen. Sweet and caring.
“I think he is a boy, so why don’t we call him Mr Whiskers? See how they are very long?”
“Yes, they are, and that is a dimber name! And look, you can tell he likes it! Don’t you, Mr Whiskers?” Clara crooned to the preening cat.
“On the topic of keeping Mr Whiskers, your father, I believe, does not enjoy a cat for a pet.”
“He will if I say I want to keep him,” Clara replied smugly.
This time, Maribel let the sigh escape. No doubt she was right, but that was beside the point. She was determined to make Clara less brazen—it was unbecoming.
“I shall think on it. Now, enough hum and haw! Let’s return to your lesson. Place Mr Whiskers on the ground.”
Maribel eyed him to ensure he obeyed, and despite a reproachful glare, he curled up under the chair.
“Now, Lady Clara, let us begin again with hearing to the sound of each key.”
Chapter Twelve
