“Lady Clara!”
The little imp laughed so heartily that she clutched her belly. It was evident she considered this trick to be full of hilarity.
“What would have happened, Lady Clara, if I had drunk from this glass and the bee became lodged in my throat?”
Clara stopped laughing and stared at her with wide eyes.
“If I had begun to choke, do you know how you could have provided me with aid?”
She shook her head with regret.
Finally, remorse!
“I had considered today’s lesson out in the sun in the beautiful garden to be a treat, but you have shown yourself to be undeserving. I want you to return to the classroom and write an apology.”
Maribel was expecting resistance and steadied herself to stay firm, but instead, the child nodded.
“I am very sorry, Miss Maribel. I did not even think of that.”
Maribel knew she could easily say all was forgiven and comfort her, but then the lesson would not stick. She needed to be firm.
“You need to think about your actions. Actions have consequences.”
Clara nodded obediently and made her way back to the manor. Pleased with the outcome, Maribel inwardly congratulated herself. She had even turned the lesson into a test to gauge Clara’s writing skill.
Maribel watched Clara dutifully pen her note of apology with satisfaction. The feeling was marred by the interruption of His Grace, who wanted her to join him for the evening meal to discuss Clara’s progress. Progress? It had been two days. And Clara had been horrid. Too distracted by his request, she ended her lesson with Clara and went to freshen up and use the quiet time to think of the evening ahead. It was endearing how he had peeped over Clara’s shoulder and complimented her writing. It was evident that Clara was not accustomed to this attentiveness from her father, and she had revelled in the kind words he had spoken. The sweet moment had tugged at her heart, seeing the harsh man soften with fatherly attention.
Maribel ignored the voice inside her head that taunted her that this was the reason she was so concerned with her appearance—pinching her cheeks and tightening her stays to enhance her attractiveness. All the thoughts were going back and forth in her mind, like a buzzing bee darting in and out of the flower’s centre in search of pollen. Bee. Her thoughts travelled to earlier, and the contrite apology letter penned by Clara. It was the first piece of work her young charge had produced where she had put in effort. The writing was legible and neatly spaced. There were a few minor spelling errors Maribel was already planning on using in their next lesson. Things finally seemed to be improving with Clara, but what about the duke? The man was maddening with the to-and-fro of mixed feelings he incited with his contradictory demeanour. Cold as a winter’s morning frost one moment, and the next, warming her skin with a simple look as if she was naught but kindling.
She sat at her dresser and brushed her hair, dragging the brush in heavy strokes through her thick, brown tresses. Thomas—as she referred to him in her mind—had asked her to eat with him later this evening. The request had seemed casual, just an unassuming question as he had taken his leave. But this did not abate the underlying tension this man had aroused, as she recalled what it had felt like when she was last in his presence. It was the glint in his grey eyes and the tension in the air that surrounded them, like the humming of a bee you hear up close. The moment had reverberated, making it visceral. Egad, back to the bee again! She needed to stay calm, knowing he, too, would be baiting her. Maribel had not anticipated that she would be required to strategically navigate her charge and her employer like a Roman centurion leading a legion of men to war. Taking one last look at her appearance and giving her cheeks a final pinch, she decided she was ready to march.
Chapter Eight
The dining room was not usually a space of mirth. It could, at times, contain a steady stream of chatter or polite nonsense, but usually meals were silent and what he preferred. However, tonight was the first time he could recall where the silence—the absence of any words, just the clinking of cutlery—made him feel awkward. He—a duke, a man of standing, of import—was uncomfortable seated at his own dining table as a result of a simple governess. A simple governess whose honied voice he yearned to hear. Looking at her, he gave a small shake of his head.
The chit is anything but simple, he conceded begrudgingly.
Her manners were impeccable. Put the latest fashionable gown on her body, and she would be comparable with any lady of standing. The cream and brown of her ensemble on their own were dull, nondescript colours. On her body, he could not help but note the way the cream brought out the softness of her skin. The brown skirts drew warmth from her chestnut eyes. He was trying to eat, focusing on his next mouthful, but the tightening in his groin kept making him place his fork down. Her movements were dainty, her small bites chewed slowly, and for a moment, he wanted to laugh at how oblivious she was to the tension suffocating the room. Or so he thought.
“Is there a problem Your Grace?” she asked without looking at him.
“Problem?” he repeated, caught by surprise.
“Yes. A problem. You keep looking at me in the most peculiar way.”
Damn her! But why does her besting me delight me at the same time?
“Is that so? And how would you know that I have been watching you? You have not turned my way, not once.”
In response, she finally looked up and made eye contact. And she smiled. A wicked, seductive smile.
“Well now I know for certain, as you just confirmed it. Your Grace.”
Termagant! It seemed she was determined to infuriate him! And the way she addressed him—she said the right words, Your Grace, but he noted the hint of disdain when she did so.
“Well played, Maribel. Savour the moment, as it is not often, if at all, that you will best me. And when we are alone, you can call me Thomas. See if my name can roll off your tongue with less disdain than when you address me by my standing.”
Ahh, the hint of a rosy blush taints her creamy cheeks.
