A few dumbfounded seconds passed before Jake choked out, “You’re refusing my daughter?”
Mrs. Bloomquist looked to the ceiling as if gathering her patience to proceed forward with a room of inattentive students. “We like to mold our girls from the youngest age possible. That is, from the time they are capable of acting like proper human beings. That is, from the age of ten.” Her gaze lowered to meet his. “You see, by age fifteen, the clay is quite set. Unmoldable, if you will.”
“Ten? Is that number derived from a scientific analysis?”
“Please, take a seat, my lord. You appear agitated.”
He searched the room for a suitable chair, but saw only five or so empty school desks arranged in a semicircle. “In one of these?”
“If you please.”
His mistake became apparent the moment he squeezed himself into a desk. First, he was going to have one hell of a time extracting his six-foot-four frame from its grasp. Second, he’d ceded the power position to Mrs. Bloomquist. Was that the hint of a smile curving her lips?
She glanced at her pocket watch and made her way to the door. “My lord, if you will please wait here, I must attend to a matter of some importance.”
“Must attend to one of your proper human beings?” he’d asked. He regretted the acid in his tone when the woman flashed him a suppressive scowl before exiting the room.
Ten minutes later, here he still sat. If he ever succeeded in disengaging himself from this desk, he might consider kicking himself for having goaded the woman. This school was an impeccable match for Mina. Its emphasis on mathematics—“Notjust sorting household ledgers,” Mrs. Bloomquist had informed him—and natural philosophy, including physics and astronomy, led him to the conclusion that here was a place where Mina would not only fit in, but one where she would thrive.
Additionally, the students learned French, piano, tea etiquette, dancing, and needlework. “After all, that is the world in which they live,” Mrs. Bloomquist had added on a resigned note.
In short, within these four walls lay the exact school for which he’d been searching since he and Mina had arrived in England. And he’d irritated its headmistress.
He began formulating a strategy for how best to deal with the woman. He would try charming her. If that didn’t work, he would cajole. If that didn’t work, he would bribe.
Mrs. Bloomquist had her price. His days in the sea trade had taught him that everyone did. What made a Mrs. Bloomquist tick?
A body sailed past the doorway, and he braced himself for the woman’s return. His anticipation turned to shock when a wispy blonde head peeked around the doorframe and wide, blue eyes blinked once. A beat later, the rest of her followed. There, framed by the doorway, stood a perturbed Lady Olivia Montfort, staring a hole through him as if she could obliterate his presence with the heat of her gaze.
Her mouth opened, then closed. It opened again, then closed again, her discomfiture evident by her flawless imitation of a fish gasping air. At last, she got out, “Lord St. Alban? How is it that you keep popping up everywhere I am?”
~ ~ ~
Olivia had finished meeting with the board of directors and was about to get on with her day when she caught a glimpse of a large form seated inside what was supposed to be an empty classroom.
Was her mind playing tricks on her? Or was that form a man?
A quick first glance confirmed the room’s sole occupant was, indeed, a man. A second glance revealed the man to be none other than Lord St. Alban crammed into the smallest desk imaginable for a man his size, legs splayed out into the aisle like a recalcitrant schoolboy in need of a good paddling.
Oh. Where had that come from? She didn’t even believe in corporal punishment for children.
Her eyes traced long muscular thighs outlined by tight-fitting buff buckskins that conveyed the illusion of naked skin. This man was no child . . .
She gave herself a mental slap, barely aware that they were conversing. What was it she’d last said? Oh, yes . . .
“My question stands, Lord St. Alban.” Her insides gave a tumble at the use of his name. She must collect herself. The man’s powerful thighs were of no consequence. “What is your business here? I thought you a burglar. We don’t get many men in the school.”
The horizontal line of his mouth firmed. “I’m here to discuss with Mrs. Bloomquist the possibility of a place for my daughter.”
Olivia nodded. “I imagine our school would benefit from adding Miss Radclyffe to its ranks. She strikes me as most impressive.” She absently picked up a piece of chalk from the board beside her and pivoted toward it. The burn of Lord St. Alban’s gaze threatened to set her back aflame.
“Has Miss Bretagne been here long?”
“She was the school’s first student two years ago.” A face began to emerge from Olivia’s hand.
“That would make her twelve years of age?”
Olivia’s hand stilled, and she half turned toward him. “I’m not certain that is any of your business, but yes.”
