The jiggling, purple-black mass reminded him of the girl again, whose eyes had widened when Katy had told her he cooked jam.
A grin flitted over his face. Her expression had been priceless.
She’d been reserved about her background, but he wondered what had really happened that she found herself in such a situation. What girl with her breeding willingly left her family to live with complete strangers who were beneath her station, to make a living? It was very likely she didn’t have a choice; despite the Banbury tale she’d dished up. Baron who lost his fortune, bah. It was none of his business, really, but something must’ve happened for her to resort to such desperate measures. And here he’d never even given her a chance but sent her back to the streets again.
A pang of guilt shot through him.
Her simple dress couldn’t camouflage that she was of quality. This had been more than clear by her manners, comportment, and her speech. Her speech! Philip could’ve banged his head against the stony kitchen wall. Why hadn’t he realised that from the moment she’d opened her mouth? He must’ve been too distracted by her eyes and pretty figure. Only the upper class talked in that posh, elevated manner. He despised that accent with every fibre of his soul. She was also a terrible liar.
Philip frowned as a niggling sense of suspicion reared its head. Who was she? What had brought her here? And why the deuce was he still thinking about her when he’d already sent her away?
Blast it, his children did not need a governess. They had done well all these years without one. He’d have to try harder to fulfil Katy’s needs. Very well, so she wished to learn more than how to calculate the speed of a balloon when it rises. Maybe he could ask whether the mayor’s wife would be so kind as to teach his Katy a thing or two about how to behave properly in society. Curtsying and fluttering with the fan and all the feminine arts that ladies needed to know. But that was as far as he’d go.
He’d show the world that the Merivales could get by very well without a governess, thank you very much.
Especially if that governess had sparkling blue eyes and a proud tilt to her chin.
Something stirred inside him.
He supposed he was hungry for the jam.
Thunder crashed as loudly as the cannonballs over the fields of Quatre Bras.
No. Louder.
He dropped the ladle and dollops of scalding jam splattered on his arms.
Another boom.
Jove’s beard. He hated thunder. He hated any kind of loud, sudden boom that reminded him of the war.
Philip picked up the ladle and gripped it hard, his knuckles sharp and white. A sheen of sweat formed on his upper lip and his heart pounded in his chest. This was how he’d felt before he was about to charge. The sweetish stench of death already wafted through his nostrils.
It was only the jam, charred at the bottom of the pot.
He blinked, shook himself and shoved the pot away from the stove.
“It’s just thunder. Lightning produces a vacuum, and air rushes in it to prevent its collapse. It’s the motion of air that makes such a racket. Almighty Jove. When is this going to stop?”
Rain poured down in violent gusts.
He peered out of the window and could barely see the trees outside.
“Katy!”
“Yes?” The girl stuck her head into the kitchen.
“Watch the little ones. I’m going to take Hector and the cart. I have to rescue that woman before she drowns in the storm.” Squashing his hat on his head, he muttered, “Or dies of fright.”
“Capital!” Katy’s face brightened. “Is she going to be our governess after all?”
Philip grumbled.
Another deafening clap of thunder made him jump.
He swallowed, then braced his shoulders and went out into the storm.
Chapter 6
