But he was aware, acutely aware, that the man they were seeing at that moment, the strutting dandy, the ridiculous macaroni, was not him. And that was good. It was very, very good.
Baron Tewkbury was hiding not only from the world, but from himself. But of course, that was something he would never admit to himself.
CHAPTER SIX
Having finished dressing, he minced his way down the stairs with his bejewelled cane and passed the open door of the drawing room.
He stopped. Blinked. Retracted his steps. Stared.
There was a woman on the floor. On all fours. Her rather shapely bottom turned towards him.
She raised her head, her red hair gleaming in the sunlight.
He inhaled sharply.
A small, dark-haired imp scuttled on hands and knees on the floor beside her.
"Well done, Noni. Now try to take the second thread of wool and connect the two lines, then you have a perfect 'A'. See? Well done!"
She sat up and clapped.
It was this schoolmistress who'd saddled him with the child. There had been something in her eyes that seemed to suggest she thought the boy might even be his illegitimate child. Since he couldn't be sure, he'd agreed to take the child in.
Now, thanks to her, he had a child when he needed a wife.
He'd made the offer, but she'd run away. Now she'd come back; hopefully that meant she'd changed her mind.
Which was convenient for him, but something else hit him, the implications of which hadn't sunk in until now: she was a schoolteacher.
He looked glumly at her copper-red hair, which had lost its charm in an instant.
If there was ever a race of people in this world that he detested, and there were few, for Edmund was generally a man of tolerant, genial disposition, it was most certainly schoolteachers.
They had been his bane, his nightmare, his curse.
They'd ruined his childhood.
They'd wounded his soul.
And he'd seriously considered proposing marriage to her. Scratch that, he'd already done it.
He imagined his wife being a schoolteacher.
Was he mad?
If he could ignore the fact that she belonged to that hated breed of people, she would be perfect for the position.
Her head snapped up to meet his gaze.
"You've returned." His fingers fumbled for his quizzing glass.
She flushed and scrambled to her feet. "Oh. Good morning, my lord." Her eyes grew to round saucers again as she beheld him. "Your butler said you were busy and not to be disturbed." She made a vague gesture with her hand. "I, uh, wanted to check on the child."
She was wearing a blue dress today, plain and mud-free.
The child smelled much better than yesterday, sweet and clean. Yesterday, he had smelled of sour milk, and there had been an overpowering whiff of horse manure that had enveloped both of them, as one or both of them had undoubtedly stepped into a pile. Edmund stifled a shudder.
The child jumped up, and would you know, stepped towards him with an outstretched hand. The little blighter was about to repeat the saliva-covered handshake of the day before.
