“Is that so?” Imogen asked calmly as she breezed into the room and sat primly in a seat near the door.
She didn’t scold him for standing on the furniture. Instead, she picked up a book of fables.
“That is a pity. I had planned to translate the story of the lion and the mouse, but I suppose if we are too busy throwing paper, the lion will simply have to stay trapped in his net. Poor lion…”
“Wait a moment, Miss Lewis,” Arthur paused, one foot hovering in the air. “Does the mouse save the lion?”
“See, that’s the thing. I can’t quite recall,” Imogen said, tilting her head. “The ending is in Latin. Perhaps we could look at it together? After you step down from that chair, of course. A commanding officer should always be on level ground with his troops. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Miss Lewis,” Arthur huffed, but he climbed down.
“Now, why don’t you both grab some paper and quills, and we will get to work. I have a feeling this story is going to be riveting!”
By the end of the hour, both boys were huddled over the desk and hanging on her every word as they worked through the Latin text together to learn the fate of the lion and the mouse.
Imogen didn’t demand perfection. Instead, she indulged in their need for curiosity.
When Philip accidentally knocked over an inkwell, he flinched, bracing himself. Imogen simply reached for a blotter.
“Accidents are just opportunities, Philip,” she said gently, guiding his hand to help her soak up the mess. “This time, we learn how to clean ink. Next time, it won’t be so bad.”
“Thank you, Miss Lewis,” he said with a small smile. “That makes sense.”
“I am so very glad, Lord Philip.”
From the shadows of the hallway, Ambrose watched them through the cracked door. He had intended to intervene at the first sign of a tantrum, but he found himself rooted to the spot.
The tantrum never came.
He watched the way the light caught the stray copper curls at Miss Lewis’s nape. He watched her smile, a real, genuine smile when Philip had finally read a sentence correctly.
There was a grace to her movements that tugged at something deep in his chest, far deeper than he’d ever expected.
A dalliance with a lonely widow was one thing, but to be bewitched by a member of his staff was quite another.
He had to be careful.
Realizing he was staring like a schoolboy, even from the shadows, Ambrose turned and retreated down the hall, his heart thudding.
She is an employee. You are a Duke. And you have a duty to your brother’s memory,he scolded himself.
He couldn’t stay in the house. The air felt too thick with her presence.
He had to getout.
An hour later, Ambrose found himself in the dim corner of his gentlemen’s club, White’s. He swirled a glass of dark scotch in his hand.
Across from him, Morgan Sedgewick, the Duke of Kirkhammer, was leaning back in his chair, howling with laughter.
“The stairs? They greased the bloody stairs?” Morgan gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. “By God, your nephews are legends in the making. They will give us a run for our money!”
“It isn’t funny, Morgan.”
“You remember what we did at Eton… to the headmaster’s quarters. I wonder if they ever got the paint off?”
“I’ve gone through five governesses in six months,” Ambrose grumbled, his eyes distant. “This is no time to stroll down memory lane. They need to learn some sense.”
“And this new one? Is she truly the neighbor’s maid?” Morgan’s laughter subsided into a sharp, intrigued grin. “A bold move, even for a rake like you who plays by his own rules. Breaking into a peer’s house to kidnap his staff? It’s practically medieval.”
