Morgan chuckled, winking at Miss Lewis, whose cheeks became pink at his charm. Ambrose was jealous once more. He knew she must have found his lightheartedness refreshing, a stark contrast to the brooding intensity that usually filled his home. He shook his head as he led them into the drawing room.
The next hour was a whirlwind. The boys tore into their gifts—mechanical soldiers and illustrated books—while Morgan sat on the floor with them, narrating battles.
When the butler announced that it was nearly time for the boys’ supper, Arthur grabbed Morgan’s sleeve.
“You must stay for dinner, Uncle Morgan!”
“Oh, please,” Philip said, tugging on the other. “We have plenty; I am sure of it! Maybe we can even all dine in the grand room!”
“You have to!” Arthur cried. “I want to tell you how Miss Lewis showed us science experiments!”
Morgan looked up, putting on a tragic, theatrical face. “Alas, my brave knights! A true peer of the realm cannot simply sit at a table uninvited. It is against the ancient laws of… well, of everything I suppose.”
Philip turned his wide, pleading blue eyes toward Ambrose. “Uncle Ambrose, please? Can he stay?”
Ambrose sighed in protest, though he couldn’t hide the softening of his gaze. “Very well. Morgan, will you join us?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” Morgan grinned.
“And Miss Lewis!” Arthur shouted, running over to her. “Oh, she must dine with us tonight, too! She tells the best stories!”
“Oh, no, Arthur,” she said with a delicate smile. “That wouldn’t be proper. I’ll eat in the schoolroom, as usual.”
“But it’s better when you’re with us,” Philip whispered, reaching for her hand. “The table will be too big without you.”
She knelt to him then, speaking gently. “My dear boy, I am part of the staff. It isn’t the way things are done in a grand house like this. The Duke and his friend have matters to discuss that?—”
“She will dine with us.”
The command was quiet, but it cut through the room like a blade. Ambrose stared at her, his expression unreadable, his jaw set firmly as he awaited her retort. And everyone else, in turn, stared at them.
“Your Grace, it isn’t necessary,” she said, her voice a soft protest. “It is most kind, but I wouldn’t want to cause any?—”
“The boys would like your presence,” Ambrose interrupted, his blue eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made it hard for him to breathe. “And as you are responsible for them, it is only practical that you are there to manage them properly. Besides, I am the master of this house, and I am telling you to sit for our supper. I won’t take no for an answer, Miss Lewis.”
Morgan’s eyebrows shot up with a click of his tongue. He looked between his friend and the governess, a knowing, mischievous glint in his eyes. Ambrose cast him a dark look.
“Very well, Your Grace. If you insist,” she answered.
“I do,” Ambrose said shortly. He turned to Morgan, his tone returning to a business-like clip. “Come, Kirkhammer. Let theboys finish their afternoon lesson. We have things to discuss in the study before the meal.”
As Ambrose led his friend away, he didn’t look back. Yet, he could still feel the phantom heat of Imogen’s blush as if it were a part of his own body.
Behind him, Morgan leaned in and whispered, “Practical for her to attend the dinner, eh? You’re about as subtle as a cannon blast, Welton.”
Ambrose ignored him, but his heart was hammering against his ribs. He had just invited a maid to his table in front of another Duke, friend or not. He was breaking every rule of his class, and the worst part was, he didn’t regret it. Not at all.
In the privacy of the mahogany-paneled study, Morgan didn’t even wait for the door to click shut before he let out a low, appreciative whistle.
“Practicality, Ambrose? Really?” Morgan leaned against the desk, his eyes dancing with amusement as he pressed. “You’ve invited agovernessto a formal dinner with Dukes. If you wanted a child-minder, you could have sat her at a side table at most. You want her at your right hand because the woman is a marvel.”
“A marvel? What is the meaning of this?” Ambrose sighed.
“She’s quite proper for a servant. She’s also, quite frankly, the most beautiful thing to grace this house since… well, ever. I can see why you’d want to admire her.”
“She is an employee, Morgan,” Ambrose snapped, though his focus on the decanter of brandy was a fraction too intense. “The boys are unpredictable. She is the only person they respond to. It is a matter of household management.”
“And I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury,” Morgan quipped with a dry laugh. “You’re smitten, you old rake. She may be an employee, of course, but I think you’ve met your next conquest.”
