“I…. Umm…. That is a most interesting question. Well, of course, Philip. He is your uncle and my employer. It is only right that I hold him in high regard. I am grateful for the…opportunity to be under his employ.”
“No,” Arthur interjected, abandoning his stick to look at her with piercing green eyes, eyes that reminded her far too much of the man in question. “We mean, do youfancy him. Like how Father fancied Mother.”
Imogen’s breath hitched. She was afraid this was where the conversation was heading.
Can these boys read my innermost thoughts?
The memory of the schoolroom, the scent of brandy and the electrifying pressure of Ambrose’s strong yet delicate touch threatened to overwhelm her.
“That is… a very different thing altogether,” she mumbled, busying herself by smoothing the front of her dark wool skirts. “I am your governess. Such things are not for us to discuss. I am but an employee of the household. Nothing more.”
“But if that is true, why do you both stare at the floor when you see each other? Should you not look at Uncle when he speaks to you?” Philip’s tiny brow furrowed in consternation. “Or have you done something wrong?” He continued. “When Arthur and I do something naughty, we cannot look at each other without laughing.”
Arthur shook his head. “I never do anything naughty. You must not let your imagination run wild.”
Philip sent his brother a quizzical look, having missed the teasing note in Arthur’s tone. But then, he turned his gaze once more upon Imogen and asked earnestly, “Why are you and Uncle suddenly so cold to one another? It is like when the fire goes out, and the room gets all shivery!”
Imogen knelt on the grass, taking Philip’s hands in hers. The weight of this observation was heavier than she had expected. She could feel that it affected him.
“It is called propriety, Lord Philip,” she explained gently, though the word felt like a lie on her tongue. She wanted to be anything but proper. “Your uncle is a Duke, and I am a member of his staff. There are rules for how we must behave to ensure everything remains… orderly. It is important to be proper. I hope that I can teach you that?—”
“Rules are boring!” Arthur declared, interrupting her with a huff.
“Rules keep us safe,” Imogen countered, though she wasn’t sure she believed that fib herself.
Before Arthur could offer another quick remark, the air seemed to chill even more as a strong breeze came across the park. Imogen looked up and felt her blood turn to ice.
How can matters go from bad to worse with a mere gust?
Strolling down the path toward them, draped in expensive silk and wearing an expression of practiced disdain, was Julia Terrell, the Countess of Presholm.
“Move along, boys. Quickly,” Imogen whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs at the sight of her.
She tried to guide them toward a different path, but Julia had already spotted them.
“Well, well,” Lady Presholm’s voice called out as it arrived before she did. It was a sharp, shrill sound that set Imogen’s teeth on edge. “If it isn’t the little turncoat and her brood of street urchins.”
Imogen stood tall, shielding the boys behind her. “Lady Presholm. A good afternoon to you.”
The Countess didn’t acknowledge the greeting. She stopped a few feet away, her eyes raking over Imogen’s simple green dress with a sneer. “I see His Grace’s unique charitable pursuitsextend to allowing his servants to loiter in the park. And these…” She looked at Arthur and Philip as if they were mud on her hem. “The infamous twins. You’ve certainly managed to make them look as common as the dirt they’re kneeling in.”
“We are not common!” Arthur shouted, stepping out from behind Imogen. His face was flushed with the same defiance he had shown when he first met her. “We’re explorers from France!”
The Countess let out a theatrical gasp, pressing a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her mouth. She looked around at the other park-goers, her voice rising for their benefit, as if she were the leading lady in her own cursed play.
“Oh, heavens! Did you hear that? Such savagery! To speak to a lady in such a manner. It seems His Grace has hired a governess who teaches insolence instead of manners. Tsk-tsk.”
“Lord Arthur, please,” Imogen said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. She looked directly at her stepmother, her voice steady despite the tremor in her soul. “He is a child, My Lady. Kindness is often the most effective teacher, and he was merely defending his brother and himself.”
Julia scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Kindness? You are as naïve as you are duplicitous, girl. You should be teaching them their place, though I suppose that is difficult when they are half-commoners, aren’t they? It’s in the blood. One cannot expect a thoroughbred to come from a stable yard union. But of course, you know that.”
Imogen felt a flash of white-hot rage. She could endure her stepmother’s insults to herself; she had for years. But to speak of the boys’ heritage with such venom was unforgivable. It took everything she had not to claw the bonnet from Julia’s coiffed head.
“That is quiteenough, My Lady,” Imogen said, her voice dropping to a low, lethal calm that reminded her of the Duke. “I will not have you speak to them that way. Good day to you, Lady Presholm.” She turned to the boys, her jaw set. “Lord Arthur, Lord Philip. We are leaving.”
As they began to walk away, Arthur lingered for a second. To Imogen’s surprise, he turned and ran back toward Julia.
Before she could stop him, he threw his arms around the Countess’s waist in a brief, sudden hug.
