Imogen willed herself to remain polite, knowing full well the implication of the word.
Arrangement.
“It is a privilege to serve His Grace and the children, My Lady,” Imogen replied, her voice a flat, respectful monotone as she bowed her head. “I find much purpose and fulfillment in my newpositionas governess.”
“I’m sure it is most fulfilling,” the Countess sneered, her eyes narrowing as she once again looked her up and down. “Especially for a girl of your… background. Tell me, do the boys still act like gutter-born urchins, or has a few weeks of your tutelage performed a saintly miracle?”
“They are wonderful children, My Lady,” Imogen said, her hands tightening in fists by her sides.
Lady Presholm glanced through the shop window at Arthur and Philip, who were now laughing on the pavement and holding small parcels. They began waving at Imogen, motioning her to come outside, as they had clearly outstayed their welcome with the shopkeeper.
Imogen watched Lady Presholm’s expression shift from disgust to a cold, calculated pity as she clicked her tongue. Lord Presholm was eerily silent as his eyes remained fixed on Imogen.
“I apologize, but it does appear they are ready to return home. If you will excuse me?—”
“It is a tragedy, really,” Julia said, loud enough for the other patrons circulating the shop to hear. “His Grace is a man of duty, even if he is prone to sentimental lapses in judgment. He will have to marry soon, of course. You know this, I am sure. A Duke cannot rely on wards forever. He will require a proper Duchess to provide an heir and manage a household of that stature. It is only natural and right.”
She leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a hiss that only Imogen could hear then.
“A man like Welton may dally with the help when he is lonely and burdened, but he will always return to his own kind when it is time to build a nest, you wretch. You are a temporary convenience, Imogen, to mend his household. A distraction. Do not mistake his charity for anything else.”
Imogen felt as though she had been plunged back into the freezing lake. The words were a death toll to her waking heart, much as she tried to temper it. Julia was right, which is what stung most of all. She was a lowly maid who was masquerading as a governess. She had only ever been a girl with a tarnished name. She had no family, living in a world of marble and titles where she was, at best, a shadow.
“We must be going, My Lady,” Imogen whispered, her vision blurring as she watched the boys start to jump a bit closer to the busy street in their excitement. “They are waiting for me.”
She rushed out of the shop door without purchasing new mittens. She quickly gathered the boys with sharp urgency, ushering them away from the shop and down the street. As they walked back toward the Welton townhouse, which ironically had to be situated next to Presholm House, the grand stone pillars and perfectly manicured hedges of Mayfair seemed to mock her very existence. They looked like the bars of a gilded cage she had no right to occupy.
Lady Presholm’s words echoed in her mind as she tried desperately to listen to the boys talk about what they had purchased.
Remember what you are.
Imogen knew that she was not a part of Ambrose’s world. She was merely a guest in it, and her time was running out. Fast. She barely felt the bite of the wind as she stepped back onto the pavement, her movements wooden and stiff.
“Miss Lewis, are you quite all right? You are walking fast,” Philip panted, skipping to keep pace with her frantic stride. He reached out to grab her hand, but she flinched reflexively before softening her touch.
“My apologies, Lord Philip. The air is turning cold,” she managed to say, though her voice sounded hollow, as if it were coming from the bottom of a deep well.
A temporary convenience,she thought.A distraction.
Every grand facade they passed, the towering limestone columns, the gleaming brass knockers, the footmen in their stiff liveries, seemed to sneer at her. It was as if they could smell the inferiority of her breeding emanating from her. She was a fraud in a borrowed cloak, playing a part that had no happy conclusion.
As they rounded the corner toward Berkeley Square, a tall figure in a well-tailored navy coat emerged from a hatter’s shop, nearly colliding with them.
“Steady there! It is called an afternoon stroll, not a mad dash,” a cheerful voice rang out. “Boys, Miss Lewis!”
Imogen blinked, forcing her eyes to focus. It was His Grace, The Duke of Kirkhammer. Unlike her Duke’s often stormy countenance, this Duke’s face was usually lit with a crooked, knowing grin. But as his gaze fell on Imogen, his smile faltered.
“Miss Lewis?” he asked, his tone shifting to one of genuine concern. He glanced at the boys, who were busy inspecting a puddle, then back at her. “You look as though you’ve just seen a phantom. Or perhaps a tax collector.”
Imogen tried to summon her usual mask of professional decorum, but it slipped. She could not even laugh at his well-timed joke. Her lower lip trembled for the briefest of seconds before she bit it down on it.
“It can’t be as bad as all that,” he said, placing a hand on her shoulder.
“Your Grace, I am just distracted, is all. I… we were just returning to the house. It is nothing. The wind was turning cold, and I didn’t want Lord Philip to be out too long. You see, this is his first time out since being so ill, and I wanted it to be a joyous occasion. And it was! Until she?—”
The Duke of Kirkhammer narrowed his eyes, leaning in slightly.
“She?” He pressed.
