Chapter Eight
Heathcliff licked his fork clean, then glanced at his plate, which held only the crumbs remaining from the treacle tart. Never in his dreams had he tasted anything so delightful, and he had tasted a great many things—delightful, pleasurable . . . things. The wicked thought brought a grin to his lips and he set the fork to the side of the plate, then rose from the table. It was blessedly quiet, and he paused to absorb the peaceful atmosphere of the room. Certainly it would be far more crowded during the evening meal.
Three constituted a crowd in his opinion—especially when the facility was his home.
His normally reclusive and very private home.
Bloody women.
But even as he thought back to the ladies in question, he couldn’t help but allow himself to linger on the governess. There was something about her that seemed . . . more. It was a simple word, with a complex meaning. Belatedly, he wished he had asked more questions regarding her background and references, but at the time, he was simply happy Lucas had solved his problem.
The nagging sensation remained, and in his gut, he knew something was amiss with the governess. And in his profession, one always trusted their gut instinct.
People lied.
They cheated.
And would risk everything to keep from being caught in either trap.
He wasn’t sure which category the beautiful woman fell into, but he was certain it wouldn’t take long to discover.
In fact, it would be a diverting little game he’d engage in, flirt with, and enjoy.
“Ach, did you taste it at all?” Mrs. Keyes rounded the corner and placed her hands on her ample hips.
Heathcliff chuckled. “Near enough.”
“Well, ’twill be more at dinner tonight. I’m taking the liberty of inviting the girls to dine with you,” Mrs. Keyes informed him.
“I see you’re still not asking my opinion on matters and such.” Heathcliff gave her a wry grin.
“I ask ye on the matters I want your opinion. On the others, I’m inclined to give you the option that’s best for ye,” she sassed with a grin. “Are you opposed to dining with the ladies?” she asked, growing more serious.
Heathcliff shook his head; no need to make her question her decision. After all, it was the one he’d have made as well, even if he hadn’t felt like it. “ ’Tis all well and good.”
“Good,” Mrs. Keyes replied. “I’m assuming you’re heading to your rooms to freshen up a bit. I had Emily tidy up the room this week, and I just sent up the footman to ensure the fire’s warm for you.”
“Mothering me still,” Heathcliff teased, bowing to the woman.
“Ach, you still need it,” she replied, hitching a shoulder. With that, she bustled past him in the hall, leaving him to the promised refuge of his rooms. He strode down the hall, the ground slightly creaking under his weight. A pained smile pulled at his lips. The house was alive with memories; even the sound of footsteps told a thousand tales.
Of when his father would stride down the hall, so powerful, immovable, strong.
Till he wasn’t.
And the stride became a shuffle.
And then nothing at all.
But it was an honor to the great man’s legacy to remember the years of health, of strength. It was also a painful reminder of how short Heathcliff had fallen when trying to measure up to the standard his father set.
He shook his head to dispel the memories and took the stairs that wound up to the second floor. Sunlight spilled into the room from the grand windows that stood guard over the hall, the air warm. He glanced out to the hills beyond the windows, mentally making plans to take his leisure in hunting the grouse that wandered there. It would be a welcome change of pace from the bustle of London.
London had its other charms.
But he didn’t miss those at the moment. He would eventually, but now . . . now he was simply happy to keep to himself, to have no expectations placed on his character, his reputation, or living up to either.
The metal of the handle was cool against his hand as he opened the door into the first of his suite of rooms.
