“That looks good, Ian,” she praised the child, as he proudly displayed his writing. The letters were disproportionate in size, and two of them were written backwards, but they were legible. Certainly a fine effort for a three-year-old boy. “Now let’s concentrate on our counting. One, two, three . . .”
Dutifully Ian chimed in, and Isabella’s voice gradually faded away, allowing him to recite the numbers on his own.
Isabella returned to her canvas, pleased she had decided to conduct the afternoon’s lessons outside. The weather was sunny and inviting, and Isabella was enjoying the fresh air as much as her young charges.
Catherine and Ian had suggested the rose garden on the north side of the castle for their lessons, and Isabella approved of their choice. It was the only garden on the estate that showed any attempt at maintenance. There were still many weeds in the flower beds and the unclipped hedges were unusually high, but the stone path was passable and the rose bushes healthy and blooming.
“Father!” Catherine’s voice rang out with excitement. She dropped her paintbrush heedlessly and hastened toward the earl.
Damien appeared suddenly from behind a tall hedge. He sauntered casually into the rose garden, slapping his riding crop idly against the top of his muddy boots as he walked. He greeted his daughter warmly, then turned his attention to Isabella.
She hid her astonishment at his unexpected appearance and felt the now familiar pounding of her heart begin. “We are having our lessons outside this afternoon,” Isabella explained.
“So I gathered,” the earl replied with a slight smile. He moved in front of Catherine’s easel to gain a better view and commented on her watercolor.
“Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty.” Ian, who had wandered behind a large, overgrown hedge, was not visible, but his singing numbers could be clearly heard.
“Ian is practicing his counting,” Isabella remarked unnecessarily.
“Yes,” the earl remarked. “I can hear him.” Damien parroted his son’s unusual numerical sequence with a smile. “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, twenty-ten, twenty-eleven. A new system I am unaware of, Isabella?”
“He is making progress,” Isabella proclaimed breathlessly, her color heightening. “Ian, come back here, please.”
“I’ve come to take the children riding this afternoon,” the earl said when Ian appeared. “If they have finished with their lessons for today.”
“I’m done, Father,” Catherine declared with a final swipe at her painting. “We’ll change into our riding clothes and be right back. Hurry up, Ian.” Catherine threw down her paintbrush with a flourish, grabbed her brother’s hand, and the two rushed off.
Isabella correctly interpreted the earl’s frown and intervened before he could reprimand the children for leaving without waiting to be dismissed. “We really are finished for the afternoon,” she said softly.
“Will you join us, Isabella?” Damien stood by Isabella as she packed up the paints and paintbrushes.
“I don’t ride.”
“Taken one too many bad spills?” Damien inquired with sympathy.
She did not answer immediately, frowning intently at the materials in her hands. “Actually, I don’t know how to ride,” she finally admitted in a soft voice. She sat down on the stone bench and gracefully adjusted the skirts of her plain gown, hoping Damien would simply let the matter drop.
He lifted a dark eyebrow in surprise. “Didn’t your grandfather, the earl, insist you learn?”
“No,” Isabella replied curtly. Damien moved closer, and Isabella slid along the stone bench away from him. Ignoring her movement, he braced his booted foot on the bench. Casually resting his elbow upon his upraised knee, he gazed down at her.
“And why is that?”
Isabella saw the open curiosity in his handsome face and contemplated her options. She was well within her rights to tell him to mind his own business, but she hesitated to do so. She was fast becoming attached to The Grange and prudently decided that if she wanted to make a home for herself here, it would be far better if the earl learned of her strange parentage sooner rather than later. If Whatley Grange was truly as unconventional as the earl claimed, it should not matter that the new governess was, for all intents and purposes, a bastard.
“My maternal grandfather, the Earl of Barton, took no interest in me,” Isabella stated flatly. “If memory serves me correctly, he spoke directly to me fewer than a dozen times in the three years I lived on his estate.”
Damien thought her statement rather odd and wondered at its accuracy. Emmeline always loved to be dramatic. Surely Isabella was overstating her case. “Did he take offense at your bold manner?” Damien asked, searching for a cause. “No, my lord,” Isabella replied slowly. “He took offense at my illegitimate birth.”
The statement was calmly, almost casually given, but Damien was not fooled. Isabella’s hands were white-knuckled with tension as she awaited his reaction.
“You were ill-treated?”
Isabella contemplated her reply. “On the first morning I was in residence at the earl’s estate, my great-aunt Agnes summoned me to the morning room. She greeted me hurriedly and instructed me to stand by sunny windows on the east side of the room so she could view me clearly. I wanted very much to make a favorable impression, and though puzzled, I did as she bade me.”
Isabella took a steadying breath before continuing her story.
“Great-aunt Agnes then paraded each and every male member of the household staff who was in service at the estate while my mother resided there through the room and told them to stand next to me.”
