“But then again, I might.” She crossed her toes.
“I want… I want to learn about…” Amelia closed her eyes. “I want to learn more about…mathematics.”
Amelia’s eyes snapped open, toes uncrossing. “Mathematics? Do you? In what manner?”
“Numerical…” Her lips joggled. “Codes and conundrums and suchlike.”
“Er…”
“Great-Aunt Rebecca grumbled it was unfeminine,” she blurted, “even though Mother said I had an aptitude for them.”
Amelia swallowed. She herself worked with numerical cyphers all the time, so if it meant she would retain this employment for longer… “Well, I have an aptitude for numerical conundrums also. Perhaps we could work upon some?”
“You d-don’t find it…unfeminine? I thought a governess would frown upon such a subject. Great-Aunt Rebecca said people would look at me strangely if I could multiply fractions. That gentlemen at balls preferred a milksop with big bosoms.Not that I care.” She stared at her thin flat chest. “And I haven’t any bosoms.”
“It’s true, Phoebe, that some men prefer milksops, but there are plenty who want more than that.” She thought of Lord Rainham’s mathematical genius of a wife Lily who could clear a gambling den of its profits within an hour. “And many ladies have to manage their household accounts.”
“Oh, I–”
A knock interrupted and the door opened.
“Miss…Jones?”
“Yes, Mr Cruikshank?” And why did he keep hesitating before her surname? Or false surname to be truthful. She studied his elongated aspect and pale eyes; she’d never met him before, of that she was certain.
“Mr Cadwalader has requested your presence.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“Very well.” She twisted. “Phoebe, perhaps you could write down a mathematical conundrum that you know of and we will try to solve it together?”
Her lips formed a slight, very slight, curve. “Yes, Miss.”
So, seizing Miss Appleton’s book, as one should never be caught napping, Amelia followed the starched coat-tails of Cruikshank past the ballroom, down the stairs, through the hall, and into the study where she’d first been interviewed.
“Miss…Jones, Sir.”
See…
And the butler closed the door.
Mr Cadwalader rose from behind his pedestal desk, all muscular male grace and confident ease.
That curious flare of flame lit once more.
Perchance she had a fever?
Gathering her composure, Amelia inhaled, only to be greeted by a spice cologne of cinnamon and leather.
From beneath demurely lowered lashes, she scoured his aspect for any signs of dissipation from his gallivanting last night as she’d not heard his return till nigh three of the morn.
Yet except for those shadows below his eyes, which quite frankly added to his dangerous aspect, he appeared in fine fettle – alert and handsome with those perfect lips perennially on the verge of a smile.
She curbed her own lips from smiling, wiped all expression from her face, curtseyed and made two wishes: that these meetings would not become a daily occurrence and that he ask naught of her plan for lessons.
Hugh splayeda hand for Miss Jones to sit, shoved his own rump into the comfy leather and considered what to ask. Although his ducal cousin had married a governess, he himself had never had cause to make the acquaintance of one. What did they do all day?
