Page 27
He’d grossly understated the truth.
Mercy Feathers was, in a word, exquisite.
She’d quite literally stolen his breath. For several excruciating heartbeats in which the organ had thrashed around behind his breast bone, he couldn’t draw a single breath or blink.
Possessed of green eyes the shade of the lush woodland ferns he’d seen in America and the most striking red-gold hair he’d ever laid eyes upon, had she debuted for a London Season, she’d have been an original.
A diamond of the first water, assuredly. The incomparable of the Season.
Alabaster skin, so creamy and smooth as to be almost ethereal, had flushed a pretty peony pink when she’d realized who he was. Her bronze-tipped eyelashes had fluttered closed for a heartbeat, creating a thick fringe of lush mahogany fans on her flawless cheeks.
With commendable resolve, Miss Feathers had gathered her scattered composure and invited him inside.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” she’d said, the dual ribbons of her peach-tinted lips thinning the merest bit. “Do come in.”
Nothing in her bearing, comportment, or attire suggested she was a flirt, demimonde, or in any way the immoral seductress Bralen had implied.
“Her sort is never content with being subservient,” Bralen had said, contempt sharpening the edges of his derision. “They’ll use their body and wiles to seduce a Godly man. The Bible warns us of sirens like Miss Feathers. Best be on your guard, my lord. She’ll not be happy when she receives her congé. I’d advise you to not give her a letter of reference either. She’ll just prey on another poor unsuspecting soul. He’ll soon become besotted, and she’ll entangle him in her web of sin.”
The solicitor had peered so hard at Ronan during that last part that he hadn’t a doubt the man directed his unkind speculations at him.
Web of sin, indeed.
Ronan would warrant that the only person spinning tales was the intolerant solicitor.
“When I require your advice, Mr. Bralen, I shall ask for it,” Ronan had replied.
By that point, the arctic air was far warmer than either his tenor or demeanor.
As if he’d ever take up with a woman in his employ.
The Brockman men did not dally with their female staff, and neither did the current marquess or his father before him.
“A true gentleman never forces his attentions on a female in his employ. She won’t resist your overtures because respectful positions are precious commodities for women. Remember that, my boys,” Father had said. “Treat your female employees with the same respect you’d want your mother and sisters treated should, God forbid, their circumstances ever be reduced.”
Hands clasped behind his back, Ronan perused the tidy, tastefully decorated room. Not the garish display of wealth he so often observed amongst le beau monde, but quality, comfortable furnishings meant to be used.
The staff was diligent, despite their master having passed just over two months ago. Their devotion was commendable as well. Few servants stayed on without wages for that long. He would promptly set to rights that oversight and include a much-deserved bonus for the staff’s loyalty.
He hadn’t yet decided what to do about Miss Mercy Feathers.
Take her to London or dismiss her?
Running a finger down his scar, he stared out the window at the gardens showing the first brave signs of spring.
He’d not pass judgment based on another’s accusations—especially Bralen’s. The man was a sycophant toad. Something about him made Ronan’s spine tingle in wariness. Besides, dismissing Miss Feathers might prove catastrophic regarding his new wards.
She knew them.
He didn’t.
It was as simple as that.
Bellamy and Arabelle must be at the forefront of all of Ronan’s considerations forthwith—including when he would next sail to India or America.
Mayhap he’d need to postpone his next journey.
Soft murmurings and the sounds of small feet approaching alerted him to his wards’ arrival. Striving to don an inviting mien, he faced the doorway, angling his profile so that the girls would first see the unblemished side of his face.
