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guardian accepts the position. I am confident you will do so.

After all, you were one of my best students.

~ Mrs. Hester Shepherd in a letter to Miss Mercy Feathers

Masterson residence

The salon

Before Ronan could wrap his mind around that truth, Miss Feathers cleared her throat.

Halfway into the room, with a gentle palm to either of their narrow shoulders, she guided the girls forward. Each wore black from toe to top, as was the custom for those in mourning. Nevertheless, it only served to remind Ronan how much these three females had lost.

How very dependent they were, including Miss Feathers, on others' munificence.

It was a precarious position at best, more so for the governess. At this juncture, she did not have a letter of reference, and Ronan still hadn’t decided what course to take with her. The truth of it was—and it was very unlike him to waffle about important decisions—he rather thought how she presented herself the next few days would decide the matter.

That and the glaring issue as to whether she’d been Masterson’s mistress.

He swept his gaze over her, aiming for impartial scrutiny and failing miserably.

In short, Miss Mercy Feathers was an extremely desirable woman, even draped in understated mourning togs and her hair swept into a tight chignon. Nothing about her gown was the least provocative, and yet…yet there was an unmistakable aura of femininity about her.

That allure had beckoned to him from the instant she’d thrown the front door open and demanded to know what he wanted.

Ronan hadn’t decided whether it was a deliberate ploy on the governess’s part or if it was an intrinsic part of Miss Feathers’s nature. Some women emanated a miasma of seduction. When they learned to use that gift to mesmerize men… Well, the mythical sirens who lured sailors to their deaths were amateurs compared to those Jezebels.

The question was, was Miss Feathers one of them?

Dragging his attention from the woman who’d plagued his thoughts far more than he’d care to admit, Ronan examined Bellamy and Arabelle.

The black frocks gave his wards a washed-out complexion, but the somber shade on Miss Feathers only accented her glorious strawberry blond hair, ivory skin, peach-tinted lips, and stunning green eyes.

Enough.

He ordered his male appreciation to stow it.

Only a complete debaucher and libertine looked upon his employees with anything other than a professional eye. And for the immediate future, Miss Feathers was in his employ.

Other than slightly pale, Ronan’s charges looked well. Their eyes were bright, their clothing well-tended, and their hair neatly brushed and plaited. They were slight of frame, but that wasn’t unusual for growing children.

Unless…had they gone hungry these past months?

From beneath hooded eyelids, he examined Miss Feathers more closely. Her gown hung slightly loose on her willowy frame, and a frown pulled his eyebrows together. Had grief for her lover dampened her appetite, or had lack of food caused her weight loss?

Summoning what he hoped was a warm, paternal smile, Ronan half bowed. “I am very pleased to finally have the pleasure of meeting you, Miss Bellamy and Miss Arabelle. I regret I didn’t come sooner. I was in America on business and only just returned.”

The corners of Miss Feathers’ eyes flexed the merest bit.

What? Had she thought him negligent on purpose?

“Your father was a great friend of mine,” Ronan said with an easy smile meant to put the girls at ease. “In fact, he saved my life.”

Miss Feathers’s attention veered to his scar for a fraction before flitting away.

Astute woman. She’d made the connection without him having to explain how he’d come by his injury.

At his admission that Masterson had been Ronan’s friend, a bit of the girls’ wariness eased. They cast cautious glances at Miss Feathers before slowly stepping forward. Each executed a perfect curtsy while simultaneously saying, “My lord.”