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“Oh, none of that ‘my lord’ business, please.” Grinning, he winked. “My father, the marquess, is my lord, and my eldest brother quite likes all that pomposity. Sanford most assuredly would expect you to address him as my lord. However, I would consider it the highest honor if you were to call me Ronan as my friends do. For, I do hope we shall be friends.”

Sanford wouldn’t approve. But then again, Ronan’s older brother didn’t approve of most things.

The girls exchanged wary, uncertain glances, then sent questioning looks to their governess, seeking her approval.

To be perfectly proper, as he was a marquess’s second son, his wards ought to address him as Brockman until they became better acquainted. He could almost see the wheels in Miss Feathers’s pretty head churning away as she tried to decide what would be appropriate.

Or…did she think he tested her on her knowledge of etiquette?

Were there hard and fast rules for how one’s wards addressed their guardian?

Likely there were, but he had no idea what those strictures might be, and neither of his parents had thought to impart to him any wisdom they might have on the matter. Sanford would likely have a stack of fusty books on the subject, probably memorized word for word, while Ronan’s youngest three siblings would agree with him.

Using given names always lent to a closer relationship.

“Perhaps Lord Ronan for the present?” Miss Feathers said in that rich, dulcet tone that made him feel as if he’d slipped into a hot bath liberally dosed with almond oil.

Very clever.

Just inside the boundaries of respectability.

“Yes, that’s perfectly fine,” Ronan agreed reassuringly. “Whatever you young ladies are the most comfortable with.”

He included the pretty governess in the invitation. Her green eyes rounded a trifle before she reshaped her features into a placid mask of subservience.

Ronan far preferred the spitfire who greeted him at the door and tried to shut the panel in his face. He’d also wager she hadn’t acted the docile servant for Masterson.

Her eyes still flashed with some unspoken emotion.

There was something familiar about Miss Feathers, and he wracked his brain trying to pinpoint just what it was. It was her eyes, he finally decided. He vowed he’d met someone with eyes very much like hers and that pert nose that crinkled in a rather charming fashion when she was vexed.

However, that was neither here nor there.

Arms folded, Ronan assessed his wards. They appeared healthy and obviously trusted their governess. They’d edged back to her side, and Miss Feathers had slipped an arm about their waists, cocooning them protectively.

That she was genuinely fond of them was also apparent.

Excellent.

She had been the nurturing female in their household for most of the girls’ lives, and their bond was unmistakable.

There is no finer person on earth, other than their governess.

That line from Masterson’s letter to Ronan marched across his mind.

Because Miss Mercy Feathers was a genuinely exceptional governess or because Masterson’s relationship with her was something more than professional?

Setting aside that dilemma for now, Ronan angled his chin toward the taller of the girls. “I presume you are Bellamy?”

Expression somber, Bellamy nodded once, then directed her focus to the floor. “Yes…sir.”

He wasn’t surprised she wasn’t comfortable addressing him by his given name. They were strangers, after all. That would come in time.

“Which means...” He brought his attention to the younger child. “You are Arabelle.”

The younger girl nodded and inched even nearer to her governess.

“I’ve asked for a tea tray, my lord,” Miss Feathers put in. “I’m sure you’re parched from your journey.”