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He well knew that sitting in a pew Sunday morning did not a Christian make. How many of those in their finery, eyes heavy with boredom, had dallied with someone other than their spouse the night before?
Gambled away a fortune?
Drunk themselves into a stupor?
Cheated or swindled or gossiped?
Nonetheless, Ronan permitted his eyelids to drift shut and offered up a simple prayer.
Lord, I need your help. I have no idea what I am doing, but I want what is best for Bellamy and Arabelle. Please guide me.
Feeling oddly at peace, he opened his eyes, and his attention fixated on Mercy.
Something undefinable cinched behind his breastbone.
What was it about her that muddled him?
The fading light played across the sweep of her cheek as the coach wheels ground along the well-traveled road. Her profile and delicate features suggested she was a woman of genteel breeding.
Again, that impression of having seen her before niggled in a fusty recess of his mind.
It wasn’t possible.
She’d told him herself that her first and only position was as Masterson’s governess. Masterson had hired her directly from that odd school Ronan had asked his father to poke around about. Furthermore, Mercy had never been to London, and Ronan had never been to Rochester before.
He’d heard somewhere at some time that everyone had a double someplace in the world. Ronan wasn’t positive he bought into that myth, but he couldn’t rule it out entirely either.
After her emotional outburst in the study, she had retreated into a shell of respectability and decorum. Her outrage hadn’t been feigned, nor had her wounded pride. If he hadn’t believed her then, which he had, it had taken less than four-and-twenty hours in the house to realize she hadn't lied.
Mercy Feathers was clever, resourceful, and determined, but Ronan was convinced that she was incapable of dissembling. Another stab of guilt elbowed him hard in the ribs and abraded his pride. At this rate, his regret would see him bruised and bloodied, his remorse chafed and scoured raw.
To alleviate that discomfit, Ronan considered what he might’ve done right amid this new reality that was his life. He’d taken it upon himself to sort through his friend’s possessions and save any items he thought the girls might want of their father’s. He’d also purchased the family portraits and had left Mr. Kline instructions to have them sent to London.
In point of fact, he doubted Mercy capable of perfidy or duplicity.
Again, he surreptitiously studied her.
What would his family make of her?
He’d soon know.
Another thirty minutes or so and he’d introduce his sweet wards and their pretty governess to his parents, siblings, and the staff. For reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on, Ronan was reluctant to do the latter.
It made no sense. It was ludicrous, in fact.
He couldn’t summon a solitary rational cause for the disinclination.
After all, Mercy would be a part of the Trentholm household whether she or he wanted it otherwise.
Not that he didn’t want her there.
His wards did, which meant he did. He rather thought the devoted governess would go wherever they went. Ronan also resolutely believed, after that tragic scene in the study, Mercy would rather be anywhere he wasn’t.
Guilt and contrition had buffeted him for days after she’d dissolved into tears in the study. She’d been mortified at her display. He’d been eviscerated that he’d caused her distress—his only thought to ease the pain he’d so callously inflicted.
“Always, always, my lord, after finding the girls’ cat asleep atop the lieutenant’s bed, and never, never when he was at home.”
As each word paraded through his memory, the lash of a whip sliced his soul.
