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Not that Mother or Corinna or Marissa were snobs.

Well, perhaps they were. Not deliberately, however.

For sure, they’d never gone without—anything. Furthermore, neither Ronan’s mother nor his sisters would ever have been able to keep the Masterson household functioning for two months on a governess’s wages.

Neither could he have done.

The coach hit a particularly deep rut in the road, bouncing him against the door. Mercy braced her feet on the floor, which she barely reached, and wedged herself firmly into the squabs while stabilizing the sleeping girls.

Other than a little “Oomph,” she remained silent.

Another thing to respect about Miss Mercy Feathers. She did not complain. Not once the entire journey. This enchanting governess was stoic and intrepid.

Neither girl stirred on her lap, and Ronan envied the sleep of youth.

Since his early morn summons to Pelandale House, he hadn’t slept through the night.

Sniffing slightly, he rubbed the side of his nose, which had itched like the dickens most of the journey, giving him cause to speculate that he might be allergic to cats. Or perhaps a spring-blooming tree or bush on Masterson’s estate caused his symptoms.

In truth, until the past couple of days, he’d never spent any time around felines.

His father owned dogs—eight Sussex spaniels which he kept at his country seat. The marquess firmly believed hunting hounds and felines did not mix. Hence, Ronan had never spent any lengthy time in the vicinity of gray furballs with scissor-like teeth and talon-like claws. And eyes that fairly charred a person with their displeasure.

Though, to be fair, Fluffer-Muffer hadn’t directed any unpleasant behaviors toward him. Instead, the beast made a blasted nuisance of herself with her persistent determination to make sure she was never more than two feet from Ronan at any given time.

His wards found the cat’s intense and immediate attachment to him jolly good fun. More than once, they’d burst into giggles, quickly hidden behind their little hands, at the cat’s besotted behavior. Alas, their governess found the cat’s infatuation highly amusing as well. Although Mercy concealed her twitching lips with an alacrity, he couldn’t help but appreciate.

That was, if he weren’t trying to dislodge the cat from his lap, his shoulder, his boots…and his bed.

As he’d learned, thereby further strengthening Mercy’s defense, the cat had a distinct penchant for gentlemen’s beds. Not once, however, had Mercy come in search of the purring cat in his bedchamber.

Eyes bright with keen interest and her face serene, she peered out the window at the passing scenery. The changing light cast shadows over her face, softening the tension-etched brackets around her full, pretty mouth and easing the creases between her red-blond eyebrows.

“Is this your first time coming up to London, Miss Feathers?”

Was he daft?

He knew it was. Mercy had told him as much.

She started and faced him, her gaze questioning and perhaps the merest bit satirical.

“Yes, my lord. As I said previously, I’ve only ever lived in Rochester and Essex.”

The heat of a full-on flush skated up his neck from his cravat to his hairline.

My God.

He was blushing. Actually blushing. Like a wet-behind-the eyes whelp.

When was the last time he’d turned red in the face?

Ah, yes.

Ronan remembered the precise ill-fated time—at the Wimpletons’ annual summer house party. Much to his boyish consternation, he had come upon a very plump couple cavorting near the pond where he’d gone to search for frogs.

Some things could not be unseen. Even over twenty years later, Ronan had to blink and shake his head to dislodge that staggering—bloody dashed terrifying to a seven-year-old—vision.

“I think you will enjoy London.” Ronan plowed onward. In for a penny and all that. “There are several parks and museums you might visit with the girls. The Egyptian Hall at Bullock’s Museum is particularly fascinating. I believe Arabelle and Bellamy would also enjoy Astley’s Amphitheater and, of course, Vauxhall Gardens and Hatchards.”