Rules for a Proper Governess

He turned around and walked out of the room, to find Macaulay standing slap outside the door holding Edward’s hat and coat. Edward was uncomfortable with Macaulay, it was clear as he cringed away from the big Scotsman. Macaulay herded Edward toward the stairs, nearly chasing him with the coat and hat.

“Close the door, Bertie.” Sinclair sank back to the cushions, sounding tired.

Bertie left the desk and shut the door, but her anger wasn’t assuaged. “He has no call to come here and berate you while you’re feeling poorly.” Bertie looked at the door, picturing Edward fleeing down the stairs. “No wonder your Daisy ran away from him.”

Sinclair grunted a laugh. “I fully understood the first time I met him. She’d simply picked the wrong man to run off with at first.”

“She was lucky to find you,” Bertie said. She left the door and came to stand in front of the sofa. “Something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Now that Cat and Andrew are going away, and they won’t need a governess . . .” She drew a breath. “I’d like to stay on. I can help you write letters, like today. Or help Mrs. Hill. Or be the cook’s assistant, or black the boots—I’m not particular.”

Sinclair watched her without changing expression. “Why do you want to stay on in my poky house? There’s a large world out there. I thought you wanted to see it.”

Bertie swallowed, a little pain in her heart. “Because, truth to tell, I’ve got nowhere to go. With Mrs. Lang moved in with my dad, there’s not much room for me. Not that I want to go back to him at all. If I can’t stay here, then can you at least help me be governess for one of your brothers? Or housekeeper, or cook’s assistant?”

Sinclair let her finish without interrupting, but he watched her closely. “No, Bertie. I won’t get you a place in one of my brothers’ houses. I think you should stay on here. In what capacity—that we must discuss.”

Bertie’s heart beat faster. “I agree. We should discuss it. At length.”

Sinclair looked her over, a much more welcome scrutiny than what his brother-in-law had given her. Then he laid his head back and closed his eyes. “The first thing we should talk about is your clothes.”

“My clothes?” Bertie glanced down at her dark gray dress, a new one to replace the frock sadly torn on her East End adventure. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“You’ll need more of them. Much more.” Sinclair opened his eyes a slit, humor sparkling in them. “A wedding dress first, I think. Have my sister and sisters-in-law find something you’ll be so beautiful in I’ll forget all my lines when we’re standing in front of the vicar.”

Bertie’s breath deserted her. The room spun around, as had the ballroom when they’d danced, whirling faster and faster until she couldn’t think. “Sinclair McBride,” she said, her voice scratchy. “You open your eyes and look at me.”

Sinclair did, a grin spreading across his handsome face.

“Are you asking me to marry you?” she demanded.

Sinclair shrugged. “Wedding gown, church, vicar, vows—if we put it all together, I believe that’s exactly what I am saying.” He lost every bit of indifference and pinned her with a sharp look. “What answer will you give, Miss Frasier? Remember, you’re under oath.”

“Damn and blast you.” Bertie got herself across the room to him, her shaking legs threatening to collapse under her. She knelt beside him on the sofa, being careful of his wound. “Are you sure? We’re not exactly the same, you and me.”

“Thank God,” Sinclair said fervently. “The women pushed at me are wooden, expressionless, and afraid to say yes or no without permission. You’re forthright, honest, courageous, full of life, and my children love you. I love you. I remember telling you that before we ran out to meet our maker.” Sinclair put his large hand on her cheek, his fingers warm, the chill of his injury gone. “I love you, Roberta Frasier. My Bertie.”

Bertie felt herself floating. “I love you too,” she whispered.

“Then marry me. Marry me, and to hell with them all.”

Bertie nodded, a lump in her throat so tight she couldn’t speak. Sinclair’s gray eyes were free of emptiness, the bleakness gone. The pieces of the broken man were back together again, Sinclair ready to take on the world.

They’d face it together.

Bertie put her hand in his and drew herself up to kiss him. Sinclair cradled her head and kissed her back, his lips strong on hers, mouth seeking. The kiss went on, happiness flushing Bertie as she realized exactly what was happening. She would marry Sinclair and be his wife, have his warm body beside her for all her days.

She eased back from the kiss and looked into his eyes, her heart in her smile. “Yes. I’ll marry you, Mr. McBride.”

“Hooray!” The door, which Bertie was certain she’d shut, swung open and banged into the bookcase behind it. Andrew ran in, shouting the word. Cat followed him, her eyes alight with more excitement than Bertie had ever seen in her.

“Papa is going to marry Bertie!” Andrew announced at the top of his voice. He ran out into the hall, yelled it again, then dashed back inside. “Bertie’s going to be our mum!”

“We heard you, Andrew,” Cat said with big-sisterly annoyance.

Sinclair held his hand out to them. “Come here, you two. Give Bertie a kiss.”

Andrew flew at them, flinging himself into Bertie’s lap. The sofa suddenly became very crowded as Cat joined them. Andrew kissed Bertie’s and then his father’s cheek, then he drew back and gave Sinclair a manly handshake.