Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(23)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Bertie decided she quite liked the blond Ainsley, Sinclair’s sister, who was much like him in her restless movements, her sudden smiles and flashes of frowns. Changeable, that was a good word for Sinclair. His brothers Elliot and Steven had the same changeability, though Elliot’s was more subdued. He’d been broken at some time, Bertie knew—Mrs. Hill had told Bertie much about the McBrides and their history. For all Mrs. Hill’s puckered expressions, she was a ready font of gossip, and all of it interesting.

Bertie did not like the woman with her hair all primped who’d been hanging on to Sinclair’s arm the latter half of the night. She’d been with him every time he drifted toward the drawing room doorway or into the hall to say good-bye to departing guests. The woman was pretty and dressed like a fashion plate, an upper-class lady, elegant, even regal. A friend of Steven’s wife, Bertie gleaned, which meant she was sanctioned by family.

Bertie’s heart burned when the footman Peter closed the door on the final guests, but Sinclair and the woman—Clara, Bertie had heard her called—remained in the hall together, arm in arm.

“Go to bed, Peter,” Sinclair said. “You’ve done a good night’s work. I’ll see to Mrs. Thomalin.”

Oh, he’d see to her, all right. Bertie’s eyes narrowed. From the sparkle in the woman’s eyes, she was looking forward to being seen to.

Peter faded discreetly toward the back stairs, leaving Sinclair and Mrs. Thomalin alone. Mrs. Thomalin turned her face up to Sinclair’s, and Sinclair leaned down and kissed her.

Bertie stood frozen on the landing, unable to pull back into the shadows. She couldn’t move, fixed in place to watch them kiss—lengthy, experienced kisses, none of the blundering Bertie had done.

Clara lifted her head and gave Sinclair a tender look. Sinclair rested his hand on Clara’s chest, much of it bared by her low neckline, and Bertie’s heart bled anew.

They were going to share a bed, the one on the floor below hers. Sinclair would strip off his clothes to reveal his fine and handsome body, and he would kiss the shameless Mrs. Thomalin as he undressed her. Mrs. Thomalin would be privileged to see his smile in the dark, to watch his gray eyes lose their bleakness as he laid himself on top of her.

Bertie held on to the railing, as though the floor undulated beneath her feet. She felt a hotness in her eyes and realized she was about to cry. Bertie rarely cried, not even when her dad was at his most brutal. She’d learned to hold it in. But at the moment, her shaking limbs and tight chest told her tears were coming.

Sinclair and Mrs. Thomalin broke off from each other long enough to start for the stairs. Bertie gathered the skirts of her new, gray cashmere dress, and sped silently up the rest of the staircase. She shot into her bedroom, her breath hurting, and closed the door without making a noise.

She stood for a long time in the middle of her bedchamber, her throat working, eyes stinging, fists clenching and unclenching. Her body was so stiff her legs ached.

What was she doing here? In this house, in Mayfair at all? Bertie had allowed herself to be persuaded that she could live here as though she belonged here. But she knew she didn’t.

She knew why she’d ignored common sense and stayed—not for the salary or new clothes or the soft bed and warm rooms. Bertie had stayed to be close to Sinclair McBride. She’d wanted to see him every day, to hear his voice and be near him, even if she couldn’t have him.

Foolish girl. Living here meant Bertie would have to bear it when a pretty lady like Mrs. Thomalin decided to latch on to him. Sinclair was a man, after all. Most men, in Bertie’s experience, didn’t remain celibate for long. And what happened if Sinclair decided to marry and give his children a new mum? No woman would want a governess who’d thrown herself at and kissed her husband to go on looking after his children.

Bertie made a move toward her valise. Her worn-out green dress had gone, snatched away by Aoife and quickly sold to a rag and bone man by Mrs. Hill. Bertie had three new dresses now, two gray and one dark blue-and-green plaid. The plaid one was for special occasions, Mrs. Hill had said. But the gowns weren’t really hers, and Bertie knew it. Sinclair had paid for them.

She took the underclothing she’d brought from home out of the bureau, leaving the new set of smalls Mrs. Hill had given her behind. Sinclair knew her for a thief, but she refused to rob him as she went, refused to give him the satisfaction. She’d take only her own things, leaving the ribbons and the little brush and comb set Mrs. Hill had also provided. Mrs. Hill, as cold as she pretended to be, had proved to be quite thoughtful, underneath it all.

Bertie shut her valise with a snap, blinking back her tears. She’d go. She’d hurry down the stairs as soon as Sinclair was safely cuddling with Mrs. Thomalin, slip past Peter, and let herself out. Back to the cold darkness of a London winter.

In the next room, Caitriona cried out in her sleep.

Bertie found herself abandoning the valise and any thoughts of escape to hurry to the nursery. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t leave them alone, could she? Cat and Andrew needed her—that had been clear from the first day.

Cat was all right, sleeping peacefully by the time Bertie reached her bed. Whatever dream had disturbed her had gone. Cat’s eyes were closed, her breathing even, her arm snugly around her doll.

The doll stared up at Bertie in the light of the low-burning lamp, smiling as though to say all was well—she was standing guard. Bertie pressed a light kiss to Caitriona’s forehead and moved across the room to Andrew’s bed.

Which was empty. The sheets were rumpled, the pillow dented, and Andrew McBride was nowhere in sight.

Chapter 8

Satiation. That was key. When bodily needs overtook the senses, it was time to relieve them so one could concentrate. Even doctors said that.

Sinclair looked into Clara Thomalin’s eyes as he shut the door on his upstairs study, taking in her smile, her blue eyes, her pleasing curves. She was pretty, willing, and as lonely as he was. Nothing wrong with passing a night together. They were grown people, had both been married and could be discreet, knowing the way of the world.

So why did Sinclair feel so much reluctance? This was bodily passion alone—it was for Clara as well, he could see. They’d come together, soothe their desires, and return to everyday life.

Clara’s smile widened as Sinclair slid off his frock coat then came to her and put his hands on her shoulders. Her bodice was cut to expose much flesh—shoulders, upper arms, and br**sts to just above her ni**les. Clara’s skin was cool, not much heat in it, and its color was what ladies called alabaster. Pure white, like a statue. A woman who hid herself from the sun.