Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(58)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

“She’s not my governess,” Sinclair said, his gaze going back to Bertie as the ladies moved her through the room like a current pushing a drifting boat. The Mackenzie and McBride ladies wore plaid, making Bertie’s blue and ivory stand out all the more.

Steven McBride, Sinclair’s youngest brother, and one of Hart’s many aristocratic guests paused next to the brothers as Sinclair spoke. The Englishman, elegant and polished, said, “I say, McBride, don’t dismiss her so quickly. Some men like that sort of thing.”

Elliot, his sun-bronzed face creased with the remains of white scars, scowled at him. “What sort of thing? Beautiful women?”

“Governesses.” The Englishman gazed too appreciatively at Bertie. “So ready with their discipline.” He caught Sinclair’s eye. “Not that you are such a man, of course.”

Sinclair didn’t answer. He didn’t know the gentleman, and didn’t want to. He fixed his gaze on the Englishman, pinning him as he would a lying witness in the box. Sinclair didn’t dare speak, because he knew nothing would come out of his mouth but a foul-worded snarl.

The Englishman looked back and forth among the three brothers, took in their hard faces, and flushed. “Gentlemen, I meant no offense. You Scots are a bit funny about your ladies.”

“We’re very protective of them,” Elliot said, his accent becoming broad. “You’d be wise to remember that, m’ friend.”

“Right.” The Englishman looked Sinclair up and down, then sniffed. “Gratified to have made your acquaintance, Captain McBride,” he said to Steven. “Thank you.” He nodded at Steven then moved off, bending his body to slide through the crowd.

“You’ve lost yourself a client,” Steven said. He plucked a whiskey from a tray carried by a passing footman and took a deep drink.

“Client.” Sinclair dragged his attention back to his brothers, trying to calm his murderous intentions. “What are you talking about?”

Steven took another sip of whiskey. The youngest McBride looked much like his brothers—fair and sunbaked, but ten years younger. He wore a pleased-with-himself look now that he’d found his Rose, only last month that had been. “Chap was in the market for a barrister,” Steven said to Sinclair. “Wouldn’t tell me why. Looking for the best. Wanted to meet you.”

“He should have applied through his solicitor, not directly to me,” Sinclair said with a growl.

“He knows that. He wanted to size you up.” Steven grinned. “I guess he did.”

Sinclair’s anger roiled. He was famous for being calm and cool even in the face of the nastiest criminals, but at the moment, he knew he either had to redirect his temper or follow the Englishman and beat his face bloody.

He thrust his half-finished glass of whiskey at Steven. “Excuse me, little brothers,” he said. “I’m going to dance with my governess.”

Chapter 21

Bertie watched Sinclair come at her, parting the crowd like a determined barge.

Juliana McBride was on Bertie’s arm. “Good heavens,” she said, watching her brother-in-law draw near them. “What fired off the volcano? He’s usually sweet as a lamb.”

Didn’t Bertie know it? But she’d also seen Sinclair plenty of times red-faced and snarling, his Scots anger stirred to rage.

Sinclair stopped in front of Bertie, looking her up and down, and not in an admiring way.

“What’s wrong?” Bertie asked him in alarm. “Has something happened?”

“Of course it hasn’t. This is a ball. We will dance.” He held out his hand.

“Now, you wait just a minute, Mr. High-Handed McBride—” Bertie’s words choked off as Sinclair seized her and started dragging her toward the middle of the ballroom. Bertie looked around desperately for Juliana, but Juliana had vanished.

Sinclair drew Bertie around in a graceful circle, the fine dress sweeping as it should. His hand went to her waist, and he drew her close.

“Stop!” Bertie said in a frantic whisper. “Or this will be a disaster!”

“Why?” His gray eyes held the severity of Basher McBride, the flint-hard gaze pinning her.

“Because I don’t know how to dance. The ladies, they were sweet to dress me up, but it’s only show.” Bertie gestured to her gown, a lovely thing, but she’d spent all the time she’d been in it so far worried she’d tear or stain it. “Like a shop window with a fancy display, but there’s nothing inside the shop.”

“It’s a waltz,” Sinclair said, tightening his grip on her waist. “Three steps. Here we go.”

He pushed her right foot backward, then her left foot to the side, a little pause, then her left forward, following the music. His hand was firm on her waist, his other hand warm on hers through their gloves. Sinclair pushed her through the pattern again, rumbling the steps in his fine Scottish baritone.

Memories stirred in Bertie’s head. She was a little girl again, she and her mother in their tiny parlor, her mother smiling as she pushed Bertie around the floor. One, two, three; one, two, three—there, you have it, my lovely.

Bertie’s eyes stung, and her step faltered. Sinclair’s brows snapped together. “Don’t cry, Bertie. I’m in a foul mood, but it’s not your fault. You’re doing beautifully.”

“It ain’t . . . it isn’t . . .” Bertie swallowed her tears. “Never mind. Don’t stop dancing.”

Sinclair pushed her around with more exuberance, turning with her in a wide circle. She saw why the uncomfortable skirt had been made the way it was—it floated out behind her, as Sinclair took her around and around the ballroom.

The room began to swirl—it was as though Bertie stood in place, in the arms of the man she loved, while the ballroom whirled around them. Colors flashed, the glittering lights ran together, but Bertie was safe, Sinclair’s strong arms holding her. She’d never fall. The boots Ainsley had laced so tightly clung to her feet while Sinclair spun her through the ballroom. Bertie threw back her head and laughed.

“Stop that,” Sinclair said, scowling.

“Why?” Bertie floated on pure sweetness, and she wanted to dance and dance. She was Cinderella in truth, and Sinclair was her handsome prince.

“Because it makes me want to kiss you,” Sinclair said, his gray eyes stormy. “I want to kiss you, Bertie Frasier. I want to haul you into my arms and never let you go.”