Rules For A Proper Governess (MacKenzies & McBrides #7)(47)
Author: Jennifer Ashley

Andrew stilled for about three seconds, then started an animated narrative about the beauties of both Kilmorgan Castle and his father’s house north of it, where they’d lived with Mama, and everyone had been happy.

When Andrew started to droop, no longer able to pretend he wasn’t hurting and tired, Ian stood up, smoothed the covers over the boy, and started out of the nursery. At the door, Ian looked back and gave Bertie a penetrating stare. Then he walked out and waited in the hall, leaning against the railing of the landing.

Bertie set aside her sewing and went out, closing the door behind her, curious as to what Lord Ian could have to say to her.

The hall was gloomy from the coming evening, the December day short. Ian’s eyes, a tawny color that went with his dark red hair, glinted in the shadows.

After Ian had stared at Bertie for a long, silent moment, he said, “Stay with them.”

“Cat and Andrew?” Bertie nodded. “Of course, I’ll stay. I’m their governess now.”

“I mean for always.” Ian gripped the railing with his big hand. “You need to stay.” He delivered this declaration, then walked past Bertie without speaking another word and went down the stairs.

Bertie watched Ian circle around the staircase and landings, keeping to the exact middle of the stairs, never touching the railings. When he reached the bottom, he opened the vestibule door and front door, blowing a draft up the stairs, then the front door banged, and Ian was gone.

The night was fully dark by the time Sinclair arrived home, Richards having wound his way through London’s packed streets. Cameron alighted at Berkeley Square, where he’d hired a house for his family’s stay in town, and Sinclair rode on to Upper Brook Street alone.

Macaulay took one look at Sinclair and ordered a hot bath be brought to Sinclair’s bedroom. Macaulay wanted to stay and bathe him but Sinclair growled that he was fit enough to bathe himself, for God’s sake. Macaulay at last agreed and left him alone.

Sinclair took his time in the bath, scrubbing off the blood and grime, pouring warm water over his hair. He finished, dried, and slipped into a dressing gown, then went upstairs to the nursery while Peter and the maids carried the bath back downstairs to empty it.

The lights were low, and Andrew was fast asleep. Cat was also in her bed, with Bertie reading to her in a soft voice. Sinclair sank down on one of the chairs, barely able to move, waiting until Bertie finished the story.

Once Bertie put the book aside, Sinclair rose and kissed Cat good night, then went to Andrew’s bed and dropped a kiss to his son’s head. Andrew was mending, and Sinclair said a thankful prayer.

After that, Sinclair took Bertie by the elbow and steered her out of the nursery, all the way down the stairs, through his study, and into his empty bedroom. He closed the door firmly behind them both and turned the key in the lock.

Chapter 17

Bertie’s heart beat faster as Sinclair clattered the key to his bureau. He turned to her, the brighter light in this room showing more clearly the bruises and cuts on his face.

She quickly closed the space between them. “You all right? Did Jeffrey do this? What happened?”

“Jeffrey’s in jail,” Sinclair said, sounding weary. “Carted off by Inspector Fellows to spend the night with the magistrate. You won’t have to worry about him ever again, Bertie. I promise you.”

Bertie believed him. “Look at you,” she said. She touched his face, barely letting her hand make contact. The side of Sinclair’s left eye was swollen, the corner of his lip cut, and bruises trailed across his cheekbone.

He stood without moving while Bertie went to the washbasin and wrung out a cloth. She came back and dabbed at his cuts, washing away the new blood. He’d just bathed—his skin was damp and smelled of soap—but wounds like these were easily reopened.

When she reached up to dab his forehead, Sinclair caught her wrist. His eyes were like pieces of winter sky as he fixed them on her. She expected him to push her away, to admonish her, but he didn’t. He held her wrist, while water from the cloth trickled from her hands.

“I’ll just put this back in the basin,” Bertie whispered.

Sinclair didn’t let go or appear to hear her. He kept his hand around her wrist, his eyes on her, his gaze holding her more effectively than any shackle.

When he finally did move, it was to take his other hand and brush it through her hair. His fingers loosened pins she’d spent a frustrating time this morning putting in, her thick hair soon tumbling free.

He let go of her hand, and the wet cloth fell to the carpet with a splat. Sinclair continued to pull her hair loose, the mass of it flowing over her shoulders to her waist. Since Bertie had been living here, she’d been able to keep her hair clean, amazed at the different soaps the rich washed themselves with.

Sinclair’s short hair glistened with droplets of water, and the dressing gown, though it was fastened, held the warmth of the bare man beneath. Bertie’s knees went shaky as Sinclair’s large hands pushed back her hair then drifted to the buttons of her bodice.

Bertie could say nothing, do nothing, as Sinclair started sliding the buttons through the buttonholes, one by one, taking his time. Sinclair didn’t hold her—Bertie simply couldn’t move. Her body crawled with heat—she hadn’t been so warm all day. No need to run from this.

Sinclair’s blunt fingers opened the bodice in silence. The placket parted for his big hands, and he drew his fingers down the corset cover beneath.

Bertie’s breath hitched as Sinclair moved his touch down to the cuffs of her sleeves. He undid the faux pearl buttons there, then returned his hands to her shoulders and pushed her bodice open and off. Bertie now stood with bare arms in her corset and its jacketlike cover, and her skirts beneath it.

Bertie reached for the cloth fastenings of Sinclair’s dressing gown, her fingers trembling, but he gently pushed her hands aside. He ran his fingers up her wrists, back to her shoulders then down to unhook the clasps of the corset cover and push it away.

When his hands moved to the corset’s laces, he kissed her, his mouth insistent, lips opening hers. The laces at Bertie’s back loosened, Sinclair’s strong hand parting them, then his warmth came to her through the thin fabric of her combinations. He made a noise in his throat as he pulled her closer, his fingers splayed across her back.

Hot and cold sensations chased through Bertie’s body. She wanted to fold in on herself, and at the same time, she burned with energy. The corset came away, Bertie’s chest expanding as the restricting garment released her.