The Duke of Defiance (The Untouchables #5)(38)

“I probably ought not take meals with you, and definitely not when you have company—such as your mother tomorrow.”

A look of horror flashed in his gaze. “Oh, she won’t be staying for any meals. And I want you to eat with us. So does Evie. I’m not altering that either. What else?”

“I don’t need a maid.” She hadn’t had a personal maid at the vicarage. They’d had a housekeeper and one maid who’d served as a ladies’ maid whenever Jo needed one.

“Ever?”

“Not dedicated to me. When you hire a replacement for Foster”—he’d told her about the open positions in his staff during their tour— “you could retain someone who could act as an occasional ladies’ maid.” Wait, she was a governess. They didn’t have ladies’ maids! “Never mind. Governesses don’t have maids.”

“Nevertheless, you shall have one. Or rather, access to one.”

She wanted to protest but somehow realized it would be ignored.

“What about this chamber? Is everything to your satisfaction?”

Jo went to the armoire and opened it. Her clothes were already inside. She closed the door and went to the desk. It was supplied with parchment, quill, and ink. “Yes, thank you.” She looked over at him, the bed separating them. “What about you? What is the thing you don’t like about this room?”

He unfolded his arms. “Nothing. I’ve scarcely been in this room—it was used for guests.” He glanced around. “In fact, this may be my favorite room in the house.”

“I have an idea. I presume you brought some things with you from Barbados? Things that were maybe in your house there?”

“Yes, they’re still packed in crates.”

“Unpack them as soon as possible and place at least one thing from Barbados in each room. That way, you’ll have something everywhere to remind you of home.”

His gaze softened when she’d said “home.” He was homesick, she realized. And Evie likely was too. Jo would work on finding a way to try to make England feel like home to them.

He walked around the bed to stand in front of her. Close enough that her belly fluttered with awareness again. “That’s an excellent idea,” he said. “Thank you.” He eyed her for a moment. “I’m very glad you agreed to become our governess. And I say ‘our’ because I think you’ll be teaching me as much as you’ll be instructing Evie. I’ve much to learn about my new role, and for the first time, I don’t feel completely overwhelmed by it.”

The flutters in her belly grew and spread, sending a pleasant heat to the far reaches of her body and all points in between. “I’m glad.”

His lip ticked up into a half smile. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He turned and walked toward the door.

“My lord?” she called, halting him in his tracks.

He pivoted. “If I can’t convince you to call me Bran, you could at least refer to me as Knighton.”

She inclined her head. “I wanted to thank you for this opportunity. As well as remind you that this is a trial. If for any reason either of us—or Evie, for that matter—feels as though it isn’t working out, we must terminate the arrangement at the earliest possible opportunity.”

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, she feared he might argue. “All right. However, I feel comfortable in assuring you that neither Evie nor I will feel that way.”

He said that now, but expectations were a tenuous thing. Jo nodded, and he left, closing the door behind him.

Her shoulders sagged as if the energy had exited the room along with him. No, she wasn’t going to be a typical governess at all.





Chapter 9





Breakfast the following morning was a smashing success, and Bran couldn’t have been more relieved. Evie had declared Mrs. Shaw the best toast maker in the world and now swore she wouldn’t eat anyone else’s. Bran had told Mrs. Shaw that Evie wasn’t joking. Mrs. Shaw had responded that she was up to the challenge.

He hoped she meant for the long term, but respected her desire to take things slowly. It was a smart strategy—for all of them—but he recognized the inherent self-preservation. He would likely do the same thing.

Bran sat on the floor and opened the crate that had just been delivered to his office. His insides melted as soon as he saw the contents—their life in Barbados. Why had he waited so long to open this? Perhaps he hadn’t been ready. Leaving had been painful, and these were just a reminder of that agony.

They also brought joy. Memory after memory assailed him as he looked at the shells in the jar that Evie had collected on the beach. They used to take walks together, at first with her mother, and then just the two of them after she’d died. Every time Evie found a shell, she clutched it in her hand until they arrived home, and then she’d drop it into the jar, which had sat on Bran’s desk. Well, it would go right on this desk too. He pulled the jar from the crate and twisted his body to set it on the corner where he could look at it every time he sat there.

Turning back to the crate, he eyed a book and couldn’t recall why it would be in this box. He picked it up and opened the cover. A pressed flower, dulled from age but still vivid in its color, smiled up at him. He remembered now—there were dozens of them in this book. He wondered if he could somehow frame them and hang them in every room of the house. Yes, that was precisely what he would do.