Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(26)

“Twelve.” Tasia twisted her fingers together. “Sir, I didn't…My mother neglected to explain to me…and then one day…I-I was very frightened. I would not wish for Emma to be so unprepared.”

Stokehurst went to the bronze table, picking up his drink. “Neither would I.” He downed the rest of the liquor in a single gulp.

“Then I have your permission to talk to her?”

Luke shook his head, gripping his empty glass. “I don't know.” He hadn't wanted to accept the signs that Emma was getting older. The idea of his daughter beginning her monthly flow, developing a woman's body, a woman's emotions and desires…it was too soon. It made him uneasy. He'd never allowed himself to think about it before. Someone had to prepare Emma for the changes that would take place as she matured. But who? His sister was too far away, and his mother was as likely to tell Emma some nonsensical story as the truth. The duchess was a woman of refined sensibilities. She disapproved of Southgate Hall's French decor, considering all rococo curves and scalloped edges to be immoderately suggestive. She abhorred the sight of chair legs unconcealed by fringe. All things considered, she wasn't the best person to explain the workings of human anatomy to his daughter.

“How much do you plan to tell her?” he asked bluntly.

The governess blinked in surprise and strove for a matter-of-fact tone. “Only the things a young girl should know. If you don't wish for me to talk to her, my lord, then I think someone else should very soon.”

Luke stared at her intently. Her concern for his daughter seemed genuine. She wouldn't have brought up the subject otherwise, not when it made her so uncomfortable. And Emma liked her. Why not have her do it?

“You may as well talk to her,” he said, making up his mind. “Just don't start quoting Genesis while you're at it. Emma doesn't need the weight of a few thousand years' worth of biblical guilt added to her conscience.”

Her lips pursed, and she answered in a prickly tone. “Of course, my lord.”

“I assume all your information is correct?”

She nodded briefly, her face suffused with red.

Suddenly Luke smiled. She looked very young in her discomfort, flushed and struggling for composure. He couldn't help enjoying it. “How can you be certain?” he asked, prolonging the moment.

She refused to take the bait. “With your permission, my lord, I would like to retire for the evening.”

“Not yet.” Luke knew he was being arrogant, but he didn't care. He wanted her to stay. It had been a tedious day, and he was in need of some diversion. “Would you like a drink, Miss Billings? Some wine, perhaps?”

“No, thank you.”

“Then stay here while I have some.”

She shook her head. “I must decline your invitation, sir.”

“It's not an invitation.” Luke gestured to the chairs by the fireplace. “Sit down.”

For a moment she didn't move. “It is very late,” she murmured. Then she made her way to one of the chairs and perched on the edge of it. After placing the book on a side table, she knotted her hands in her lap.

Leisurely he refilled his glass. “Tell me what it's like to live in Russia.”

She tensed in alarm. “I can't—”

“You've already admitted you came from there.” Luke sat with his drink, stretching out his long legs. “You must be able to tell me something without revealing your precious secrets. Describe it for me.”

She regarded him doubtfully, as if suspecting him of trying to trick her. “Russia makes one feel very small. The land is endless, and the sun is softer there than in England—it makes everything look a little gray. At this time of year in St. Petersburg, the sun never sets. White nights, they call them…Only the sky isn't white, it turns rose and violet, and stays that way from midnight to morning. That is when it is most beautiful, to see the black shapes of the buildings against the sky. The tops of the churches are round, like this.” She shaped an onion dome with her delicate hands. “Inside the churches, there are no statues allowed. Instead we have icons—religious paintings of Christ, the Apostles, the Virgin, the saints. Their faces are long and narrow and sad. It is a very spiritual look. The saints in the English church are too proud.”

Luke conceded the point, recalling with amusement that the sculptures in his own chapel had a vaguely smug look.

“And there are no pews in Russian churches,” she continued. “It is more respectful to the Lord to stand, even if the service lasts for hours. To Russians it is very important to be humble. The common people are modest and hardworking. When the winter lasts longer than expected, they tighten their belts, gather around the hearth, and make jokes and tell stories to take their minds off their empty stomachs. The Russian church teaches that God is always with us, and everything that happens, good or bad, is His will.”

Luke was fascinated by the changes in her face. For the first time she had relaxed in his presence. Her tone was soft, and her eyes appeared more catlike than usual in the shadows. She kept on talking, but he didn't listen. He wondered what it would feel like to pull down her silky black hair and wind it around his wrist, holding her still for his kisses. Her body was so light, he would barely feel her weight in his lap. Yet for all her physical frailty, she had a steely will and a fearlessness that he admired. Even Mary hadn't dared to stand up to him in a temper.