Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(5)

Luke scowled, pulling his arm away from her hand. In light of her insistence, he couldn't very well refuse. “Bring her down before I change my mind.”

“You darling man.” Alicia hurried out of the room, the elaborate draperies of her skirts swishing behind her.

Charles went to pour him a brandy. “Thank you. It's kind of you to indulge my wife in this matter. I don't think you'll regret meeting Miss Billings.”

“I'll meet her, but I won't hire her.”

“You might change your mind.”

“Not a chance in hell.” Luke stood and made his way past a multitude of tables cluttered with handmade ornaments and posy vases. He joined his friend at the carved mahogany sideboard and accepted the brandy snifter. Gently he swirled the amber liquid and gave Charles a wry sideways smile. “What's going on, Charles?”

“I don't really know,” came the uncomfortable reply. “Miss Billings is a complete stranger to me. She appeared on our doorstep a week ago. No belongings, no baggage, not a shilling as far as I can tell. Alicia welcomed her with open arms, and won't tell me a deuced thing about the girl. My guess is that she's a poor relation of Alicia's who encountered some sort of trouble. I wouldn't be surprised if her last employer forced his attentions on her. She's young and quite easy on the eye.” Charles paused and added, “Prays a lot.”

“Wonderful. Exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted a governess for Emma.”

Charles ignored the sarcasm. “There's something about her…” he said thoughtfully. “I can't quite explain it. I'm convinced that she has lived through something extraordinary.”

Luke's eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

Alicia reappeared before Charles could reply. She was followed by a wraithlike figure dressed in gray. “Lord Stokehurst, may I present Miss Karen Billings?”

Luke acknowledged her curtsy with a short nod. He wasn't going to make it easy for her. She might as well learn right now that no one would hire a woman with her lack of credentials. “Miss Billings, I'd like to make something clear—”

A pair of catlike eyes lifted to his. They were pale grayish-blue, like light shining through frosted glass. Her lashes were unusually heavy, framing her eyes with inky blackness. Suddenly Luke lost his train of thought. She waited patiently while he stared at her, as if this reaction was a common occurrence.

“Easy on the eye,” as Charles had put it, was a massive understatement. Her beauty was riveting. The severity of her hairstyle, pulled back and pinned tightly at the nape of her neck, would have been unflattering to any other woman on earth. But it became her, revealing a face as delicate as porcelain sculpture. Her eyebrows were straight, dark slashes across her white skin. Her mouth, shaped in passionate, sad curves, was a wonder to behold. No man could look at that face and remain unaffected.

“My lord,” she said, finally breaking the silence. “Thank you for taking the time to meet me,”

Recovering himself, Luke gestured casually with his half-empty glass. “I never leave without finishing my brandy.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw Alicia frown at his rudeness. Miss Billings watched him calmly. Her posture was perfect: reedlike body held straight, chin lowered a respectful notch. Nevertheless, there was a spinetingling tension in the room, like the wariness of two cats circling each other.

Luke took another swallow of brandy. “How old are you?” he asked bluntly.

“Two and twenty, sir.”

“Really.” Luke gave her a skeptical glance, but let the answer pass unchallenged. “And you claim to be competent to teach my daughter?”

“I am well-versed in literature, history, mathematics, and all the social aspects of a young lady's education.”

“What about music?”

“I play the pianoforte.”

“And languages?”

“French…and some German.”

Luke let the silence draw out while he pondered the hint of strangeness in her accent. “And Russian,” he finally said.

There was a flicker of surprise in her gaze. “Also Russian,” she admitted. “How did you guess that, my lord?”

“You've lived there for some part of your life. Your accent isn't quite perfect.”

She inclined her head like a princess acknowledging an impudent subject. Luke couldn't help but be impressed with her bearing. His rapid volley of questions hadn't disconcerted her. Reluctantly he acknowledged that his daughter, with her wild red hair and the manner of a cheerful savage, could use a lesson or two in this steely decorum. “Have you been employed as a governess before?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then you have little experience with children.”

“That is correct,” she admitted. “But your daughter isn't precisely a child. Thirteen, as I understand it?”

“Twelve.”

“A difficult age,” she commented. “Not a child, not quite a woman.”

“It's especially difficult for Emma. Her mother passed away a long time ago. There's been no one to show Emma how a proper young lady should behave. Over the past year she's been developing what the doctors call a nervous condition. She needs a mature, motherly figure to help her overcome it.” Luke gave the words “mature” and “motherly” special emphasis. They were the last two words anyone would use to describe the fine-boned woman in front of him.