The Governess (Wicked Wallflowers, #3)(46)

From within the panes of the neighboring windows, lords, ladies, and servants all stood with their noses pressed to the glass panels.

This was to be what followed them wherever they went. He’d accepted the Killorans would be an oddity but had trusted that strangeness would work as an advantage for Gertrude in the attention they’d receive.

Now, as Gertrude and Stephen disembarked and filed in, huddling close, matching steps with one another, he saw before him that which he’d not considered—the unease they would feel in this foreign world.

The intermittent drizzle gave way to a steady, pounding rain.

At long last Reggie ducked her head outside.

She hovered in the carriage door, gripping the edges with a white-knuckled death grip that drew his attention to her callused, ink-stained hands and chipped nails.

They were the hands of a woman unashamed to work, and yet he frowned . . . she’d deserved more than those coarse palms.

As the wind kicked up its fury, it became increasingly clear the woman frozen at the entrance of the carriage had no intention of accepting the hand of the waiting footman.

Quitting his spot, Broderick returned to the carriage. “I understand your affinity for the rain, madam; however, I’d rather we continue on inside.”

His presence seemed to jerk her from whatever momentary fog had gripped her. She blinked wildly. “Of course,” she blurted, and accepted his hand, allowing him to help her down.

They continued on ahead, the people still pressed against those windows, until Broderick and Reggie disappeared inside.





Chapter 12

Your time is nearly up . . .

She’d been summoned.

Only this summons was nothing like the ones that had come before in Reggie’s ten-year tenure with the Killoran family.

It had been issued not in the Devil’s Den, where she’d resided for years now, but rather in Reggie’s new home.

With Reggie in a different role.

Nerrie followed close at her side, a hand on his waist, in the ready position for a fight.

“I assure you, I don’t intend to make off with Mr. Killoran’s silverware,” she said in a bid to break the tension.

He gave her a regretful look. Of course. His employer had spoken, and whatever orders he’d given Nerrie and the other guards had erased any niceties from his staff and left Reggie . . . alone, once more.

She firmed her jaw. Very well. So she’d been cut out of the Killoran clan in every way. She’d been alone before him, and she’d be without him and his people after. Under no circumstances, however, would she make apologies for defending herself or Gertrude.

After an interminable march through this labyrinth of a home, they reached a pretty arched ivory doorway.

Braced for battle and schooled by the man she was now meeting on taking the offensive, Reggie stepped into the room.

And the argument she’d prepared swiftly died.

Of everything she’d contemplated—being turned out, having Broderick renege on the terms of their arrangement—this certainly hadn’t been what she’d expected to find waiting for her in the brightly lit, yellow parlor.

Madame Colette, the most sought-after modiste on New Bond Street, conversed at the center of the room with Broderick. That plump woman blushed and preened before Broderick. Broderick, who, when he chose to wield his charm, could have talked Satan out of sinning. Neither of them gave any indication they’d observed Reggie’s arrival.

And should that come as any surprise? Broderick never saw you standing there.

Nonetheless, knowing that as she did, a miserable niggling of jealousy rooted around her belly.

She curled her fingers tight, hating herself for the pathetic creature she was.

With the ease with which he’d manipulated her into joining him in London, and with the threat he posed to her future, she shouldn’t feel anything for Broderick. Nothing but the sting of resentment and bitterness. Alas, the heart knew . . . nothing, it seemed.

The pair looked up.

All warmth immediately faded from the modiste, transforming the plump beauty into a dour-faced harpy. As her gaze locked on Reggie in the entranceway, she pursed her lips. It was not, however, the stranger’s antipathy that cut to the quick but rather the icy coldness Broderick reserved for her.

And coward that she was, Reggie was the first to look away. “You summoned,” she stated crisply. Of their own volition, her eyes wandered the room, taking in the bolts of fabric and handful of seamstresses at makeshift workstations.

“I did. Madame Colette has been”—he drew the woman’s hand to his lips and placed a lingering kiss on the inside of her wrist, earning a breathy giggle—“extraordinarily generous with her time, and she’s agreed to perform a fitting here.”

Only Broderick could manage to secure an appointment in his household with the most sought-after modiste in London.

The woman preened under his adulation. “You are too kind, Mr. Killoran.”

Reggie rolled her eyes. “Yes, most kind, is he not?” Neither seemed to hear her droll retort. Or if they did, they paid her no notice. God, she despised how every woman had ever fallen down at his feet, herself included. She hated that she’d allowed herself to be charmed by him years ago. Oh, her reasons had not been born of his subtle flirtations or long, seductive glances, but rather of the care and regard he’d shown his siblings . . . and Reggie. “If you’ll excuse me?” She sketched a curtsy. Broderick’s eyes narrowed on that deferential dip. “I’ll gather Miss Killoran.”