CHAPTER FIVE
Charles was no fool. He was aware of the dangers a pretty young governess posed a man in his position: honourable, titled, widowed and forsworn from future romance. He fully intended to spend as little time in the vicinity of Julia's alluring green eyes as possible.
The course of one day was all it took to make him realise what a fool's errand it was.
"Good morning, my lord," Julia greeted him the moment he stepped into the breakfast room. Annabelle was sitting beside her, beheading an egg with great concentration. Julia gave her a nudge. "Greet your father, Lady Annabelle."
"Good morning, Papa," said Annabelle obediently. Charles smiled and offered her a bristled cheek to kiss. It was his custom to take breakfast with his daughter while he was at Harding Hall, but Annabelle was usually watched over by her nurse, a rather stuffy woman of advancing years who lacked the social apparatus to make proper conversation. A few moments of Julia's pretty face across the breakfast table quickly disabused Charles of the notion that he would dine in his usual silence.
"I passed a very pleasant night," said Julia, buttering a slice of toast. "My room has such a pretty view of the gardens. I cannot thank you enough for your care in choosing it."
"You must thank Mrs Potter," said Charles gruffly. He reached for the coffee pot and poured himself a steaming mug. "I had nothing to do with it."
"I have created a schedule for Lady Annabelle's daily activities. Will it please you to look it over before I begin her lessons this morning? Or would you prefer an evening report on her activities?"
Charles considered the wisdom of a private meeting with Julia once an evening. The insistent pang he felt in his chest whenever he looked at her intensified. That would not do. "A weekly report will suffice. I have every confidence in you."
It was meant as a throwaway remark, but Julia glowed with pleasure. "Thank you, my lord. I shall report to you once a week, whenever it suits, and keep a careful record of Lady Annabelle's progress."
Charles was already looking forward to their first meeting. It would at least make a change from the doom-and-gloom tidings he always received from Stevens, the steward.
"You must not grow to rely too heavily on my opinion," he warned her. "There is every chance I will depart for my lands in Cornwall before the month is out."
Was he imagining the flicker of disappointment in Julia's eyes? That was certainly too much to hope for on so short an acquaintance – and more fool him for hoping for such a dangerous thing.
Annabelle's disappointment, on the other hand, was plain to the ears. "Papa, you must not! You mustn't go away again!"
"Hush, my lady," said Julia quietly. "Your father is a very important man. It is not becoming to argue with him."
Annabelle was immediately distracted. "Becoming?"
"It means ladylike and pleasant. And you want to behave like a proper lady, do you not?"
Annabelle nodded eagerly, and made a great fuss over showing Julia that she could settle her napkin neatly and eat without making too much mess. Charles was impressed. He was usually faced with tears when he told Annabelle he was leaving.
Breakfast passed in pleasant, polite conversation, during which, once again, he felt that Julia learned a lot more about him than he did about her. She was never forward – far from it – but it was only that she was so adept at deflecting his questions about her own life.
"Have you much family?" he asked her, and was met with:
"None to speak of, my lord."
Later, he ventured to guess the area of London in which she had grown up. Julia smiled and simply said,
"Nothing like so fine a place as Chiltern, I assure you."
Charles left the table with a brimming sense of frustration which he could not rightfully blame on Julia. It was his own fault for being so uncommonly interested in a mere governess, after all.
"You are becoming a silly old man," he told his reflection in the hallway mirror. "All a pretty young girl need do is catch your eye, and your imagination runs away with you!"
What would Sarah think, if she were here to see it? Charles closed his eyes and sighed, picturing his late wife's tut of fond disapproval.
"Poor Miss Mallory has no interest in the likes of you," he told himself, and he hardly knew whether they were his words or, somehow, Sarah's.
And of course, Julia was there when he paid his mid-morning visit to Annabelle's schoolroom, finding her sitting at her desk with her head bent over a book of children's poetry, demonstrating to Julia that she was certainly old enough to read – even though she could not do it very well. Charles stood in the doorway and watched the little scene with an ache in his heart. Annabelle had taken to a strong female presence like a flower to sunlight.
"Very good, my little snowdrop," he commented as Annabelle struggled to the end of her poem. Julia glanced up, startled by his unannounced presence, and the sunlight from the window caught the edges of her dark curls, illuminating undertones of deep red. Charles was fortunate he had the excuse of Annabelle's performance to leave him lost for words.
She was there again when Charles arrived to collect Annabelle for his customary evening walk with her through the gardens. Julia did not request to accompany them, but Charles was momentarily tempted to invite her.
Foolish thought. He stamped it down as quickly as it arose. He was a red-blooded man, certainly, but he was no youth in the first flush of infatuation. Whatever feelings Julia stirred in him, he would be their master.
Julia and Annabelle took an early dinner together in the schoolroom. Charles himself dined too late, and in too raucous company, to allow them to join him. So he was spared those green eyes for almost the full course of the evening, until Julia brought Annabelle to the library to kiss him goodnight.
Annabelle flung her chubby arms around his neck and kissed him three times on each cheek. "Such a nice Papa," she said happily. "You will stay this time forever, won't you?"
Just as he always did, Charles wondered how he could ever bear to leave her. Julia stood in the corner, silently watching. How did it look, in her eyes, this portrayal of a loving father? Was she already condemning him for his inevitable departure?
Larkin, the butler, saved Charles from answering Annabelle's question by entering to announce Lord Christopher Yardsley. Ah. At last! There was no more welcome distraction from the burdens of fatherhood than Lord Kit.
"Show him in directly," said Charles, dismissing Julia with what he hoped was a kindly yet firm nod. She took Annabelle's hand and gently led her away.
Charles sat back in his chair and breathed a sigh of relief. He was beginning to find Julia's presence a chore. There was simply too much of her – too many ebony curls, too many emeralds in her eyes, too much pink in her cheeks. It was nearly more than a man could stand.
His eyes flickered guiltily to the portrait hanging above the fireplace. To the image of the lovely young woman with sad eyes, sitting in a bower of wildflowers.
"Forgive me, Sarah," he murmured. "It will pass."
"Talking to yourself, Chiltern?"
Charles turned around to see the figure of his closest friend outlined in the doorway. Kit Yardsley always cut a dashing figure, in his scandalously tight pantaloons and his frilled cravat bursting out of his collar in an elegant waterfall knot.
"Thank goodness you're here, Kit," said Charles with a smile. "I was starting to become thoughtful."
Lord Kit smiled a wicked smile. "We must certainly do something about that."
And Charles's responsibilities were put away for another night.