Rules for a Proper Governess

When Bertie came across the room to kiss Cat good night, Cat slammed the book closed. Bertie caught a brief glimpse of what was in it, but couldn’t decide what she’d seen.

Cat quietly followed the nanny who’d come to fetch her out, and the ladies called Bertie back to try to make her wear a circlet of pearls. Bertie won the argument and stuck with her mother’s locket. She needed one familiar thing with her on this mad night.

They’d done something to her. Sinclair gazed at Bertie across the duke’s giant ballroom, unable to take his eyes off her. His sister and the ladies had fussed over her, dressing Bertie’s hair in whatever style women liked these days, and lacing her into a costly gown. Very pretty. Women enjoyed that sort of thing, but Bertie looked as though she’d swallowed a poker.

Sinclair’s brother Elliot handed him a glass of whiskey, breaking his line of sight to Bertie. “Your taste is improving.”

Sinclair accepted the whiskey gratefully. “Taste?”

“In women. The last time I stood with you at a supper ball, you had your eyes on a jaded widow eager to drag you off to bed. Your governess has more love for life.” He sipped whiskey. “Vibrant, that’s the word.”

“She’s not my governess,” Sinclair said, his gaze going back to Bertie as the ladies moved her through the room like a current pushing a drifting boat. The Mackenzie and McBride ladies wore plaid, making Bertie’s blue and ivory stand out all the more.

Steven McBride, Sinclair’s youngest brother, and one of Hart’s many aristocratic guests paused next to the brothers as Sinclair spoke. The Englishman, elegant and polished, said, “I say, McBride, don’t dismiss her so quickly. Some men like that sort of thing.”

Elliot, his sun-bronzed face creased with the remains of white scars, scowled at him. “What sort of thing? Beautiful women?”

“Governesses.” The Englishman gazed too appreciatively at Bertie. “So ready with their discipline.” He caught Sinclair’s eye. “Not that you are such a man, of course.”

Sinclair didn’t answer. He didn’t know the gentleman, and didn’t want to. He fixed his gaze on the Englishman, pinning him as he would a lying witness in the box. Sinclair didn’t dare speak, because he knew nothing would come out of his mouth but a foul-worded snarl.

The Englishman looked back and forth among the three brothers, took in their hard faces, and flushed. “Gentlemen, I meant no offense. You Scots are a bit funny about your ladies.”

“We’re very protective of them,” Elliot said, his accent becoming broad. “You’d be wise to remember that, m’ friend.”

“Right.” The Englishman looked Sinclair up and down, then sniffed. “Gratified to have made your acquaintance, Captain McBride,” he said to Steven. “Thank you.” He nodded at Steven then moved off, bending his body to slide through the crowd.

“You’ve lost yourself a client,” Steven said. He plucked a whiskey from a tray carried by a passing footman and took a deep drink.

“Client.” Sinclair dragged his attention back to his brothers, trying to calm his murderous intentions. “What are you talking about?”

Steven took another sip of whiskey. The youngest McBride looked much like his brothers—fair and sunbaked, but ten years younger. He wore a pleased-with-himself look now that he’d found his Rose, only last month that had been. “Chap was in the market for a barrister,” Steven said to Sinclair. “Wouldn’t tell me why. Looking for the best. Wanted to meet you.”

“He should have applied through his solicitor, not directly to me,” Sinclair said with a growl.

“He knows that. He wanted to size you up.” Steven grinned. “I guess he did.”

Sinclair’s anger roiled. He was famous for being calm and cool even in the face of the nastiest criminals, but at the moment, he knew he either had to redirect his temper or follow the Englishman and beat his face bloody.

He thrust his half-finished glass of whiskey at Steven. “Excuse me, little brothers,” he said. “I’m going to dance with my governess.”

Chapter 21

Bertie watched Sinclair come at her, parting the crowd like a determined barge.

Juliana McBride was on Bertie’s arm. “Good heavens,” she said, watching her brother-in-law draw near them. “What fired off the volcano? He’s usually sweet as a lamb.”

Didn’t Bertie know it? But she’d also seen Sinclair plenty of times red-faced and snarling, his Scots anger stirred to rage.

Sinclair stopped in front of Bertie, looking her up and down, and not in an admiring way.

“What’s wrong?” Bertie asked him in alarm. “Has something happened?”

“Of course it hasn’t. This is a ball. We will dance.” He held out his hand.

“Now, you wait just a minute, Mr. High-Handed McBride—” Bertie’s words choked off as Sinclair seized her and started dragging her toward the middle of the ballroom. Bertie looked around desperately for Juliana, but Juliana had vanished.

Sinclair drew Bertie around in a graceful circle, the fine dress sweeping as it should. His hand went to her waist, and he drew her close.

“Stop!” Bertie said in a frantic whisper. “Or this will be a disaster!”

“Why?” His gray eyes held the severity of Basher McBride, the flint-hard gaze pinning her.

“Because I don’t know how to dance. The ladies, they were sweet to dress me up, but it’s only show.” Bertie gestured to her gown, a lovely thing, but she’d spent all the time she’d been in it so far worried she’d tear or stain it. “Like a shop window with a fancy display, but there’s nothing inside the shop.”