discussion.”
Perfectly kissable lips like hers were wasted on words such as proper. “Then what is proper discourse?” he asked, striking a nonchalant pose.
“Your sisters. That is all that is appropriate,” she retorted.
The last thing he cared to speak with Juliet Marshville about were his sisters. Though that was in fact the one matter he should want to speak with her about. He sighed and gave a wave of a hand. “Well, then, shall we discuss your intentions for the girls’ lessons?”
She nodded curtly, and said, “I had hoped to begin on the subject of art.”
“Art? Very well, Miss Marsh.”
Juliet’s eyes roved over his face. “That is it? There are no further questions?”
“I have no further questions,” he concurred. “For now,” he added.
Later, much later, when there are no strangers about, and my sisters are otherwise occupied, then, I will have questions for you, sweet Juliet.
“Very well, then,” she said with what he detected as disappointment in her husky alto.
Jonathan continued to study her as she rushed over to his sisters, seeming unaware of his scrutiny. He acknowledged to himself for the first time since he’d come upon her battling Lord Whitby in the streets, he wanted her. Not in a single exchange of two lovers coming together for a fleeting night of passion. He wanted her for more than a governess, but rather as a mistress he could freely shower with lavish gifts and pretty compliments without the scrutiny of his family and Society in watch.
He silently cursed. What in hell had he done?
Chapter 8
Juliet sat at the window seat of the parlor. The handful of sconces along the wall cast the room in a soft glow, far greater than the single sconce in the modest chambers assigned to her on the main living quarters of the earl’s townhouse.
The night moon flooded the room and, illuminated the cover of the sketchpad on her lap.
She rustled the ends of the pages, fanning them distractedly. The faint breeze she created sent the emerald green ribbon on her lap fluttering to the cushion of the window seat.
She picked the ribbon up and studied it. When she’d left home, she’d just been so glad to be rid of Albert and Lord Williams she had not really considered what leaving actually meant.
Until now.
With the exception of the servants who’d been a family to her over the years, she was shocked to find she missed very little of her former life.
But she missed the time she’d had to sketch. As hard and unpleasant as life had been since Papa’s death, she had found joy in her art.
When she’d accepted the earl’s offer of employment she’d not really thought about how the hours she worked would interfere with the precious time she had to sketch. Though Jonathan had been entirely generous with both the terms of her employment and wages, her responsibilities prevented her from sketching at a time of day when lighting was most advantageous for an artist.
Juliet glanced out the window into the quiet London streets below. She imagined she would be filled with a seething hatred for the gentleman who’d refused to return her cottage and instead put an offer of employment to her. Jonathan, with his bold arrogance and roguish smile was everything she’d never wanted in life. She’d wanted a somber gentleman with perhaps an easy smile who’d indulge her love of art, overlook her crippled leg, and give her a babe or two to care for. Instead, with his terms, he had stolen those simple hopes from her and replaced them instead with the promise of freedom—if she simply succeeded in her role as governess.
And she would succeed. She had little thought of any other possible outcome.
The time here, with him, and his sisters would be as fleeting as a single summer that one looked back on with perhaps a fond remembrance. But when she eventually took her leave of this lively home, she suspected she’d not carry with her the resentment she’d expected to have in her heart toward
Perfectly kissable lips like hers were wasted on words such as proper. “Then what is proper discourse?” he asked, striking a nonchalant pose.
“Your sisters. That is all that is appropriate,” she retorted.
The last thing he cared to speak with Juliet Marshville about were his sisters. Though that was in fact the one matter he should want to speak with her about. He sighed and gave a wave of a hand. “Well, then, shall we discuss your intentions for the girls’ lessons?”
She nodded curtly, and said, “I had hoped to begin on the subject of art.”
“Art? Very well, Miss Marsh.”
Juliet’s eyes roved over his face. “That is it? There are no further questions?”
“I have no further questions,” he concurred. “For now,” he added.
Later, much later, when there are no strangers about, and my sisters are otherwise occupied, then, I will have questions for you, sweet Juliet.
“Very well, then,” she said with what he detected as disappointment in her husky alto.
Jonathan continued to study her as she rushed over to his sisters, seeming unaware of his scrutiny. He acknowledged to himself for the first time since he’d come upon her battling Lord Whitby in the streets, he wanted her. Not in a single exchange of two lovers coming together for a fleeting night of passion. He wanted her for more than a governess, but rather as a mistress he could freely shower with lavish gifts and pretty compliments without the scrutiny of his family and Society in watch.
He silently cursed. What in hell had he done?
Chapter 8
Juliet sat at the window seat of the parlor. The handful of sconces along the wall cast the room in a soft glow, far greater than the single sconce in the modest chambers assigned to her on the main living quarters of the earl’s townhouse.
The night moon flooded the room and, illuminated the cover of the sketchpad on her lap.
She rustled the ends of the pages, fanning them distractedly. The faint breeze she created sent the emerald green ribbon on her lap fluttering to the cushion of the window seat.
She picked the ribbon up and studied it. When she’d left home, she’d just been so glad to be rid of Albert and Lord Williams she had not really considered what leaving actually meant.
Until now.
With the exception of the servants who’d been a family to her over the years, she was shocked to find she missed very little of her former life.
But she missed the time she’d had to sketch. As hard and unpleasant as life had been since Papa’s death, she had found joy in her art.
When she’d accepted the earl’s offer of employment she’d not really thought about how the hours she worked would interfere with the precious time she had to sketch. Though Jonathan had been entirely generous with both the terms of her employment and wages, her responsibilities prevented her from sketching at a time of day when lighting was most advantageous for an artist.
Juliet glanced out the window into the quiet London streets below. She imagined she would be filled with a seething hatred for the gentleman who’d refused to return her cottage and instead put an offer of employment to her. Jonathan, with his bold arrogance and roguish smile was everything she’d never wanted in life. She’d wanted a somber gentleman with perhaps an easy smile who’d indulge her love of art, overlook her crippled leg, and give her a babe or two to care for. Instead, with his terms, he had stolen those simple hopes from her and replaced them instead with the promise of freedom—if she simply succeeded in her role as governess.
And she would succeed. She had little thought of any other possible outcome.
The time here, with him, and his sisters would be as fleeting as a single summer that one looked back on with perhaps a fond remembrance. But when she eventually took her leave of this lively home, she suspected she’d not carry with her the resentment she’d expected to have in her heart toward
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