He ignored the words. “If you won’t go inside for yourself, perhaps you will for the pig. She will catch a chill.”
She looked down at Lavender, asleep in the crook of her arm. “Yes, she looks quite uncomfortable.”
His gaze slid past her, over her shoulder, making her feel slight and small, even as she herself stood a half a head taller than most men she knew. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
She turned at the words to find the wide-eyed residents of the MacIntyre Home for Boys collected in the open door, edging out onto the snowy steps leading up to the orphanage. “Boys,” she said, putting on her very best governess voice. “Go inside and find your breakfast.”
The boys did not move.
“Is every male of the species utterly infuriating?” she muttered.
“It would seem so,” Temple replied.
“The question was rhetorical,” she snapped.
“I see you making eyes at the carriage, boys. Have at it if you like.”
The words unlocked the children, who tumbled down the stairs as though a tide were pushing them toward the great black conveyance. Temple nodded to the coachman, who climbed down from his perch and opened the door, lowering the steps to allow the boys access to the interior of the coach.
Mara was distracted by the exclamations of excitement and amazement and glee that came from the dozen or so boys who were now clamoring about the carriage. She turned to Temple. “You didn’t have to do that.”
She did not want him to be kind to them. She did not want them trusting him—not when he held the keys to their full bellies and warm beds.
He gave a little shrug, watching the boys intently. “I’m happy to. They don’t get much chance to ride in carriages, I’m guessing.”
“They don’t. They don’t see much beyond Holborn, I’m afraid.”
“I understand.”
Except he didn’t. Not really. He’d grown up in one of the wealthiest families in England, heir to one of the largest dukedoms in Britain. He’d had the world at his fingertips—clubs and schools and culture and politics—and a half-dozen carriages. More.
But still, she heard the truth in the words as he watched the boys explore. He did understand what it was to be alone. To be limited by circumstances beyond one’s control.
She let out a long breath. There, at least, they were similar.
“Your Grace—”
“Temple,” he corrected her. “No one else uses the title.”
“But they will,” she said, recalling their deal. Her debt. “Soon.”
Something lit in his black gaze. “Yes. They will.”
The words came threaded with pleasure and something more. Something colder. More frightening. Something that reminded her of the promise he’d made the night they had agreed on their arrangement. When he’d told her that she would be the last woman he paid for companionship.
And perhaps it was the cold or lack of sleep, but her question was out before she knew it. “What then?”
She wished she could take it back when he turned surprised eyes on her. Wished she hadn’t shown him just how interested she was in his world.
He waited a long moment, and she thought perhaps he would not answer. But he did, in his own, quiet way. With the truth. As ever. “Then it will be different.”
His attention returned to the boys, and he pointed to Daniel. “How old is he?”
She followed his attention to the dark-haired boy leading the pack that now clamored over the carriage. “Eleven,” she said.
Temple’s serious gaze found hers. “How long has he been with you?”
She watched the boy. “From the beginning.”
Black eyes turned blacker. “Tell me,” he said, and she heard the bitterness in his voice. “Did you always have plans to hold that night over my head? Did you come back knowing you’d use it to get your brother’s money? Did you sew me up knowing it would soften me? Did you kiss me for it? Was this your grand plan the moment he lost it all?”
Cacophonous laughter saved her from answering—gave her a moment to collect herself at the thought that he might believe such things of her. At the instant desire to defend herself. To tell him everything.
Nothing you could say would make me forgive.
She looked away as the words echoed through her, to the coach, where nearly a score of boys were attempting to fit themselves.
“Sixteen!” someone called out, as Henry headed into the crush, hands first, Daniel pushing him from behind.
Mara moved to stop them.
Temple stayed her movement with a hand. “Leave them. They deserve some play.”
She turned back to him. “They shall ruin your upholstery.”
“It can be repaired.”
Of course it could. He was rich beyond measure. She returned to the conversation. “I didn’t plan it.”
He looked up into the grey sky, his breath coming in little clouds. “And yet you offer a trade instead of the truth.”
She hadn’t a choice.
But he didn’t see that.
A frigid wind ripped down Cursitor Street and she turned to brace herself from it, her wool walking dress no match for the cold. Lavender woke, giving a little snuffle of protest before Temple captured Mara in his strong grip, moving her to one side, shielding her with his enormous body.
She resisted the urge to lean into him. How was he so warm?
He cursed softly and said, “Your pig is getting cold.”
He had released her once she was shielded from the wind, his free hand stealing between them. Mara watched long fingers stroke down Lavender’s little, soft cheek and felt the piglet snuggle into the caress.
For a fleeting moment, she wondered how those fingers would feel on her own cheek. And then she realized she was vaguely jealous of a pig.
Which was unacceptable.
She pulled herself straight, looking up into his face, forcing herself not to notice the way his lips twisted in wry amusement at the piglet’s abandon. “How long will you have me watched?”
He was watching the boys again. “Until I am through with you.”
The words were cold and unwelcoming. And they made her retort easier. “And my trade?”
He stopped stroking Lavender, and returned his cool attention to Mara. “I believe I can extract the information in another way.”
A shiver coursed through her. Trepidation. Fear. Something else that she did not wish to acknowledge.
“No doubt you do. But I am stronger than you think.”
“You are precisely as strong as I think.”
The promise in the words seemed echoed in the cold wind that whipped her skirts against her legs. “And until then, I am the lucky recipient of your watchful eye.”
One side of his mouth kicked up in a humorless smile. “It is good that you see the silver lining in this cloud.”
“More like the lightning storm.” She took a deep breath. “And what is the watch worth to you?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not the agreement.”
“No, the agreement was that I pay you for your time. This is my time. And my men’s.”
“Watching us, like villains.”
“Does it make you feel better, putting me in the role of the villain? Does it help to absolve you of your sins?” The words were soft and unsettling and far too astute.
Mara looked away. “I simply prefer that you and your men not scare the children.”
Temple cut a look at the carriage. “I see that we are threats on that account.”
She followed his gaze, noting that the boys were through with their earlier game and had now set about conquering the huge conveyance. There were seven or eight standing on the roof of the coach, and others scaling the sides with the help of his dark sentry and the coachman. r />
He and his men had come here, into her life and won over her charges with nothing but a handsome carriage and a few kind words. He’d changed her life in mere days—threatening everything she held dear.
Stripping her of every inch of her control.
She wouldn’t have it.
She clutched Lavender to her chest and extracted the little black book from her pocket. “You’ve had enough of my time today, Your Grace,” she said, opening it. “Shall we call it a crown?”
His brows rose. “I did not ask you to join me.”
She smiled falsely, “But join you, I did. Aren’t you lucky?”
“Oh, yes,” he replied, rocking back on his heels. “I have ever been lucky in your presence.”
She scowled. “A crown it is,” she marked the fee in her book, then turned to the carriage. “Boys!” she called. “It’s time to go in.”
They didn’t hear her. It was as though she did not exist.
“Lads,” he said, and they stopped, frozen in their play. “Enough for today.”
The boys descended as though they’d been waiting for those precise words. Of course they did. Of course they listened to him.
She wanted to scream.
Instead she headed for the house, making it halfway across the street before she realized he was on her heels, as though his escort was perfectly ordinary. She stopped. As did he.
“You are not invited in.”
His lips twitched. “The truth will out, Mara.”
She scowled at him. “Not today.”
His brows rose. “Tomorrow, then.”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“On whether you intend to bring your purse.”
He chuckled at that, the laughter there, then gone, and she hated herself for enjoying the sound.
“I require you in the evening,” he said quietly. “I imagine it’s another ten pounds for the privilege?”
The words unsettled, the discussion of money somehow powerful on her lips and insulting on his. But she refused to acknowledge the way it made her feel. “That’s a fair start.”
He watched her for a long moment, something equally disquiet in his countenance.
Something she ignored.
Chapter 8
When Mara entered her office the following morning, it was to discover that Lydia was a traitor.
Lydia was perched on the edge of a small chair on one side of Mara’s desk, in casual conversation with the Duke of Lamont, as though it was perfectly ordinary for a man of his size and ilk to loiter in an orphanage, and equally ordinary for a governess to keep him company. Lydia was tittering, fairly hanging on every one of his words, when Mara shut the door behind her with a snap.
Temple stood, and Mara ignored the warmth that spread through her. It was December. And bitterly cold, as the coal delivery had not yet arrived. This man was not warming. She redirected her attention to Lydia. “We’re allowing just anyone in these days?”
Lydia had worked alongside Mara for long enough not to be cowed. “The duke indicated that you had an appointment.”
“We don’t.” She rounded her desk and sat. “You may leave, Your Grace. I am quite busy.”
He did not leave. Instead, he returned to his chair and overflowed the delicate piece of furniture. “Perhaps you don’t remember. We agreed that I would return today.”
“We agreed you would return this evening.”
“Miss Baker invited me in.”
“He was outside when I woke,” Lydia explained. “It’s bitterly cold, and I thought he might like tea.”
Temple had clearly addled the other woman’s brain.
“He does not want tea.”
“Tea sounds lovely.” There was perhaps no word stranger on this enormous man’s lips than lovely.
“You don’t drink tea,” Mara pointed out.
“I’m thinking of starting.”
Lydia stood. “I shall ring for it.”
“No need, Miss Baker, I can’t drink it.”
Lydia looked crestfallen. “Why not?”
Mara answered for him. “Because he’s afraid I’ll poison him.”
“Oh,” the other woman said. “Yes, I can imagine that is a worry.” She leaned toward Temple. “I would not poison you, Your Grace.”
He grinned. “I believe you.”
Mara huffed her disapproval, glaring at Lydia. “This is a betrayal.”
Lydia seemed to be enjoying herself entirely too much. “It’s only fair, considering we are putting him to work today.”
“I beg your pardon?” Mara could not help her exclamation. Nor the way she shot to her feet.
Temple stood, as well.
“He’s offered to help with the boys.”
Mara sat. “He cannot.”
Temple sat.
She looked to him. “What are you doing?”
He shrugged. “A gentleman does not sit when a lady stands,” he said, simply.
“So you’re a gentleman now? Yesterday you were a self-professed scoundrel.”
“Perhaps I am turning over a new leaf.” One side of his mouth rose in a small smile. “Like tea.”
A smile that brought attention to his lips.
Those infuriating lips about which she had no intention of thinking.
Dear God. She’d kissed him.
No. She wouldn’t think on it.
She scowled at him. “I highly doubt that.”
He was infuriating. She stood again.
As did he, patient as ever.
She sat, knowing she was being obstinate, but not much caring.
He remained standing.
“Shouldn’t you sit, as a gentleman?” she snapped.
“The standing-sitting rule does not hold true in reverse. I think it might be best if I remain standing while you—frustrate.”
Mara narrowed her gaze on him. “I assure you, Your Grace, if you wait for me to cease frustrating, you may never sit again.”
Lydia’s blue eyes gleamed with unreleased laughter.
Mara glared at her. “If you laugh, I shall set Lavender loose in your bedchamber in the dead of night. You shall awake to pig noises.”
The threat worked. Lydia sobered. “It is simply that the gentleman offered, and it occurs to me that the boys could benefit from a man’s tutelage.”
Mara’s gaze went wide. “You must be joking.”
“Not at all,” Lydia said. “There are things the boys should learn for which we are—not ideal.”
“Nonsense. We are excellent teachers.”
Lydia cleared her throat and passed a small piece of paper across the desk to Mara. “I confiscated this from Daniel’s reader yesterday evening.”
Mara unfolded the paper to discover a line drawing of— “What is . . .” She turned the paper and tilted her head. Temple leaned over the desk, his head now dangerously close to her own—and turned the page once more. At which point everything became clear.
She folded the paper with military efficiency, heat spreading furiously across her face. “He’s a child!”
Lydia inclined her head. “Apparently, boys of eleven are rather curious.”
“Well, it is entirely inappropriate for him to address their curiosity.” She waved a hand in Temple’s direction, refusing to look at him. Unable to look at him. “Not that he isn’t well qualified to serve as an expert, I imagine.”
“I shall take that as a compliment,” he said, far too close to her.
She turned in her chair to look up at him. “It was not meant as one. I was merely pointing out your libidinous ways.”
His brows rose. “Libidinous.”
“Roguish. Rakish. Scallawaginous. Scoundrelly.”
“I’m certain that some of those words
are not words.”
“Now you’re angling for a position as governess?”
“If the boys are learning words like scallawaginous, it might not be the worst idea.”
Mara turned to Lydia. “He is leaving.”
“Mara,” Lydia said. “He’s ideal. He’s a duke, and, I imagine, was trained as a gentleman.”
“He’s a fighter for heaven’s sake. He owns a gaming hell. He’s no kind of tutor for young, impressionable men who must be models of gentlemanliness.”
“I was quite skilled in the gentlemanly arts, once.”
Mara cut him a look. “You, sirrah, could have fooled me.”
The words were out before she could stop them—knowing instantly that she’d reminded him of the night that had caused all this difficulty, that had set them on the path to this moment, where he appeared destined to overtake every aspect of her life.
His gaze darkened. “I might remind you that I was the one who was fooled that evening, Mrs. MacIntrye.” The emphasis on the false name had her pressing her lips together as he addressed Lydia. “I am free for the day and happy to tutor your young charges in any aspect of gentlemanliness required.”
The entire situation was out of control.
She did not want him here. Close. Anywhere near her. The man was plotting her demise. She didn’t want him near her boys or her friend or her life.
She didn’t want him. Full stop.
It did not matter that she’d spent much of the night tossing and turning in her little bed, thinking on the kiss they’d shared. And the way he’d handled the boys, clamoring in and out of his coach yesterday.
It did not matter that when she forgot about their past, she rather liked him in the present. None of it mattered. Not when he held her future and the future of this orphanage in his hands.
“Has it escaped both of your attentions that I am the mistress of this orphanage? And that I have no intention of allowing this man to stay for the day?”
“Nonsense,” Lydia said. “You wouldn’t limit the boys’ access to a duke.”
“Not exactly the most in-demand duke of the ton.” The words were out before she knew they’d formed. Temple stiffened. Lydia’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. And Mara felt like an ass. “I did not mean—”