If the Slipper Fits (5 page)

“Damned beast of a gust,” he muttered. His brawny arm clamped around her back as he propelled her toward the castle. Hampered by her sodden skirts and buffeted by the wind, Annabelle struggled to keep up. All of a sudden, Lord Simon grabbed her like a sack of flour and pinned her close to his side while plowing swiftly through the storm.

The radiant heat of his body enveloped her. Of their own volition, her arms latched onto him. She instinctively turned her face to the protection of his shoulder in an effort to avoid the buckets pouring down from the sky.

His strides long and effortless, Lord Simon carried her through the torrent. She let herself be borne along by the immutable force of his strength. A part of her was scandalized by the way she was plastered against his muscled body. But the need to reach shelter prevailed over maidenly modesty.

He followed close to the castle perimeter, rounded the corner, and bypassed a massive iron gate. Blinking away the droplets, she noticed he was heading toward the cliff. The rush of waves on the rocks below penetrated the drumming of the rain. For one horrifying instant she feared he meant to toss her over the precipice and into the sea.

She struggled against him. “No—”

Water sluicing down his face, he grimaced at her. His lips moved, but whatever he said was lost to the banshee cry of the wind. He shouldered open a small wooden door in the gray stone wall and stepped inside out of the downpour. At once, he unceremoniously released her.

Annabelle stood dripping in the tunnellike passageway. Rubbing her arms, she shivered from the loss of his body heat. She prayed the gloom hid her blush. How foolish of her to imagine, even for a moment, that he’d intended to commit murder. The wildness of the storm must have addled her senses.

That, and the novel sensation of being held by a man.

Combing his fingers through his wet hair, Lord Simon cast an irritated glance at her. He clearly viewed her as a nuisance. She could only imagine how utterly unlike a proper governess she must appear in her bedraggled garb. Would he send her packing as soon as the rain died down?

“M-my lord,” she said, her teeth chattering, “if—if you’d permit me to explain m-my presence here—”

“Come,” he snapped.

His boot heels rang on the flagstone floor as he strode away down the corridor. Resentment locked her in place. Did he think her a dog to obey his command?

Then prudence asserted itself, and she made haste to follow him. He had every right to issue orders, Annabelle reminded herself. Who was she but a lowly servant? Worse, she was a mere
applicant
for the post of governess since the position she had believed to be hers now appeared in grave jeopardy.

Her wet shoes squelched on the stone floor. All of her earlier optimism had vanished, leaving her confused and uncertain. Oh,
why
hadn’t he been expecting her arrival? Lady Milford’s letter must have gone astray. Yet the problem was more than just that. He appeared to have no knowledge whatsoever of any governess being engaged. It begged the question as to why her ladyship had neglected to obtain the approval of the duke’s guardian.

Lord Simon started up a narrow winding staircase with Annabelle close at his heels. Rain blew through a window slit. In spite of her anxiety, she looked around with interest. By the rounded walls, this must be one of the towers. The stone steps were worn in the middle from centuries of usage. She felt a keen desire to learn the history of the castle. Would she have that opportunity?

Her stomach twisted. The prospect of being sent away hung over her like a guillotine. She couldn’t return to Mrs. Baxter’s Academy. She had burned her bridges there. Anyway, to resume her former life would mean giving up her dreams of adventure. She shuddered to think of withering away as an old maid, confined to the prison of the school, never to experience anything of the outside world …

The man who held her fate in his hands walked ahead of her. He led the way down a long corridor decorated by dusty old tapestries and shields hanging on the stone walls. With his lord-of-the-manor arrogance, he fit the gloomy ambiance to perfection. She imagined him in knightly armor and helm, crushing his opponents in a tournament, and afterward, striding triumphantly to join his lady …

Annabelle stared at his broad back.
Did
Lord Simon have a wife? Surely not. Lady Milford had said the young duke had no female relatives to take the place of his mother. Given his boorish manners, Lord Simon probably frightened off all decent women.

He was grumpier than Mr. Tibbles.

Annabelle clapped a hand to her mouth to stop an untimely giggle. She mustn’t compare her potential employer to a spiteful tomcat. And truly, her situation was too dire for humor. Though perhaps if she didn’t laugh, she might weep.

He halted by an open doorway. His critical gaze flicked to her bosom, then returned to her face. “You’ll need dry clothing. I don’t suppose you’ve brought any.”

Does it look like I have?
She squelched the sarcastic retort. “My trunk is at the inn. I had no means to transport it here.”

His scowl deepened. “I’ll have the housekeeper find you something. The moment you’ve changed, you’re to come straight to my study.”

As surly as ever, Lord Simon turned his back on her and stalked down the corridor. Annabelle parted her lips to remind him that she didn’t know her way around the castle. But perhaps it would be best to keep her own counsel. Asking him for anything, even directions, would only encourage him to view her as weak and dull-witted, unfit to be governess to a duke.

Annabelle shivered. The chill she felt had more to do with the precarious state of her future than her saturated gown. She would not—could not—allow his misogyny to daunt her. Somehow, she had to make herself indispensible to Lord Simon Westbury.

Chapter 4

Seated at his desk, Simon focused his eyes on the accounts book that lay open before him. Or at least he attempted to focus. Twice already he had begun adding a long column of numbers in his head, only to lose his place and have to start all over. The first time, he had been distracted by a crash of thunder outside; the second by the loud pop of a log settling in the fireplace.

He jammed the quill back into the silver inkpot. The damned chamber was too dim, anyway. Although the casement clock showed only half past five, the overcast sky had brought on an early twilight.

Pushing back his chair, Simon grabbed a branch of candles and prowled to the hearth. He held one taper to the flames and then used it to light the others. Yet even with the added illumination on his desk, he felt no inclination to resume his tedious task.

His moody gaze flicked to the letter half tucked beneath the blotter. He picked it up, reread the message, and then threw down the paper in disgust. Blast it all! Clarissa had gone too far this time. She had presumed upon a long-ago friendship with his late grandmother in order to undermine his authority.

Why had she done it? Did she truly believe he was doing such a wretchedly poor job of raising Nicholas?

The sword of guilt stabbed at Simon, but he deflected it. He had sacrificed his own plans and ambitions in order to safeguard his orphaned nephew. He had canceled an extended trip abroad to seek antiquities in Egypt and Greece. He had settled down to a dull life as a farmer—at least until the child was old enough to go to boarding school.

What more was a man supposed to do?

Stewing over the matter, he paced to the tall window and peered out into the murk. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle. Every now and then, a gust of wind rattled the glass panes. White-capped waves churned against the rocky shoreline, shooting frothy plumes high into the air. As a boy he’d often stolen down there to find whatever debris the latest storm had washed ashore. Bottles, seaweed, a waterlogged shoe—they had all been treasures to him.

At present, however, the wild beauty of the coast failed to interest him. He had too many other matters weighing on his mind. With a grimace, Simon acknowledged the true source of his inner agitation.

It was that woman. Miss Annabelle Quinn.

Her unexpected arrival had brought out the worst in him. Already irritated from a battle-scarred leg that ached in damp weather, he had been too swift to brand her a conniving female out to entrap a wealthy nobleman. There were plenty like that in the neighborhood; he’d even turned one away earlier in the day. But none of them had ever been so devious as to hike up the steep rise of the cliff. They generally came to the castle by carriage along the main drive or lay in wait for him when he went down to the village of Kevernstow.

Besides, the simplicity of Miss Quinn’s garb should have told him she was no husband hunter. Her gown was fine, but it lacked the frills and ruffles favored by ladies of the local gentry. She didn’t simper or flirt like them, either. So why had he so badly misread her purpose? Why had he been robbed of rational thought by the sight of her emerging from the forest like a wood nymph?

Though no classic beauty, she had pleasing features with chestnut brown hair and a curvaceous figure. He had watched her climb the hill with a purposeful confidence. The sparkle in her blue eyes revealed a zest for life. Maybe he’d been momentarily bewitched by the innocence she exuded—an innocence he’d quickly found suspect.

He tightened his jaw. No young lady was truly innocent, at least not when it came to securing her future. They were all cunning opportunists who deceived and misled a man.

So he had seized hold of Miss Quinn’s arm and accused her of trickery. It had not been his finest moment. His actions were especially galling now that the letter had proven the veracity of her claim. She wasn’t an idle, highborn lady with marriage on her mind; she was merely a commoner who had come here for employment.

Simon disliked making mistakes. He preferred things to be tidy and organized, everything in its proper place. He had learned that discipline in the military. Meticulous care of one’s weaponry could mean the difference between life and death on the battlefield.

Now, the presence of Miss Annabelle Quinn in the castle irritated him like a burr under the saddle of a cavalry horse. She was sand thrown into the well-oiled machinery of the household. He felt impatient to inform her that her services were not needed here.

He glanced over his shoulder at the empty doorway. What was keeping the woman? He himself had changed out of his wet clothes in a matter of minutes. She shouldn’t be lost since he’d instructed one of the maids to escort her here. Maybe like all females, Miss Quinn liked to dally at her toilette.

His mind produced a vivid image of her standing naked in the firelight while leisurely toweling herself dry. He knew she had fine breasts; they had been pressed against him when he’d carried her through the deluge. Memory added the womanly shape of her hips and waist, all arranged in a temptingly perfect hourglass figure.

He pressed his overheated forehead to the coolness of the glass pane. Devil take it, he would not be acting upon his base instincts. His behavior toward her had been reprehensible enough already.

A tapping sounded on the open door to his study. He pivoted as swiftly as a boy caught with his hand in the sweets dish. On the threshold stood the object of his erotic fantasies.

Drab
was his first thought.
Thank God
was his second.

The wet nymph was gone. Miss Annabelle Quinn now wore a baggy gray gown that was buttoned to her throat. An old-maid’s white cap hid most of her rich brown hair. The transformation added at least a decade onto her age. She now looked every inch the dowdy, no-nonsense governess.

She cast a surreptitious glance around the study, her gaze taking in the walls of books, the elephant’s foot stool, the small statues and trinkets he’d collected on his travels. Then she waited patiently, her chin lowered slightly, the picture of modesty.

Simon found satisfaction in her docility. A humble servant would be easier to handle then a headstrong termagant. “Come in,” he said, seating himself on the edge of the desk.

Miss Quinn walked toward him. The borrowed gown had been made for a shorter woman, and the high hem revealed a pair of sturdy shoes and a glimpse of trim ankle. Stopping in the middle of the rug, she dipped a graceful curtsy.

“Good evening, my lord.” Her voice was soft and modulated, utterly unlike that of the indignant maiden of the forest. “I do hope I haven’t inconvenienced you. The housekeeper had some trouble in finding the proper attire for me.”

“Never mind.” Simon picked up the letter from the desk and tapped it against his palm. “It gave me the opportunity to locate Lady Milford’s note.”

Miss Quinn’s eyes glowed like stars, lending an unwelcome beauty to her face. “Oh, thank heavens! Where was it?”

“I’d mistaken it for a social invitation and tossed it into a drawer.”

“Then you’ll know that what I told you is true. Her ladyship engaged my services as governess to His Grace.”

Simon gave a cool nod. “Indeed. Which means I owe you an apology. I should not have mistreated you.”

“You believed me to be a trespasser.”

“Be that as it may, it’s no excuse for my ungentlemanly behavior. I trust you will accept my expression of remorse.”

“Certainly, my lord. I shan’t give it a second thought.”

The earnestness of her expression, the warmth in her blue eyes, disturbed him on a visceral level. She would not feel so happy in a moment.

Simon rose from the desk and strolled to the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. “In regard to the position offered to you, I find myself in a quandary. Lady Milford failed to consult me in the matter. I never granted her permission to hire anyone.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m afraid you’ve journeyed here on a false promise, Miss Quinn. My nephew has no need of a governess. My staff handles his care quite competently.”

The light faded from her eyes. Clasping her fingers together, she took a few steps toward him. “Are you
quite
certain Lady Milford never spoke to you about finding a governess? Perhaps she suggested it to you in passing, and you’ve merely forgotten.”