Genevieve blinked in the dark. Perhaps this situation wasn’t as hopeless as it had seemed. Perhaps Lord Emory would listen to reason.
*
“If she didn’thave a way with the child, I would have dismissed her already.”
Notley lifted his head from the table, groaned, and settled for turning it slightly to the side so he might peer blearily up at Rory, who looked down at him.
“How much did you drink last night?”
“Too much. I should still be in bed, except that the birds are making an awful noise with all their singing. Not to mention the racket and barking of that dog and all the giggling from your daughter. A man can’t rest here in the country.”
Rory was tired himself. He should have gone to bed as soon as he’d sent his friends from the tavern away. Instead, he had lain awake thinking about Miss Brooking’s words—is this the sort of environment you wish your daughter to grow up in?
At one time he’d thought Lilacfall Abbey the perfect environment for his children. He’d imagined filling it with his and Harriet’s offspring, imagined dark-haired boys running around and blonde girls picking flowers. Now he had one child in the graveyard and another unruly, little devil turning his life upside down.
And yet the weight of responsibility for that child was beginning to settle on him. He hadn’t been there for her before. He’d all but abandoned her, and if anyone knew what that felt like, it was Rory. He needed to try to be a parent to Frances now.
That didn’t mean he wanted her governess telling him how to go about it.
No matter how pretty that governess had looked last night. His mouth had gone dry when she’d swept into the dining room, just as regal as you please. Her red hair had been down about her waist, her feet had been bare, and she’d been garbed in only a thin dressing gown. Still, she’d behaved as though she had the authority of the queen.
“I do apologize if I caused you any trouble with your governess.”
Rory’s gaze returned to Notley, whose cheek was still resting on the dining room table.
“She told me you took a wrong turn and almost ended up in the nursery.”
“She set me straight. Rather wished I could have brought her back to my room instead of, er—what was that chit’s name?”
“I told you, Miss Brooking is out of bounds.”
Notley made a sound that was unintelligible.
Just then the door banged open, and Miss Brooking and Frances whirled into the dining room like a cyclone. Rory stood as the child scampered over to the sideboard and Miss Brooking made a feeble attempt at a curtsey. “My lord, Miss Frances has something to ask of you.” She cleared her throat, and his daughter put the scone she had taken a bite of back on the tray and made her own clumsy curtsey.
“Papa?” Frances looked at him then at Miss Brooking. He assumed she wanted confirmation her curtsey had been correct. Miss Brooking nodded.
“Can I have a favor?”
“MayI ask a favor,” Miss Brooking corrected her.
Frances nodded. “What she said.”
“What is it?” Rory asked, charmed despite himself. His daughter still looked nothing like the children he’d seen at thepark. She wore black and her hair was still an unruly tangle. Her dress was clean, at least, and her hair was pulled back and away from her face.
And she wasn’t kicking him. That was progress.
“Can we—maywe use the carriage to go to Miss Genevieve’s house?”
Rory looked at the governess.
“We’d like to fetch a doll I kept from my childhood. I named her Marcella,” Miss Brooking said, as though this made any more sense.
“Your…doll?”
“For a doll tea party,” Frances clarified. “Harriet and Marcella want to have a tea party together.”
Rory swallowed the lump in his throat. He’d heard the doll’s name before, and it had given him a jolt. It did so again now, only this jolt came with a wrench to the heart. How tragic that his daughter should name her only doll after her dead mother. He shoved the pain that threatened to break through the wall he’d erected back down, and then down again. “Shouldn’t you be learning how to read or do sums or some such thing?” He’d spoken more harshly than he’d intended, and Frances took a step back. He recognized the mutinous look that came over her face. He’d seen it in the mirror enough times.
