“Yes. Thank you, doctor.”
The doctor packed everything back in his bag and took his leave. Rory had expected Miss Brooking to leave as well, but she turned to him when they were again alone. “Thank you, again, my lord. I know these spectacles will make a world of difference to your daughter.”
“I’m the one who should be thanking you, Miss Brooking. I admit, I had no idea how poor her vision was. I let my vanity take precedence over common sense. Thank you for pushing me to see things your way.”
“My way?”
“I believe you pointed out that Frances is more than an ornament to be hung on a man’s arm.”
“I might have spoken a bit harshly.”
“Sometimes that’s the only way to ensure I hear what you have to say. I have been called stubborn and hardheaded at times.”
“I haven’t found either of those adjectives true, my lord.” She curtseyed and left the parlor. Rory turned back to the window. The rain was falling steadily, and he watched the limbs of the trees sway in the wind. He had never thought much about being a father. His own father had been largely absent from his life and the lives of his siblings, except for his eldest brother, who was the heir. Even now, Rory rarely heard from his father or saw him. His mother wrote him on occasion, but her letters were little more than news of his siblings’ spouses and children or the political figures she had met with. Rory always had the sense that she wrote the same letter to all his brothers and sisters, copied it, then sent it.
Strange then that he liked playing with his daughter, listening to her talk, watching her play with her doll. He hadn’t even wanted a daughter. Men wanted sons, or so he thought. But now he found himself impressed by Frances’s cleverness or laughing at something amusing she said. He wanted to spend more time with her.
He also wanted to spend more time with Miss Brooking.
Rory leaned his forehead against the window, which was pleasantly cool due to the rains. He appreciated the chill of the glass against his heated skin. Increasingly, he felt rather warm whenever he thought of Miss Brooking. Rory didn’t anticipate that would change now that she’d kissed him—and he’d kissed her back. He might have been relieved that she seemed as attracted to him as he was to her, except that his life would have been easier if she took no notice of him.
Rory was perfectly aware that a gentleman marrying his governess was common enough to become a cliché. The problem was that Rory did not want to marry again. He was perfectly aware women only wanted him for one thing—his proximity to a dukedom and title. He didn’t want to be used again. Marriage was the only way to have Miss Brooking—Genevieve. He wasn’t a man with particularly strict morals, but one thing he believed in was treating his staff well. He didn’t abuse his position and power, and as Miss Brooking’s employer, he had all the power.
And yet…she had kissed him.
And he had liked it.
Why couldn’t it have been a sloppy, wet kiss that disgusted him? Why couldn’t her breath have smelled rank or her lips been thin or dry?
But kissing her had been perfect.
Of course, kissing Harriet had been perfect as well, the few times he’d dared once they were betrothed. And then, once thevows were spoken, she’d turned her head or behaved like a cold fish when he tried to kiss her.
He’d been fooled before.
He wouldn’t be fooled again.
*
Frances ran throughthe house, stopping whenever she spotted something she had not seen before. She was amazed at the details of the medallions on the ceiling. The ceiling in the foyer had been so high she hadn’t been able to see the plasterwork on it. Now, she studied the elaborate scrolls and curlicues and marveled. Then she ran upstairs and into the nursery. She was familiar with the room, but everything was clearer. Everything seemed in focus. She removed her glasses, and the room went just a little fuzzy. She put them on again, and she could clearly see the expression on Harriet’s face, even though the doll was across the room on the bed. Frances went to the window then and looked out.
The rain was not so hard that she could not see the green grass and the lilac bushes in all their purple glory. Before all the colors had run together, like paint if she spilled water on a canvas. Now they took on shape and dimension. She looked in the distance at the trees and the woods beyond the lawn. All of that had looked like a ball of green and brown yarn before. Now she could see the tree trunks and even leaves.
Frances went to a mirror and stared at herself. She looked different with spectacles. She thought she might look older. They certainly didn’t make her look prettier. But then, she wasn’t a pretty girl to begin with. She had freckles, and skinny arms and legs, and her hair was an unremarkable brown. Her mother had had such beautiful golden hair, and Frances had always envied it.
Now she could see that her hair was tangled and her freckles far more prominent than she’d thought. Frances turned away from the mirror and saw Miss Genevieve standing in the doorway. “You don’t like them,” she said.
“I look ugly.”
“The spectacles don’t make you look any different. I think they are a nice shape for your face, and the gold looks pretty against your skin.”
Frances shook her head. “I don’t mean because of the spectacles. I mean, now that I see myself clearly, I’m uglier than I thought.”
“You’re not ugly at all.”
“I am,” Frances said. “My freckles stand out, and I’m too skinny, and my hair is not pretty like Mama’s.”
Miss Genevieve opened her arms, and Frances ran into them and cried against her shoulder. The spectacles became foggy, so she removed them. Miss Genevieve took them and held them in her hand. Somehow Miss Genevieve knew not to gainsay Frances. She didn’t argue that Franceswasbeautiful or there was nothing wrong with freckles—though she might have, as the governess had them herself, and Frances thought she was sort of pretty. Not as pretty as Mama, of course. Miss Genevieve just held her and stroked her back until Frances felt a little better.
