Gifts of the Season: A Gift Most Rare / Christmas Charade / The Virtuous Widow. Lyn Stone

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      Chapter Three

      “Miss Blake?” Lady Fordyce paused, the pineapple raised in her hand. “Are you unwell, my dear?”

      “No, my lady,” said Sara quickly, pulling her thoughts back to the small, sunny room that served Lady Fordyce as her personal headquarters, and where, with Sara’s help, she was busily marshaling her troops and resources like any other good general preparing for a major engagement. “The pineapples will be a most handsome addition to the sideboard.”

      “I was speaking of ribbons, not pineapples,” said Lady Fordyce, frowning with concern. “Are you certain you are well? You are most distracted this morning.”

      Sara flushed, likely the first color to come to her cheeks all day. “Forgive me, my lady,” she said hurriedly. “If I am distracted, it is only the usual happy confusion of the season.”

      Skeptical, Lady Fordyce’s frown remained. “More likely it is Clarissa’s fault, fussing and worrying at you over what she’s to receive for Christmas.”

      Sara only smiled wanly. If she looked only half as exhausted as she felt, then she was fortunate Lady Fordyce hadn’t sent her directly to bed and summoned the surgeon.

      But how could Sara look otherwise, considering the miserable, sleepless night she’d spent after leaving Revell on the terrace? She’d truly believed she’d purged him forever from her thoughts and heart, yet the moment he’d smiled at her and begun talking of Calcutta, she’d once again felt that familiar warmth of joy and excitement begin to swirl through her body, the rare happiness that Revell alone had given her, and she’d realized how hopelessly weak—weak!—she still was.

      In six long years she hadn’t learned one blessed thing, not where Revell Claremont was concerned. She might as well be done with it now: throw herself into his arms directly, and beg him to trample on her heart and abandon her again.

      “I trust you would confide in me if something were truly wrong, my dear, wouldn’t you?” asked Lady Fordyce gently, settling the pineapple back into the basket on her desk so she could rest her hand on Sara’s shoulder. “You would tell me if there was a matter I could remedy?”

      Oh, yes, thought Sara unhappily, of course she’d confide in Lady Fordyce. Governesses for young ladies were supposed to possess unblemished and virginal reputations. She’d never told the Fordyces that she’d spent most of her life in India, or that she’d been forced to leave in a rush of disgrace, let alone spoken of her unfortunate entanglement with Lord Revell Claremont. How could she, when any part of her sorry tale could cost her her place—a place she couldn’t afford to lose—even with a kindhearted mistress like Lady Fordyce?

      “If there were any ills you could remedy, my lady,” she said with careful truth, “then I should always come to you.”

      Lady Fordyce beamed, and gave Sara’s shoulder a fond little pat. “I am delighted to hear it. Ladysmith has always been a happy house, free of secrets and intrigue, and I would like to keep it so. Now, Christmas or not, surely it must be time to begin Clarissa’s lessons today?”

      With a swift curtsy Sara hurried from the room, down the hall toward the library. She’d already decided that her lesson today would feature Hannibal’s ancient journey across the Alps, and she hoped to find a book with illustrations to pique Clarissa’s interest enough to make her forget the coming holiday, at least for a moment or two, and make her stop daydreaming of Rev Claremont.

      With fresh determination she marched into the library. A small fire glowed in the hearth to take the chill from the room for any guests who might venture into it, but Sara was sure she’d have the collection to herself. She certainly wouldn’t see Albert Fordyce, or Sir David, either. The current generations of Fordyces were not readers and neither were the majority of their friends and houseguests, and often weeks would pass when no one beyond Sara entered this pleasantly crowded room with the tall bookcases and old-fashioned chairs. Carefully she now pulled a large book of Roman history from the shelf and opened it on the leather-topped table in the center of the room, flipping through the heavy pages filled with text to find the illustrations. At last she came to one she sought, the Carthaginian general Hannibal leading his elephant-borne troops across the Alps, and she leaned closer to study the details of the print.

      “Miss Blake,” said Revell, his broad shoulders suddenly filling the doorway to the library. He cleared his throat, low, rumbling, and thoroughly self-consciously, as if he needed one more way to announce his arrival. “Good morning, Miss Blake. I did not expect to find you here.”

      “Nor I you, my lord.” Startled though she was, she was resolved to be cool and reserved, a model governess with her hands clasped neatly at her waist. Besides, this time they were in the library, and there wasn’t a single moonbeam in sight to addle her wits or to give him unfair advantage.

      Not that СКАЧАТЬ