for a winter dress and another for a cape. She picked out some plain white cotton for some aprons and caps and a print for another dress.
The ship had carried two trunks full of her clothing. She’d packed walking dresses, morning dresses, carriage dresses, dinner dresses, nightdresses and ball gowns. She had hats for all occasions and several pairs of shoes and gloves. Her undergarments had been made of soft linen. The wardrobe had been worthy of an earl’s daughter and soon-to-be wife of a baron.
These makeshift clothes were—serviceable. But they were also more dear to her than all of her lost dresses. Because of the thoughtfulness behind them.
Her father had indulged her with the finest clothes and jewels—all lost now—but he’d been unable to stand the sight of his daughter after her mother died. She’d reminded him too much of his beloved wife.
When Mrs Bell and Miss Cox left her, Rebecca took the pins from her hair and brushed it out with the brush Lord Brookmore had purchased for her. She rearranged it into a simple coil at the back of her head, as Claire had done. She wore the dress that the seamstress fixed for her, a dress of plain grey.
She glanced at herself in the full-length mirror that had been provided for her.
Her breath caught.
She saw Claire Tilson.
Donning the lavender gloves Lord Brookmore had purchased for her in Moelfre and the paisley shawl, she glanced at her image again and felt a little more like herself.
She left the room and knocked on Lord Brookmore’s door.
He answered it in his shirtsleeves and looked even more handsome than when wearing his well-tailored coat, waistcoat and neckcloth.
‘Miss Tilson,’ he said in some surprise.
Oh, dear. This was a bit improper of her. ‘You said I should let you know when I was ready to dine.’
‘I assumed you would send word.’
Yes, but it had seemed silly to send someone else with the message when she was right next door. Besides, she had seen her father and brother in shirtsleeves on occasion—but they did not look at all like Lord Brookmore.
He quickly donned his waistcoat and buttoned it.
She averted her gaze. ‘I can return to my room, if you would prefer to eat later.’
‘No. No. I am quite ready.’ He put on his coat, pulling at the lapels and the cuffs to straighten its fit. He threw a neckcloth around his neck and managed to tie it into a reasonably neat mathematical.
He paused, his eyes scanning her. ‘That is one of the new dresses? It looks well on you.’
Her face flushed at the compliment. Why should she react so to such mild praise when most men’s flattery left her cold? Who had ever complimented her when wearing such a plain garment?
* * *
Their dinner was a lovely relaxed affair and Rebecca marvelled that there were long moments when she did not think of the shipwreck and when she quite forgot she was supposed to be a governess.
When Lord Brookmore’s eyes lit upon her, it seemed as if her insides would melt. She’d met other handsome men, but he was so much more than any man she had ever met.
How ironic that she should meet him as his lowly employee and not as a suitor. As Lady Rebecca she would have been acceptably eligible to him.
Not that he would have desired such an impulsive, wilful female, who’d defied her brother until he’d put her in a corner from which she could not escape.
Except she had escaped. All it had taken was the loss of Claire’s life.
That thought brought a stab of pain.
But during the dinner with Lord Brookmore she tried very hard to push thoughts like that away and instead simply enjoyed his company.
* * *
After dinner they climbed the stairs to their rooms.
‘Do you wish to ride again tomorrow?’ he asked.
She glanced up at him. ‘I would love to ride.’ Riding had made the trip a pleasure.
‘We should reach Brookmore House tomorrow.’
He walked her to her door where she would have to take on the role of governess completely and leave Lady Rebecca behind. A companionable night like this would be impossible then. A viscount simply did not become friends with a lowly governess.
Like the night before, he held his hand out for her key. She took it from her pocket and placed it in his palm, very aware of her fingers brushing his skin.
He unlocked the door and returned the key to her.
She gazed up into his face. ‘My lord, this was a lovely day. How can I ever thank you for all the kindness and generosity you’ve shown me?’
He stared at her, not speaking. They stood close, no more than a foot apart. His scent filled her nostrils, the faint odour of horse, of lime and something very male. It was more intoxicating than the wine she’d consumed at the meal.
Once when a man stood so close to her, he had forced her into a kiss. Even Lord Stonecroft had placed his wet, pulpous lips upon hers before he’d left to return to London. She’d wanted to retch. Somehow, though, if Lord Brookmore did the same, she would not mind.
What a brazen thought!
If she were herself—Lady Rebecca—instead of pretending to be Claire, could she, this moment, invite a kiss? All she needed to do was rise up on tiptoe.
Perhaps it would not hurt to be Lady Rebecca for a few minutes longer.
* * *
Garret gazed down at her face, so close to his. His heart thundered in his chest as her words echoed.
How can I ever thank you?
A kiss would be more than thanks.
The hall lamp shone on her, making her skin glow, bathing them both in light. The darkness cocooned them. Nothing else existed but the two of them, so close.
She rose, bringing her tantalising lips a whisper closer. It was enough to undo him. Garret seized her arms and lowered his lips to hers.
She tasted of claret and raspberries, her lips whetting an appetite he’d tried hard to deny. Her mouth opened to him and she placed her palms on his cheeks, holding his kiss.
It was all the encouragement he needed. He deepened the kiss and pressed her against him, against where the need for her had escalated. Her arms wrapped around his neck and her fingers buried themselves in his hair. She returned his kisses with an ardour matching his own.
What might it be like to make love to her? Would she match his passion making love?
‘Lord Brookmore,’ she murmured in a voice tinged with both passion and anxiety.
It woke him up.
He was Lord Brookmore. Her employer.
He pushed her away. ‘Miss Tilson, I—’ Words failed. What could he say to her about what he’d done? And almost done?
He turned on his heel and strode away, back down the corridor and stairs.
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