Ethan: Lord of Scandals

kitchen. You will have two weeks paid in the summer to see friends, such as Miss Priscilla, and the use of a horse or pony trap, should you need it. We are agreed?”

Alice was quiet, stunned at how her world could change in the space of a half mile. She had not lined up another position because she preferred to deal with agencies to screen potential employers. Any place in London itself would not do, there being a surfeit of titles around the place, and Collins—may he rot slowly in a malodorous corner of hell—was liable to visit other titles from time to time.

Any household that had too many grown sons or uncles or male cousins was out of the question as well. Any place that expected her to ride with the children or march them about the estate every day of the week, any place that would not pay a decent wage or give her even a half day a week to catch her breath…

Mr. Grey was offering her more than she usually demanded, in every regard. He had no title; his children were dear and very much in need of someone who would care for them.

“This is temporary,” Alice said as the horse shuffled into the stable yard. “You said this was temporary.”

He nudged the beast to a halt. “I said I’d hire you even if you were only willing to take us on temporarily. I suggest we give the matter a three-month trial. If you are not content, we can agree to part at that point, but you must allow me at least that long again to search for a successor.”

The condition was practical and would ensure the children did not suffer a lapse in studies. It also ensured that for six months Mr. Grey would not be left with the dilemma of finding another tutor.

“So it’s a six-month position, at least.”

“At least,” he agreed, then swung off the horse, leaving Alice perched on the pommel, mind reeling. “Miss Portman?”

Alice glanced down to see Mr. Grey regarding her patiently from the ground. She put her hands on his shoulders and felt herself lifted easily from the saddle. Though Mr. Grey was careful to settle her onto her feet slowly, her left leg buckled when she tried to put weight on it.

“Steady.” He held her still, letting her lean against him once more. “Give it a minute.”

She bit her lip and blinked. “It’s shot,” she muttered miserably as the horse was led away. “The only thing that helps now is bed rest.”

“Can you lean on me?” Mr. Grey asked, wrapping an arm around her waist. But he was too tall to be properly leaned on, and Alice hadn’t the strength or the balance to hop up three flights of stairs on one foot.

She shook her head, feeling tears threaten, not exclusively as a result of the ache in her hip.

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “bugger this,” and Alice felt herself being swept up against his chest.

“We’ll have you surrounded by hot-water bottles in no time.” He headed across the gardens to one of the house’s back entrances.

“The servants’ stairs are closer,” Alice said, looping her arms around his neck. She hadn’t been carried like this since she’d fallen off that horse, and though she was full grown and well fed, Mr. Grey carried her as if she weighed no more than little Priscilla. It was disconcerting, sweet, comforting, and awful, all at once.

He bent his knees a little at her door, so Alice could lift the latch, then he kicked the door shut behind them. Alice found herself gently deposited on the edge of the bed, facing a stern-faced Mr. Grey, who was glaring down at her, his hands on his hips. Without warning, he dropped to hunker before her and took one of her boots in his hands.

She stared down at him. “What are you doing?”

“Removing your shoes,” he replied, unlacing her half boot as he spoke. “Bending at the waist is likely uncomfortable for you.”

Protests dammed up behind the truth—bending at the waist hurt abysmally, though Alice nearly died of mortification and shock when she felt Mr. Grey’s hands slip under her skirts and tug down her stockings.

“Mr. Grey!” She tried to scoot back on the bed, but that hurt like blue blazes, so she had to settle for glaring at him as he rolled her stockings like a practiced lady’s maid.

“Oh, simmer down.” His tone disgruntled, he looked around and put the stockings on her vanity. “I was married for several years, you know, and it isn’t as if I’ll be ravishing you over the sight of your dainty feet.”

Alice went still on the bed, all other indignities and imprecations forgotten. “What do you mean, you were married?”

“My sons are legitimate.” He frowned at her, his hands back on his hips. “I would not wish bastardy on any child, much less my own.”

“But you said you were married,” Alice pressed. “You aren’t married now?”

“I am not,” he replied, cocking his head. “And were I not in polite company, and did it not sound insufferably callous, I would add, ‘thank God.’ My wife expired of typhoid fever a little more than three years into our union. I would not have wished her dead, but she is, and I quite honestly do not miss her.”

“Mr. Grey! Surely you haven’t voiced those sentiments before your children?”

“And if I have?”

“You would have much to apologize for,” Alice shot back. “Much to be forgiven for. She might have been the worst mother in the world, but those little boys need to believe she was in some way lovable, much as they would need to believe the same about you, lest they see themselves as unlovable.”

His gaze narrowed. “You presume to know a great deal about my sons.”

“I knew well before you did that one of them had been birched too severely,” Alice retorted. “And I know they need to regard their parents in some reasonably positive fashion.”

“Well, then, fine.” He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture Alice had seen his younger brother make often. “Your expertise confirms my choice of you as the boys’ next governess.”

Alice opened her mouth to say something, then shut it abruptly.

“I will take my leave of you.” He stepped back from the bed. “A maid will be along posthaste. Will you want some laudanum?”

“No. Thank you, that is. No, thank you.”

“Good day, then. I’ll have our terms drawn up into a contract and provide a copy for your review.”

She nodded, not even watching as he took his leave. Her hip hurt, and it was going to hurt worse in the next few hours, and she’d just made a devil’s bargain with a man who smelled divine and handled her like she was a sack of feathers. Alice was tucked up in her night rail, a glass of cold lemonade by the bed, before she realized she was just as disgruntled with Mr. Grey for being widowed as she was for his handling her like she was a sack of feathers—and not even a female sack of feathers at that.

Three

Argus churned along ahead of the dust and racket of the coach, no doubt sensing the approach of home even though Tydings was still at least an hour distant. With luck, they’d beat the inevitable thunderstorm building up to the north.

Ethan had not slept well the previous night, his mind a welter of thoughts and feelings left over from his visit to Belle Maison. When he was a boy exiled from his home, he’d missed Nick so badly he’d cried at first, and a six- foot-plus fourteen-year-old male did not cry easily. Now that the old earl was dead, and he and Nick were free to be family to each other again, Ethan hadn’t been able to get away fast enough.

And Nick had been hurt.

For all of Nick’s glee over his new wife, all of his excitement at the prospect of having a family with his Leah, Nick had still known Ethan was dodging, and had let him go without a word. He’d merely hugged his brother tightly, then patted Argus and told the horse to take good care of his precious cargo.

Well, life wasn’t a fairy tale, Ethan reasoned when more of the same kind of musings finally brought him to the foot of the long driveway leading to Tydings.

“Papa!” Joshua was standing on the box, the groom’s hands anchored around his waist. “We’re home! I can see the house, and there goes Mrs. Buxton to fetch the footmen.”

Ethan’s housekeeper, Mrs. Buxton—Mrs. Buxom, among the footmen—was indeed bustling down the long terrace at the side of the house.