“Lobo is Spanish for wolf,” Ethan said, his gaze straying around the room lest he betray a reaction to that smile. Ye gods, the plain, prim, buttoned-up Miss Portman had the smile of a benign goddess, so warm and charming it hurt to see.

“Pris is learning Spanish, French, and Italian from her uncle Thomas, who is a noted polyglot.” Miss Portman chose a book, frowned at it, and put it right back.

“What’s wrong with that one?” Ethan asked, amused at her expression.

“No pictures,” she explained. “Who in their right mind prints a storybook for children without pictures?”

“Somebody trying to save money on production costs. Did the wolf acquire a name?” He was asking to be polite, to make small talk with somebody who was likely not much befriended below stairs.

“He acquired various names.” Miss Portman chose another book and opened it for perusal. “Wolfgang Wolf was John’s nomination. Ford, being our youngest, voted for Poopoo Paws Wolfbottom.”

She said this with a straight face, which had probably made the children laugh all the harder.

“And the winner was?” Ethan hopped off the desk and crossed the room to help the lady to her feet. She frowned delicately—a puzzlement rather than a rebuke, Ethan surmised—then put her bare hand in his and let him draw her up from the floor.

“Lord Androcles Wolfgang Poopoo Paws Wolfbottom Wolf the fourth,” she recited. “Children like anything that makes the telling of a story longer and are ever willing to mention certain parts of the anatomy.”

“I see.” What he saw was a flawless complexion, velvety brown eyes staring up at him in wary consternation, and a wide, full mouth that hid a gorgeous smile. He stepped back and dropped her hand accordingly.

“I am off.” Miss Portman edged around him in the confines of the shelves, and Ethan caught a whiff of lemons. Of course she’d wear lemon verbena. This was probably a dictate in some secret manual for governesses.

“You haven’t joined the cavalcade of pony carts making for the scene of this bacchanal?” Ethan asked, standing his ground.

“I am not fond of equines,” Miss Portman replied. “Nor of animals in general, though I can appreciate the occasional cat. I choose to walk instead. The exercise is good for me, and I am less likely to be ridiculed by the children for my fears.”

“Shall I provide you escort?” Ethan heard himself ask.

Now where in the bloody, benighted hell had that come from? “It’s a pretty day,” Ethan went on, the same imp of inspiration not yet done with him. “I’ve missed my family, and I can work on correspondence any time.”

She wanted to refuse him. From the fleeting look in her eyes, Ethan deduced that his company ranked below that of Mr. Wolfbottom Wolf after a large meal of mutton and onion sandwiches.

And wasn’t that cheering, to find one’s company distasteful to a mere governess?

“Don’t let me impose, Miss Portman.” Ethan offered her a polite retreat. A bastard, even a wealthy one with passable looks, learned the knack of polite retreats. “I can always saddle my gelding and join the party later.” He saw his mistake when her eyes narrowed, saw she took the reference to his horse as a personal taunt.

“My apologies.” He was not sorry, he was behind in his correspondence. “I meant no offense, but you do not seem at a loss for company.”

“I am not,” she replied, peering at him. “Your children need to spend time with you outside this house, and you can carry the blanket and the book. Shall we?”

Oh, she was good, reducing him to the status of her bearer and making him work for even that privilege. An idea blossomed in the back of Ethan’s mind, borne of the realization she’d tamed the precocious Priscilla and could likely handle younger children even more easily. He let this idea unfurl in his awareness, where he could consider it from several angles at his leisure.

“Let me tidy up the desk,” he said, “while you find us that blanket, and I’ll join you in the kitchen momentarily.”

“As you wish.” She whisked off, her words implying Ethan had arranged matters to his own satisfaction, when in fact, he was at a loss to explain what he was doing trundling after a prim spinster to spend hours swatting flies and trying not to let the shrieks of children offend his beleaguered ears.

When he met Miss Portman in the kitchen, she sported a wide, floppy straw hat on her head, a blanket over her arm, and the book in her hand. She wore gloves as well, which should not have surprised Ethan, but disappointed him for some reason.

“There’s a shortcut to the orchard through the home wood,” Ethan said as they left the house. He’d rolled the book into the blanket and tucked the blanket under his right arm, leaving his left free for escort duty.

Except the lady was striding off across the terrace like she was intent on storming the Holy Land single-handedly.

Ethan waited by the back door. “Miss Portman?”

“Sir?” She perfectly matched his condescending tone. His own children could not have mimicked him more precisely.

“When one escorts a lady,” he said, “one generally offers the lady his arm.” He winged his elbow at her and waited. He was disproportionately gratified to see Alice Portman blush to the roots of her lovely dark hair. Petty of him, but there it was.

“My apologies.” Alice strode back to his side, put her hand on his arm as if he were clothed with venomous snakes, and fixed her bespectacled gaze straight ahead. Had she started singing some stalwart old hymn, he would not have been surprised.

“Is it really so distasteful, Miss Portman, to stroll with a gentleman on a pretty day?” Ethan asked, setting a deliberate pace.

“I am not used to the company of gentlemen.” Gentlemen might have been “grave robbers” or “highwaymen” in the same inflection. “Most men don’t know what to do with me if they know I’m a governess. I’m considered above the maids, but certainly not family. I’m not spoken for, but I’m not fair game, rather like taking holy orders. It can be awkward.”

She was blunt, which he liked. At the rate they were going, their progress would take some time. “I have the impression this might be awkward for the gentlemen, but not particularly so for you.”

“I am content to be what I am,” Miss Portman said, her posture unbending a little.

“So content”—Ethan’s tone was as mild as the breeze—“that I found little Priscilla crying into her pillow in the library this morning, for her friend Miss Portman is abandoning her.”

Miss Portman paused minutely in her forward progress, and Ethan regretted his comment. Her feet hadn’t stumbled, but he sensed her resolve momentarily wavering.

“Priscilla is dramatic,” she said at length. “She will learn one can survive the comings and goings of others in one’s life.”

“Not an easy lesson for a girl. Has she really outgrown you?”

Miss Portman turned her head to glare at him. “Yes, she has, Mr. Grey. Priscilla has her uncle’s facility for languages, and while I can teach her some drawing-room French, I cannot by any means provide what she needs. She shows an equal propensity for mathematics, which I believe she sees as just another language, and she needs a teacher who cannot simply keep up with her but who can challenge and guide her. The intellect of a child must be nurtured carefully if learning is to be made a lifelong habit.”

“Even the intellect of a girl child?” He said it to goad her, to keep the fire in her brown eyes and the animation in her expression. If his sisters could have heard him, though, he’d be minced meat. He should be minced meat, in fact.

She would have stomped off had Ethan not caught her hand.

“My apologies.” He bowed slightly over her hand. “The question was unworthy of me, and you are right to take umbrage.”

“Umbrage?” Miss Portman snatched back her hand. “Umbrage is taken by vicars and duchesses, Mr. Grey. I am offended you would question the appropriateness of developing a mind as talented as little Priscilla’s. Given the unfortunate circumstances of her birth, her education might someday be all she has to fall back on.”

“Mr. Belmont wouldn’t allow that,” Ethan said. Hell, Nick wouldn’t allow that. “I wouldn’t allow it.”

“You barely know her,” Miss Portman shot back, but her tone had taken on an edge of curiosity.

“I don’t know her well, personally,” Ethan said, “but I do know, personally, what it’s like to be raised with only immediate family for company, Miss Portman. I know what it’s like to have my mother’s name as my own, what it’s like to require letters and dispensations to be able to claim any tie to my titled father. Priscilla’s parents can love her—mine loved me, after their fashion—but they cannot ease her path through life once she leaves their care.”

She stomped along in silence beside him, and Ethan could only guess at the thoughts rocketing around behind her grim expression.

He was about to open his mouth to stumble through further apologies, when a rabbit bolted from the undergrowth, followed closely by a second of the same species. His companion startled, gave a muffled shriek, and then toppled sideways, her gloved hand slipping from his grasp as she fell.

Two

In the instant between losing her balance and knowing she was going to fall, Alice had time for thoughts.

Please, God, not this, not now, with the arrogant and condescending Mr. Grey on hand to witness it, and only him to help me. Please…

“I’ve got you.” The words were gruff, the grip on her arms ungentle, but the way Ethan Grey held her against his chest was secure and such a relief Alice hung there, catching her balance in something very like an embrace.

“I’ve got you,” Mr. Grey said again, his grip relaxing, though he didn’t step back.

And neither did Alice. The near fall had scared her; the near falls always scared her, had her heart hammering in her chest, her breath coming too quickly, and memories—the worst memories in her possession—obliterating rational processes.

Panic swirled close. Alice forced her breathing to slow rather than allow that panic any closer.

“Here.” Mr. Grey tugged at her, his arm slipping around her waist as he guided her to a fallen tree large enough to sit on. He tossed the folded blanket over the tree and urged her down, sitting beside her with his arm still around her waist.

Ethan Grey was an awful man. He beat his children, and Alice hadn’t once caught him smiling; but he was tall, strong, and solid, and he smelled of cedar and safety. When he urged her against him, she leaned just a little.

“You’re pale as a ghost,” he said, his tone displeased. “If I had smelling salts, I’d be waving them under your nose. Are you going to faint?”

She shook her head, though she had to swallow twice to find her voice.

“I have a bad hip,” she said, eyes on her lap so he couldn’t see her embarrassment. “When it gives out, it can lame me for a considerable time, and the house is not close.”

“As if I’d leave you here for the gamekeeper to discover on his fall rounds some months hence. Does your hip pain you now?”

“You caught me in time.” Though her hip did pain her. It pained her nigh constantly, and this little slip would mean a bad night at least. It could have been so very much worse. “My thanks.”

“Hmm.” He regarded her, no doubt seeing her lips pinched against pain, her complexion pale, and her composure—upon which she prided herself—eluding her. “Has your hip always been unreliable?”

He made it sound as if her hip was a shifty, shady sort of character, not a body part they shouldn’t even be alluding to.

“I wasn’t born this way.” She glanced up at him, some of her irritation coming back, and wasn’t that a relief, probably to them both. “It’s worse if I’m tired, or I try to move too quickly.”

“We’re about halfway between the house and the orchard. What’s your pleasure?” He stood with his hands on his hips, looking put out. That was some comfort.

“Press on,” she said, trying to rise, only to find Mr. Grey’s hand on her arm restraining her.

“Soon.” His eyes—a startlingly handsome blue—lit with what had to be his version of humor. “Rest a minute longer, Miss Portman. You can do it if you put your considerable will to it.”

She shot him a truculent glare, which caused his mouth—also curiously well formed—to quirk up in a smile. The expression was unexpectedly charming on him, taking years off his features and giving an astonishingly winsome aspect to her escort.