The Earl’s Disguised Governess (Preview)

Prologue

Ernest

“It is a hot June day, is it not?”

Ernest gasped as he trudged through tents erected across the battlefield. War was brewing on the horizon, and nobody knew when it would arrive. They were little under two weeks into the summer month, and it seemed every man held his breath on the battlefield, eyes on the horizon, waiting for the cries of war to come for them.

Graham Courtenay, a fellow army surgeon and Ernest’s apprentice, tugged on his high-collared greenish-brown uniform jacket, kept relatively clean, thanks to their aprons they’d left back in the field hospital.

“Indeed,” Graham muttered. “I am tired of the blood, and the war has not even begun.”

Several soldiers had already been injured. Scouts and messengers caught in the crosshairs were sent back with limbs hanging on by a thread and gouges in their muscles and bodies, messages sent in blood on paper. It was unthinkable.

“Do you think the war might even begin?” Ernest could not help asking as they walked through the hard ground in Waterloo. “It has been several days now, and there has been sight nor sound of the French. Perhaps we have been called to war for nothing.”

Graham snorted. “That is wishful thinking.” He frowned. “I am sure the French only wish to keep us waiting. They are a pompous lot; are they not?”

Ernest grunted, not quite agreeing nor disagreeing. He was not there to play politics, only to treat the wounded under the obligation of being called to service. He was following in his father’s footsteps—a physician for the king, in what was said to be a great battle and an even greater victory.

Dread and excitement filled the air, anxiety lingering among the fields.

“Still, I suppose Archibald shall be glad to see our mangy faces.”

Ernest could not help laughing. The battlefield was already too grim not to take a light-hearted moment when it was to be found. They made their way to the tent occupied by Viscount Archibald White, who served as a captain for the king’s army. It was closed, but a soft candlelight emanated from the large blue tent.

“He is no doubt anxiously poring over those maps,” Graham muttered. “He shall be seeing the lay of the land in his sleep if he is not careful.”

“Perhaps that is what he wishes for.”

Several men walked out as they approached, inclining their heads to Ernest and Graham. Ernest recognized one—the Duke of Colchester, whom he had seen at a spring ball only three months ago. The man had danced a wonderful quadrille with a lady in the scandal sheet the following day. He had been somewhat upset over it, yet to Ernest’s knowledge, they had married. Now, the man strode out, stone-faced, a general, ready to lead his troops at the first call of war. He shuddered at the insanity of it. Ernest was a healer, not a fighter, and he was glad for his father’s gifts for being a medic.

“Knock, knock, old man,” Graham called out as they entered the viscount’s tent. 

He is a captain now, Ernest reminded himself. That is all he is now. Until we … return. 

He cast one more look back out at the empty field, frowning, before he ducked inside.

The tent was indeed lit up by candlelight, and the scent of rum filled the room.

“Good evening,” Archibald said, nodding his head at them. He had a strong face and piercing ice-blue eyes that looked right through a man as if he could immediately assess everything in his field of sight. “How was the hospital?”

“Hard,” Graham muttered, rubbing his eyes.

Archibald glanced at Ernest, who nodded. “Hard. But it is our job, and we are proud to serve in the king’s army in such ways, are we not, Graham?”

“Most proud,” his assistant muttered. “But yes. Indeed, it is an honour.”

“Well, I have just finished up my meeting. We have assessed the land. General Whittingham is moving some of his troops to higher land for a better vantage point. He thinks the French shall strike any moment now.”

As if to prove a point, the air went silent, and they strained to listen for gunfire. None came, and they all visibly relaxed. It was possible, even if it felt foolish.

“It seems God is looking kindly upon us at this moment.” Archibald laughed. “Men, tomorrow, we might go to war good and proper. We might lift our rifles and tend to broken bodies or cover up the dead, and we might serve our country. But tonight, we drink, and we remember.” The captain’s face was bright and optimistic. “But most of all, we shall think of the day we return to our loved ones.”

“Oh, here he goes,” Graham said. “Do not make me listen to one more sonnet about your beautiful betrothed.”

“Do not mock me, boy.” Archibald laughed. “For I have power back in London and on the battlefield. Perhaps you would like to empty the chamber pots for the soldiers in the trenches?”

“I am content to listen to you talk about your betrothed, General.” He cleared his throat, nodding his faux agreeance. “Do go on.”

Ernest coughed to cover up a snicker as Archibald pulled up three glasses and poured them each a serving of rum. “Lady Samantha is rather beautiful, is she not? Only many weeks ago, she wore a delightful pink gown to the last ball of the season. It was quite a spectacle. I could scarcely pull my gaze from her. She is very generous with her time, and I cannot wait to promenade with her once again. Oh, those eyes. And her dark hair. It spills like night down her back. Her eyes are the beacons upon which I am guided by in my darkest of days.”

Graham groaned as Archibald got louder.

“I am loathe to think I did not have the chance to marry her before we were called to service,” Archibald lamented. “But she will make a fine wife and mother to our future little viscount.”

He spoke so fondly of his betrothed, and Ernest could not help smiling.

“Her smile speaks of mystery as if she is always holding a secret to her chest that she cannot wait to confess. And her skin … My, every doll maker in the world must be envious, for she is porcelain. A beautiful lady I should not be worthy of, but she makes me feel as though I might just be.”

“Archibald, are you drunk or love drunk?” Graham teased, laughing boisterously. “You fool.”

As the captain poured more rum into their glasses, some splashed on Graham, who merely wiped at the stain with little care.

“I must say, I would have a thousand glasses of wine spilled on me at one of the marriage-minded mama’s balls back in London than see one more smear of blood on my apron,” Graham muttered as they all lifted their glasses.

“Hear, hear,” Ernest answered.

“A toast, men,” Archibald said. “To winning this battle and returning home so Graham shall be drowned in wine.”

“Hear, hear!” Graham toasted, and they all drank.

After Ernest swallowed, he winced, recalling all those social events. “Although, I must admit, aside from the circumstances in which we are here, I am glad for the reprieve from those mamas.” He shuddered. “They are insufferable, are they not?”

“They parade their daughters around like peacocks!” Graham exclaimed. He had already taken some of the vodka they gave to injured soldiers to ease their pain and was quite boisterous in his volume. “And yes, they are beautiful, but some are just dull. I am sorry that I do not care to hear the fifth woman tell me her skills include three languages and an instrument. That bores me. In the end, they all blend into one unpleasant stretch of a future.”

“Be glad you are not a viscount, then,” Archibald said, laughing. “I promise it would be far worse. They flock and swoon.”

“But you are betrothed,” Ernest pointed out.

“Indeed I am.” Archibald smiled. “And the first thing I shall do upon my return is marry the beautiful Lady Samantha.”

“Another toast?” Ernest suggested.

“Another toast.” Archibald refilled their glasses, and as they prepared to toast and have the tang of rum chase away the day’s fatigue, Ernest couldn’t help thinking of his own future.

“Perhaps we should toast to you finding your own wife, Ernest,” Graham suggested.

“And perhaps I shall toast to you doing most of the cleaning tomorrow, then,” he joked in return, gesturing with his glass.

“I am with Graham on this,” the viscount countered. “This battle cannot deprive you of the chance to find a wife. You are not content alone, nor should you suffer the Ton’s judgement any longer simply because your mother made a decision they did not agree with.”

Ernest nodded distantly.

“What sort of woman would you wish to meet?” Graham’s question came after he had drunk their toast portion before pouring another glass.

Ernest paused, thinking. “Oh,” he said, squinting. “Well. I must admit … I do not know for sure, but there are some traits I would seek over others. A clever woman. For me, intelligence is key. Now, I would love her to know a couple of languages, something that would really catch me off-guard.”

Archibald nodded, stroking his moustache as if in thought of someone he might know who would match Ernest’s very short list.

“I would like her to be independent,” Ernest admitted and received two laughs in response from his friends. “It is a fine thing to want!”

“Of course, but … Well, you said yourself, the mamas are rather insufferable. They practically make their girls lack independence and then expect them to run a household. It is rather barbaric! So, we shall have to put that down as a lesser priority.”

Ernest shrugged. “Okay, well … Perhaps I would like some brave, no-nonsense sort of woman. Someone who would not agree with everything I say with a doe-eyed look in her eyes but would debate with me good and proper. She could possibly have a very unladylike interest. Say, law, for example.”

“Law?” Graham exclaimed. “Ernest, I fear I hope you shall not meet this girl, for I might fall asleep when you host dinner parties.”

“Oh, do not listen to Graham. I do hope you find such a woman. You shall be hard-pressed, but I hope you do find her. A toast: to the Earl of Bannerdown finding his countess.” The two other men cheered as they drank their rum, but Ernest’s thoughts lingered on Archibald using his title.

Earl of Bannerdown.

He much preferred Army surgeon Ernest Barnes, medic in the king’s army. For that was where his passion in life lay: in helping others. Two weeks prior, he had received a visit from a crown barrister, who informed Ernest of his uncle’s death—alongside their heir to the Bannerdown fortune. The title and estate had been passed onto him. Once the war was over, Ernest would not return to his normal life, where the Ton was of little importance to him. He would return to life as an earl.

He glanced at the opening of the tent, half wishing the war would end and half wishing it would not. For he did not know if he could continue such a title. Besides that, he would need to find a wife, especially now. But romance was the furthest thing from his mind.

The Countess of Bannerdown. Who would she be? How would she feel to inherit such a title? No doubt she would love it, as would her mama. He thought of every marquess and duke above him to whom he would be compared. His title ranked him above even the viscount. Archibald was above him as a captain in this tent, but back in London, it would be him above Archibald.

The thought was sobering, so he poured another glass of rum. He did not wish for responsibility. He wished for freedom and the ability to continue his work as a medic, but he would have to give that up.

“Well, men,” Archibald said when the rum was almost two-thirds gone. “We do not know what shall start—or end—this war. Be it casualties or victory, I shall be honoured to return to London with you both as my friends and comrades.”

“Indeed,” Graham answered. “It is an honour to serve with you both, and I look forward to when we are back in those ballrooms, wishing we were on the battlefield.”

“At least the alcohol shall be better,” Archibald joked, looking at them both. “I shall woo My Lady Samantha with my tales of bravery—”

“—and Ernest shall woo his prospective wife with his tales of heroic dealings.”

He grimaced. “Men, I shall learn the dance of war before I understand the intricacies of marriage as an earl.”

“It is rather easy,” Graham said. “As we said, the ladies will simply flock to you.”

“I am not a tossed piece of bread for birds to peck at,” Ernest grumbled. “Besides, it is not just romance that I must think of. My cousin, Matthew, the deceased heir, had a daughter who survived. She is ten and six years old, and I shall be her guardian.”

“Oh, heavens help her, then,” Graham teased. Ernest just shook his head, but he agreed.

“Two female adjustments, then,” Archibald added. “A wife and a ward. That makes a good family, does it not?”

“Not,” Ernest muttered. “I fear there shall not be enough wine in London to help me through it all. How do I speak to her since all the family she knows is dead, and I shall be her new guardian? And that it will not be her father presenting her to suitors but me. She might despise me.”

“She might.” Graham nodded, and Ernest swatted him over the head with a laugh. Together, the men all pushed through the tent’s entrance, breathing in the thick, earthy smell of the field. “But for now, we are in arms with one another, serving our king.”

“Indeed,” Archibald answered. “One last toast.” He disappeared inside to get the rum.

Ernest made the toast this time as their glasses were refilled. “To returning home as one.”

Their glasses clinked, and they finished their drinks, toasted to the hope—and dread—of new horizons together.

Chapter One

Ernest

The air was crisp and cold, and Ernest shuddered in the winter wind. January was not kind in Bath that year, and he wished for a warmer coat.

Still, it was a morbid reminder. At least he could stand there, in a coat, trying to find a semblance of warmth.

His eyes tracked over the war memorial, and he knew that many men no longer had the option of standing in the cold even, for their bodies were long put in the ground. He shifted, his hands in his pockets, as he looked at the other lords from the area in Bath. He stood outside Bellott’s Hospital, a stranger among war veterans. A stranger yet honoured all the same. There was a dour mood in the air: the knowledge that they were all alive to tell their tales and the tales of the fallen, but their dead comrades were not.

“He fought valiantly, did he not?” the quiet voice next to him asked. Sometimes Ernest thought he had got used to the yelling of Graham Courtenay in the field hospital, the constant sound of his cries to help him, to announce a new patient, to call out to ground a man who lingered close to the precipice of death. So, when the man was quiet and his voice soft in grief and respect, Ernest could only see it as yet another unfair change.

War changes men, land, and lives. For what else would it do? He thought morbidly. He did not feel more accomplished for serving. Perhaps if he had been a soldier, then maybe. But mostly, he felt guilty. That he was not one of the names etched on the monument in front of Bellott’s.

“He did,” Ernest finally answered. “He was a good captain.”

Graham held out a flask for Ernest. “Here. He would appreciate it if we drank to him.”

“Indeed, he would,” Ernest sighed as he took a mouthful of whisky and passed it back to his old friend.

Together, they looked at the monument, swallowed their mouthfuls, and nodded when they were done. “To Archibald White,” Ernest murmured. “Brave captain, audacious viscount, and a most wonderful friend. May they honour you in your afterlife.”

“I thought we would make it through together,” Graham admitted. “Is that foolish?”

“War takes good men,” Ernest sighed.

“And leaves all the lesser ones to grieve.” It should have been a joke, but his tone fell too flat for the jest, but Ernest could only agree. Neither of them was the viscount. He had filled and commanded a room effortlessly. He had loved his betrothed with every beat of his heart, and now the only embrace he would feel was that of a shallow grave.

“I heard you funded the memorial,” Graham said, clearing his throat, and when Ernest glanced at his friend, he could see the grief lining his eyes in red. Fatigue settled beneath them. While he was impeccably groomed, the six months since the Battle of Waterloo had taken a large toll on him.

“I did.” Ernest nodded. “There was something utterly unbearable about the fact that his body would be lying in a shallow grave. He … He deserved more than that, so I funded this.”

The marble monument read: Archibald White, viscount and captain. He served valiantly so others survived and returned home. May his soul rest and his heart know peace. War hero in the Battle of Waterloo.

It had his birth and death dates, and Ernest could not bear to look at how his friend was taken too soon. He shook his head and stepped back. He could visit often, at least, and face his grief in a quiet, personal way.

They looked at the monument for their fallen brother for another moment longer before Graham motioned to a nearby bench. “Shall we sit? It has been quite some time since we were last in one another’s company.”

Ernest led the way, striding over to the bench. His friend’s dark hair was already peppered with grey, despite only being in his thirties, and his green eyes were duller than before the war. They had both seen horrors and weathered them.

“How have you been?” Ernest asked. “It has been many months since we spoke.”

“Six months is a rather long time, especially when we knew one another so closely in the field hospital. Sometimes, I cannot get the ringing of patients’ screams out of my head. Sometimes, I wake up, swearing I can still see the blood on my hands. It is cruel, is it not, that the time passes and feels like an age for friends not to see one another, but the nightmares persist after such a length of time.”

“Very cruel,” Ernest agreed, pressing his lips together. “I feel as though my life has been forged by grief as of late. My uncle, my cousin, my friend.” He looked longways at Graham. “I am glad to have seen you.”

“You are glad I am at least one person still alive, you mean,” he said, trying to laugh, but it was too quiet.

“No, I am glad for you. You are my oldest friend, and even if our lives have become shrouded in death, then at least we are there together.”

Graham nodded, taking another mouthful from his flask before handing it to Ernest, who drank as well. The whisky burned, but it was a welcome sensation.

“Are you not suffering nightmares?” Graham asked.

“I have been rather occupied of late,” Ernest confessed. “My sleeping has … Not been best prioritized.”

“Ah.”

He nodded. “I do not wish to wake up my household with my own shouts of nightmares.”

“How is life as the new Earl of Bannerdown?”

Ernest winced as he burrowed down deeper into his coat. “It is … everything I thought it would be. Busy, endless paperwork, and I must confess I have been throwing myself wholeheartedly into my work since returning to England to avoid facing Lady Florence. She is young, and I do not know what to say to her. She has a governess, however, so she is not truly alone.”

“You do not think she would be comforted more by family? By you? You knew this fate was coming for you since you received word from the barrister.”

“I know.” He sighed. There was a tune echoing in his head. A voice and a melody he could not quite stop hearing. He even glanced around, wondering if somebody was playing an instrument. A pianoforte coming through an open window, perhaps. But there was nothing, and he knew that despite not being able to place the tune, he could not stop thinking about it. Ernest tried to ignore it, instead focusing on the landscape ahead.

The field behind them that housed Bellott’s hospital faced the old street ahead. On such a winter day, the street looked bleak, and he turned his attention back to his friend.

“Are you yet betrothed?” Graham asked. “I recall many nights of teasing you about your new obligations to find a countess.”

Ernest sighed, almost a laugh, a sound of pure resignation. “It should be easy, shouldn’t it? I find a lovely woman who suits me—or who doesn’t but would make a good countess—and marry her. But … sometimes the dealings of the Ton feel so frivolous compared to what we faced out there. To what our purpose was.”

“That is because you have not always been of the Ton,” he pointed out. “To those born and raised among it, it is their game of chess. It is the most terrifying ordeal of their lives. It is exciting, yes, but it is a ruinous thing for both men and women.”

“And you haven’t been avoiding any duties, my friend?” Ernest teased. But Graham only shrugged.

“No,” he said. Ernest almost wished to be back in that tent, even on the battlefield, if only to see the excitement and laughter in his friend once again. “I have become the chairman of this hospital right here. And … Well, I have been making excellent strides. Like you have funded the monument in honour of our fallen friend, I wish to do something too. I am looking to have a new wing of the hospital opened in honour of him. The White Wing, perhaps. It could be specifically for veterans with complex physical medical care. Perhaps even a place where they can stay and recover long-term.”

Ernest liked that idea and smiled tiredly at his friend. “I agree. That would be most wonderful. If you need any assistance, do not hesitate to write to me. I shall drop everything.”

“Perhaps I might have you as my assistant this time around.” And there was a glimmer of the old, jesting Graham Courtenay back, just for a moment, before that distracted seriousness overtook him as he gazed outward at the street. “But Ernest, I do think you need to finally talk to your ward.”

“I do,” he insisted. “We talk at mealtimes. Briefly, but it is something.”

“She needs proper conversation.”

“She has her governess.”

“From family.” Graham gave him a small smile. “She might need you more than you realize, Ernest. If you are drowning yourself in working to avoid her, then that is all she will know. A deceased family and her other living relative who did not want anything to do with her. Soon, she will debut, and she will need you.”

“I know,” he admitted. “And I feel wretched.”

“Then do something about it, my friend. You have faced worse horrors than a girl who is ten and six.”

Ernest scowled, knowing how utterly correct his friend was. “I shall. But first, I would like to honour our fallen friend a moment longer.”

Graham nodded as they returned to the monument.

***

Just outside of Bath, Little Harkwell House stood tall among the rolling fields of the countryside. Surrounded by trees and hedges on the outskirts of the grounds, the manor itself was proud against the darkening afternoon sky.

Windows were closed to keep in the heat, and from his study window, Ernest could see a bird that landed on the manor’s back garden, pecking away at the dry, hard soil. It gave up moments later, soaring off. He almost felt envious of the bird. He was trapped within the manor, and while he loved it—preferred it even to Bannerdown House in Mayfair—it reminded him of the title and wealth he should not have inherited.

He set down his pen, pausing his work.

You have faced worse horrors than a girl who is ten and six.

A deceased family and her other living relative who did not want anything to do with her…

His friend’s words weighed on his mind, causing him to mull over them as he shuffled his paperwork, briefly thinking about burying himself in yet another ledger. The Bannerdown accounts were impeccably kept, but there was some disarray due to the nature of their deaths. Some accounts still had not been settled, and Ernest continued wading through the intricacies of life as an Earl.

“Which now includes looking after your ward more than just ensuring her financial security,” he muttered to himself. “Comfort, Ernest. You must provide comfort for her. Let her know you are there.”

So, he stood up from his desk, sighed, and ventured into the hallway.

Little Harkwell House was a brightly coloured house, full of pale hues and bold furnishings. Apparently, the former countess had an eye for beauty and loved collecting statues and artifacts, and her husband had delighted in her every whim. Ernest had definitely seen the accounts from their spending on decor and trinkets, and as he walked past bust after bust of mythological figures and figureheads, he understood why.

Approaching the music room on the floor below, he lingered just next to the doorway, listening in on where Florence was having her music lesson.

“Well done, Lady Florence.” The voice of Florence’s new governess, who had begun her position three weeks prior, rang out musically in the room. Even when she was not singing, her voice had a melodic lull to it. Ernest kept quiet, eavesdropping, hoping that none of his staff caught him in the act.

“Can you continue the scales on the pianoforte while you sing them?” the governess asked.

“I can try, Miss Gundry,” came the voice of Ernest’s ward. Her voice was soft and gentle, both were, but it was clear Florence’s still held that element of naivety and youth. “How is this?”

As the piano keys were pressed, the young girl sang the notes. Only one of them sounded slightly off, and much to Ernest’s delight at recognizing such a thing, the governess corrected her gently.

“We have been working on a song to show the earl, have we not?”

For a moment, Ernest thought he had been caught, but he realized the two were still speaking to one another.

“I shall show you the next few lines of the song. May I?”

Ernest watched as Miss Claire Gundry took a seat on the piano bench. Her hair, the colour of shining wheat right as the harvest was due, was swept back into a low bun and decorated with a white ribbon, with a few strands framing her face. They concealed her eyes as she bent over the instrument, leaning her whole body into the notes as she began to play, but Ernest knew her eyes were brown—a decadent chocolate brown—and that beneath her right eye sat a mole that he had not stopped looking at, endeared by the beauty mark so many women tried to draw on, imitating the French.

Her hands trilled over the keys as she began to sing. Glancing at Florence and nodding, the young girl began to join in the parts of the melody she knew. Together, they sang a hauntingly beautiful duet. And at once, Ernest realized it was the very tune he could not get out of his head all morning when he’d been outside the hospital.

It was Miss Gundry’s voice in his mind. He leaned on the wall just out of view, watching his ward’s governess smiling. She was patient when she stopped Florence at certain parts to correct a note sung incorrectly and gentle when she instructed a new part of the tune.

The song filled the music room, only on the landing below Ernest’s study, and when even the slightest noise drifted through Little Harkwell House, it was no wonder he hadn’t stopped hearing their song. It is beautiful, at least, he thought.

“You are a very quick learner, Lady Florence,” Miss Gundry praised as their duet came to an end. “With how you pick up music and languages, I am sure you shall have a suitor in no time.”

Her voice was tinged with a hint of melancholy as she said it, and Ernest couldn’t help wondering what Miss Gundry’s full story was. He hadn’t pried much, only eager to hire a governess for Florence’s last year before debuting.

“We shall continue our lessons tomorrow,” Miss Gundry told her.

“Thank you, Miss Gundry.” Florence’s voice also reflected that melancholy, and Ernest could not help wondering if it was at being alone once again upon her governess’s departure.  Or perhaps it was at the music? Ernest should have known these things offered support for the girl, but even now, he could not convince himself to take one step into the room.

But he was too busy focusing on that, and he did not notice when the governess packed up her books and bid his ward goodbye, walking out of the music room. He could not hide quick enough, and the young woman collided with him.

She let out a harsh noise as her books tumbled to the floor.

“My Lord!” she cried out, rushing to pick up her books as he did. “I am sorry. I did not see you there.”

She paused, looking up, and her eyes caught his. A faint blush rose to her cheeks at his attention, but he could not look away until he realized how long he had been gazing at her.

“Oh—of course. Right. No, do forgive me. I should not have been lingering.” He reached for one of her strewn books at the same time as her. Their hands brushed, and he pulled back sharply, clearing his throat. Claire still reached for the book, picking it up herself. Awkwardly, he stood back up.

“I—well—apologies for … knocking your books to the ground, Miss Gundry.”

“It is my own fault, My Lord. I should have been looking where I was going.”

“No, no, do not trouble yourself with blame.”

Stop going in circles, you fool! he chided himself. Why am I here? Ah, yes, to ask about Florence’s progress and to see how I might get involved more.

“I—” As soon as he opened his mouth to ask, a call echoed down the hall, a shrill beckoning that shivered down his spine unpleasantly. Lady Katherine came walking towards him, having taken to her position and place in Little Harkwell House very well. Of course she would, he thought. She was a former lady of the Ton.

And yet her husband, a physician, remained back in London, noticeably without his wife. Lady Katherine’s eyes darted between Ernest and Claire, and a slight frown marred her forehead.

“What are you doing?” she barked.

“I was simply checking on Lady Florence’s progress. I, unfortunately, was in the way of Miss Gundry’s exit and—”

“Well, do not loiter, boy. It is rather unbecoming of you. You are an earl now, Ernest. I require your presence in my solar and make haste.”

He met Claire’s gaze, humiliated by his mother’s speech. She only fought a smile, ducking her head. She curtsied once to him before curtsying to his mother.

“Lord Bannerdown,” she said. “Lady Katherine.”

Katherine returned a tight smile as Claire turned and fled down the hallway, clutching her books. Ernest could not take his eyes off the sway of her blue skirt around her ankles or how her white blouse puffed at the sleeves but emphasized her slender neck. And the way she had not waited for him to pick up her books but had done it herself …

He rather liked that. Other women feigned dropping their fans at balls just so a gentleman would pick it up, and while Ernest would be a gentleman and help, Claire’s independence had her swooping right down immediately.

A strand of Claire’s hair came loose as she hurried away. At the end of the hallway, before she turned out of sight, she glanced back at him. He flushed with warmth at being caught watching yet again. She disappeared around the corner, and Ernest returned to focus on the clearing of his mother’s throat.

“I requested you make haste, dear,” she said.

“Of course, Mother,” he said.

I shall enquire about Lady Florence’s progress later, he vowed.