Free The Tutor's Daughter by Julie Klassen Page B

one of the front windows.
    â€œGood morning,” Emma greeted.
    Lizzie glanced over, but her gaze quickly returned to the window. “Yes, it is.”
    â€œYou’re up early.” Curious, Emma walked to Lizzie’s side and looked out the window to see what had captured her attention.
    Past the garden wall, across the grassy expanse beyond, came a man riding a muscled black horse, its mane and tale flying on the wind as it galloped over the turf and leapt the garden gate with apparent ease. The rider sat the horse well, erect and confident, high boots in the stirrups, buff breeches snug to the horse’s sides, riding coat sailing behind him, beaver hat brim shading his face.
    As horse and rider trotted toward the stables, Emma recognized the man as Henry Weston. Her stomach clenched. Her palms became instantly damp.
    â€œHe’s a bruising rider. . . .” Lizzie breathed, all admiration.
    Emma frowned. “I had not heard he was expected this morning.”
    â€œHe arrived late last night.”
    Emma stared at Lizzie, aghast. “Last night?”
    Lizzie glanced over, clearly surprised at Emma’s sharp tone. “Yes. It was after ten. You had already gone to bed.”
    Emma felt her jaw slacken. Surely not. It must be mere coincidence.
    Lizzie asked, “Did you hear it?”
    â€œHear what?” Emma thought of the unidentified sound that had woken her.
    â€œThe row. Between Henry and his father. Lady Weston too.”
    â€œNo.” Emma would not ask what the argument had been about; it was none of her affair. Nor Lizzie’s likely.
    Instead she asked, “Does he know I . . . that is, that my father and I are here?” Emma hoped that was not what they had argued about.
    â€œI overheard Lady W. tell him last night.” Lizzie snickered and then grinned at Emma. “Warned him, more like.”
    Offense and mortification shimmered up Emma’s spine. Warned him indeed.
    Intending to ask the boys about the toy soldier, Emma took it upstairs with her after breakfast. She placed it on the schoolroom desk and resumed her cataloging. She found herself reading too much and organizing too little but reminded herself there was no hurry. Kneeling before the schoolroom shelves, she spied a thin volume that had become wedged in the back of the lowest shelf. Since she was alone, she leaned forward to reach the book, her bum projecting in a most unladylike manner, to carefully extricate it without damage.
    A dry chuckle disturbed her concentration.
    â€œWell, well. Miss Smallwood. And just as I remember her.”
    Prickles of embarrassment and dread rippled through her. She recognized that voice. After so many years, she still did.
    She flew to her feet, caught her slipper heel in her skirt hems, and nearly went sprawling as she spun to face him. In one hand she held the rescued book and raised it over her skittering heart. The other hand she lifted to her hair, fearing it was in as much disarray as her nerves.
    Henry Weston stood there, leaning one shoulder against the doorjamb, his catlike eyes roving her burning cheeks, flicking to her hair, her gown, the book pressed to her chest like a shield, before returning to her face.
    She swallowed convulsively and grasped for composure, reminding herself he was no longer a youth about to toss a mouse under herbedclothes. The thick dark hair framing his face was better groomed than she recalled, his features carved even more sharply than she remembered. Was that a smirk on his face? She coolly lifted her chin. “Mr. Weston.”
    He shook his head. “You have not changed one iota. Still the bluestocking with her nose in a book. Hidden away indoors on such a beautiful day.”
    Something about his smirk and the glint of challenge in his hooded eyes sent logic flying. And suddenly Emma was quite certain Henry Weston had, upon learning she was in residence last night, lost no time in returning to