Free The Governess Was Wanton by Julia Kelly

and give him some relief.
    He looked up as the schoolroom door swung open. Miss Woodward’s hand flew to her chest in surprise, drawing his attention to the roundness of her breasts. “Lord Asten, you frightened me.”
    In retrospect, placing himself in a closed space with Miss Woodward so soon after touching her had been a very bad idea indeed. She was far too close. Far too reachable. Far too kissable.
    â€œI’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come without asking your permission first,” he said, rising to his feet.
    She shook her head. “Not at all. It’s your home.”
    Except that now his home was haunted by the whisper of her scent and the little pieces of her strewn about—a book here, a discarded shawl there. She was inescapable.
    He cleared his throat. “Was it a success?”
    She swept into the room, and he couldn’t help but notice that she was careful to keep a wide berth of him so her skirts didn’t even brush his shoes. “Lady Eleanora will attend the ball.”
    He let out a breath. “Thank you. I don’t have to tell you how important it is that Eleanora have a successful season.”
    â€œI believe what your daughter needs more than anything right now is a sympathetic ear,” Miss Woodward said. “I’m happy to play that role.”
    â€œAnd you appear to be better at it than I am.”
    She laughed. “Hardly. I’d say you know your daughter better than most mothers or fathers do. That’s why it’s painful to see her in distress.”
    â€œWe used to be close,” he said, unashamed of the sadness in his voice.
    â€œYou will be again. Just give her time.”
    He sighed, hoping she was right. His eyes wandered the room with its sage wallpaper and high wooden wainscoting. Then his gaze fell on a small table pushed off to the corner, and a thought struck him.
    â€œYou take your meals in this room?” he asked.
    Miss Woodward cocked her head to the side as though trying to puzzle out the abrupt change in conversation. “I do.”
    â€œAlone?”
    â€œOf course. I know my place, and I’m used to it.”
    That acceptance, the idea that she understood she wasn’t considered good enough to dine with the family, did him in.
    â€œI’d very much like it if you would join my daughter and me at meals, Miss Woodward,” he said in the same formal tone he might use when asking a duchess for a dance.
    â€œThat’s very kind of you, but—”
    â€œI’m sure that both Eleanora and I would benefit from your company.”
    A long beat stretched between them until finally she said, “As you wish, my lord.”
    It wasn’t exactly an enthusiastic response, but Miss Woodward didn’t strike him as the sort of woman who fell over herself thanking anyone for anything. He liked her all the better for it.
    â€œWe dine at seven, unless Eleanora is out at Miss Bigelow’s or Miss Masters’s home and I’m dining at my club,” he said. “You’ve heard Warthing ring the bell.”
    â€œI have,” she said as she stood as well.
    â€œThen I’ll see you in time for the fish course,” he said.
    He hurried from the room before he did something rash like give her the use of the countess’s suite or suggest she don the family emeralds. Yet as he retreated to his study and the comforting monotony of his parliamentary papers, he couldn’t clear his head of one nagging thought—how viscerally he disliked the moment she called him “my lord,” a formality that only reminded him of the distance between their ranks.
    It was all wrong because Eric Bromford, fourth Earl of Asten, knew it was he who was far inferior in knowledge and understanding to Miss Mary Woodward.

Chapter Six
    The night of the masque, Mary stood in the soaring entryway to Lord Asten’s house watching Lady Eleanora fret over her costume while trying to hide