Free The Reluctant Governess by Maggie Robinson Page A

on the floor, sir, unable to stand on your own.” Eliza ticked off his transgressions on her fingers. “Carousing with your friends until the wee hours. Drinking. Fighting.” She folded her hands back on her lap and gave him a superior look, or as close to as she could manage when she saw his crooked smile.
    He sat up a little straighter in the bed. “I hosted a dinner party for three gentlemen whom I haven’t seen in ages. Old, old friends, which proves my loyalty and theirs. There wasn’t much carousing, just a lively discussion to catch up. I drank no more than any of them—somewhat less, I should think, for I had an engagement to beat someone to a pulp after the party broke up.”
    â€œYou
planned
to fight?” Perhaps he belonged to one of those secret gentlemen’s clubs that kept peculiar rules, one of which was never divulging the truth of their nefarious activities.
    â€œIn a manner of speaking. Like an idiot, I went to rescue one of my models from her abusive lover. He beat her so badly she could no longer work, and that isn’t very sporting, is it? A great hulk like that using his fists on a girl. However, they both took exception to my chivalry.
I
was the one beaten to a pulp—and stabbed, I might add—and here I am with my reward.” He pointed to the purple and blue blotch on his face.
    Eliza swallowed. If Mr. Raeburn was to be believed, he was rather heroic.
    â€œOh.” Her response was wholly inadequate, but it was all she could muster.
    â€œâ€˜Oh’? Not ‘How brave!’ You could talk me up sweet if you put half a mind to it—I’m very vulnerable. Injury to my brain and all that.”
    â€œYour brain seems in excellent working order if you can put words in my mouth as well as yours,” Eliza said. And she had no intention of talking him up sweet, tonight or any other night. The sooner she could leave Lindsey Street, the better.

Chapter 8
    Nick hadn’t meant to tell her anything, but he was damned tired of her sniffy disapproval. Miss Lawrence looked at him as if he had horns. While it was true his auburn hair grew in curly disarray, as far as he knew there was nothing lurking underneath to indicate he was a devil.
    She sat there in judgment, her hands folded on her lap like a schoolgirl, her perfect nose in the air as if he stank. Well, he didn’t. He’d had two serious washups today—baths were prohibited because of the stitches on his thigh—and had perfumed himself with sandalwood. His nightshirt was fresh—hell, it was brand-new, as he never wore such a thing to sleep in. He wasn’t even sure where he’d come by it; it could even belong to Daniel Preble for all he knew. Mrs. Daughtry had been insistent that he cover himself up. She’d clucked when she’d seen the ouroboros on his bicep, called him a wicked heathen even after he explained its mythological significance. The nurse had no poetry in her soul, although she’d held his head gently when he cast up his accounts again sometime this afternoon.
    Perhaps she wasn’t so bad after all, just boring. Nick was not used to boring women. He’d chosen to leave his dull upbringing behind, not that his parents had been especially conventional. They, like so many of their class, had left their three sons and a series of hapless governesses to fend for themselves at Raeburn Court while they found amusement elsewhere.
    Nick’s mother hadn’t started off as a member of high society—she’d been the daughter of a tenant farmer on the Raeburn estate in the Highlands. But once she became Lady Raeburn there was not a woman around who could match her for self-consequence and propriety, except when she was tossing valuable objects at Nick’s father, who deserved the many direct hits he received. Nick had gotten tired of avoiding flying crockery, his older brothers’ fists, sheep, and snow-covered mountains,