Free The Reluctant Governess by Maggie Robinson Page B

and had escaped as soon as he possibly could.
    He was beginning to regret his return to London, for it was starting off in a most inauspicious manner. First poor Maria, the attack, and now this indisposition. He did not believe in Highland curses, but there were times he wondered what the Raeburns had done to displease the gods. His brother Alec had recently been under a cloud of suspicion for murdering his first wife—although, in Nick’s opinion, she more than deserved it—and his other brother Evan was doomed to toil in the family’s distillery like a sexless drone. Nick had tasted freedom, and he wasn’t going to let some little blond prude condemn him without knowing the facts.
    She sat there, her cheeks flaming. Nay, flaming was not the right word. The blush flowed over her face like a pink watercolor wash. Nick preferred to work in oils, but Miss Lawrence’s looks cried for pastels, as he’d thought before, or watercolors, where the intensity could be adjusted. Muted. Yet even with her pale English-rose beauty, she was surprisingly attractive to him.
    As long as he didn’t have to listen to her.
    â€œI—I suppose you think I owe you an apology.”
    â€œFar be it for me to put more words in your mouth.” It was a lovely mouth—lush, unenhanced by any artificial assistance. If he kissed her, those plump lips would darken and swell. No doubt she’d be surprised and grateful—a girl like Miss Lawrence probably did not come into contact with many men who would think to kiss her, the idiots. There she’d been, buried by briefs in that attorney’s office, then dealing with his sticky children, now at Nick’s sister-in-law’s reception desk. Drudge, drudge, drudge.
    She deserved a bit of fun, didn’t she? It wasn’t as if she’d be underfoot here for very long—someone else would take her place soon and she could go back to her telephone and typewriter and files. Her proper, bloodless life.
    â€œBut I have an idea for a way to make up for your insult.” He leaned forward, spurred on by some maggot in his throbbing head. Nick could always chalk this up to fever or mild insanity, couldn’t he?
    Her blue eyes widened in alarm, but he was too quick for her, even in his bed of pain. She was too far away at first, sitting in that chair like a plaster statue. Somehow he managed to slide her forward into his arms, right up against his chest. If only they were skin to skin, but Nick would have to accept the current circumstances, even if they were not ideal. He was doing her a service, was he not? Defrosting her ice queen persona. Teaching her a thing or two. He was a man of considerable experience, winner of hard-won skirmishes in several European countries. Ladies loved him and succumbed to a delightful degree, and he loved them right back.
    Love was perhaps too extreme a word; let him just say that there was mutual affection between him and the several willing women who were participants in his amorous adventures. More than several, actually. He had not been entirely indiscriminate, was nothing like his brother Alec chasing after empty-headed actresses for the better part of a decade. Nay, Nick had pursued his art, and with it some of his models and those patrons who had supported him. That couldn’t be helped, could it? Propinquity. Opportunity. It was only natural. They had shared his vision, understood who he was.
    But what a dog he was contemplating other women when he had a shocked Miss Lawrence in his arms, whose lashes batted fiercely at such close quarters, her mouth open, ready to protest. Perfect.
    Nick licked her lower lip and felt her go rigid, then covered her mouth with his own. He tasted tea and . . . butter? Nick was a sensualist, and even something so prosaic had its charms. She smelled of soap and lemons. No doubt the soap was scented—he couldn’t imagine Miss Lawrence squeezing lemon juice all