Page 21 of Brave New Earl (The Way to a Lord's Heart 1)

“It seems I’m no good with children.” The words burst from Jean, as uncontrollable as the tears. “I didn’t know. I had no brothers or sisters. I never associated with any other children.”

“None?”

“No.” Jean bit off the word. She wasn’t going to blather on anymore. She was going to think before she spoke.

“Well, I did,” he replied. “A gaggle of neighborhood boys. And at school. I can’t say these experiences are helping. Geoffrey appears to be unique. Due to my…inattention, I suppose.”

“You’re better with him.” She hadn’t meant it to sound like an accusation. “Geoffrey obeys you.”

“Intermittently. And for his own purposes, I suspect. I had no notion a five-year-old child could be so devious.”

Jean was grateful for his honesty. She offered a bit in return. “I had a wrongheaded idea of what would happen when I came here.”

He looked at her. It felt to Jean as if his gaze had weight, like a brush of fur passing over her skin. His expression suggested that he was really seeing her for the first time. Which was a ridiculous thought. He’d seen all too much of her; he’d made that clear.

“I should go back to London,” she said. She’d never been more conscious of the fact that she had no real home. Not that she was going to tell him that. “Now that Geoffrey’s situation has been brought to your attention.” She’d accomplished her mission. This man was obviously not going to neglect his son any longer. She ought to feel glad and proud, not…empty.

Offered exactly what he’d been requesting, Benjamin found, ironically, that he no longer wanted it. Not immediately. Miss Jean Saunders was too interesting. “I don’t know exactly what should be done about Geoffrey, however. I don’t suppose I can send him off to school.”

“He’s too young!”

Benjamin admired the flash in her dark eyes, the swell of her bosom as her spine stiffened. She’d risen to his bait like a striking trout, and the return of her indignation was curiously stimulating. “I could hunt up a tutor to start him on Latin,” he continued. “And ancient Greek.”

“Are you mad? Greek?”

“He seems unusually intelligent. Perhaps he’s a prodigy. Mozart’s father used to show him off in the courts of Europe at about his age.”

“Like an organ grinder’s monkey?”

She practically gave off sparks when she was outraged, Benjamin thought. Pushing her into that state was…fun. He couldn’t remember when he’d last had fun. “You’re very quick to criticize,” he said. “What are your ideas?”

“Geoffrey needs time to be a little boy,” she declared. “He needs freedom, with safety. Encouragement, with guidance. He needs love and joy!”

The passionate emotion in her voice moved him beyond amusement. “A tall order,” Benjamin said. “I don’t see how anyone could guarantee all that. Perhaps you should stay a bit longer and…advise.”

Her eyes flickered unreadably. “I suppose I could.”

“Two heads are better than one.”

“Indeed.”

“We could do with a woman’s touch.”

She flushed at the thoughts this phrase evoked.

Lord Furness held out his hand. She looked at it. “A joint project,” he said. “Agreed?”

Miss Saunders hesitated, then finally nodded. Slowly, she extended her hand. He shook it, to her obvious surprise. Benjamin wouldn’t have minded keeping hold of her fingers, but she pulled away at once.

Five

The dream back came that night. It had been quite a while since it had tormented her. Long enough for Jean to imagine that the nightmare was gone, at long last. But no. Here she was, curled tiny in the stifling darkness. The air pressed down on her. The silence intensified her isolation. She knew it was no use moving, except to squeeze her own flesh and prove she still existed. She’d learned very early that there was no recourse, and no escape, no matter how she clawed and cried. The blackness would crush her until it was lifted on a whim—after minutes or hours, no telling how long. Then she would be yanked into the light like a captured mole, blinking and cringing under a stream of acid mockery. Or perhaps a bewildering shower of caresses and regrets. There was no way to predict which it would be.

Jean jerked awake in her dim bedchamber, heart pounding. She’d left the draperies open, as she always did, and a pale wash of starlight came through the windows. She sat up, put her arms around her knees, and shivered for a little while, facing the crushing disappointment of the dream’s return. Then she lit the candle waiting on the bedside table, as it always was. The darkness retreated to the corners. She reached for the book carefully placed beside the candlestick—part of her hated, necessary routine. She opened it and settled to read and wait for dawn. Sleep wouldn’t return to her in the dark after that dream. Part of her would fight it; part of her would dredge up unwelcome memories. But she could divert her mind with stories, as long as her book was good enough.

This one was. Jean read. The minutes ticked by. When the sky finally began to brighten, she set the volume aside, snuffed the candle, and drifted back to sleep.

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