Page 4 of A Kiss Of Lies

I hate it when I’m right,was his last thought before his head collided with the iron doorstop. Then pain seared through his brain until, mercifully, everything went dark.

ChapterTwo

York, Canada, March 1816

Mrs. Sarah Cooper, although ushered into Lord Markham’s study by invitation, immediately felt the waves of animosity rolling off him. Gone was the fun-loving, handsome, and jovial rake she remembered spying on in her youth. Instead, she found a man whose love for life seemed as snuffed out as last night’s candle.

She couldn’t miss his scars, and saw that life had hurt him, marked him. As indeed it had her. He was badly burned over the left side of his face.

His once sensual lips appeared to curl at the corner as if he were permanently sneering. Lord Markham had let his hair grow longer than was fashionable, and he allowed it to hang about his face, probably in an attempt to hide the worst of his scars. As he swung round to greet her, she glimpsed his puckered cheek. The skin was pulled so taut, surely it must hurt to talk or eat. However, God had been slightly merciful, because his eye had not been damaged, nor much of the skin around it, he even had part of his eyebrow. She’d always loved the green of his eyes, as warm and welcoming as a summer meadow.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been free to run through tall grass. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been free, period.

Life hadn’t transpired as she’d thought or hoped.

They had that in common.

Even though she’d heard of his injuries, when she saw them her feet tripped in shock. His burns made her think of pain. Her heart welled with pity as she took in his scars. Gone was the smile that had women forgetting everything, including propriety. Instead, the scars spoke of excruciating pain.

With her newfound inner strength, she steeled herself not to show any emotion. Besides, life on a slave plantation had introduced her to worse injuries.

Lord Markham, she was sure, would not appreciate pity. She needed to hide the fact that she’d seen him when he still looked like every woman’s fantasy. If he thought she recognized him, it might prompt his memory, and she needed to remain anonymous. She’d never been formally introduced to the Earl, and therefore felt a modicum of safety.

Since she was pretending to be a governess, normally they should never have crossed paths. For in which world would a governess ever mix with a bachelor earl? Nowhere respectable, certainly, and this position called for respectability. She’d seen the type of women he’d been interviewing before her, and seen them being shown the door.

Sarah prayed the battle-scarred war hero sitting behind the imposing desk would remain unaware of how desperately she needed this position. Lord Markham—“Devil Scarface,” as the local Yorkers cruelly named him—was not renowned for his sweet temperament. If he saw through her deception, there was no telling what he might do.

In the ordinary course of events, it should’ve been Lily Pearson’s mother interviewing her for the position of governess, but since both Lily’s parents had recently died, the task was left to Lord Markham, the girl’s guardian.

Unlike most of York, she felt no fear in Devil Scarface’s presence. She remembered the honorable, intelligent rake from her past, who was welcomed with open arms within theton. Surely there was still a smidgen of the man he’d once been hidden beneath his scars.

In fact, her heart had obviously recognized something within the man across from her, for to her consternation, she felt an altogether inappropriate emotion as she gazed upon the Earl’s stern features.

Regardless of who or what he had become, Sarah not only contemplated the position of governess to Lily Pearson but coveted the role. She had never expected to be a widow at twenty-two, and certainly not in these circumstances. The idea of hiding in Canada for the rest of her life was too awful to bear. No, a governess on a large estate in Dorset would be preferable.

“Perhaps you could detail your previous experience, Mrs. Cooper. You appear to be rather young to be an experienced governess.”

His voice was comforting—rich and smooth. For a man of his size, she’d expected him to sound otherwise.

The Earl watched her intently, with eyes as rich as the emeralds she’d had to sell in order to reach Canada. Her escape from Virginia had been perilous, and in the colonies she’d been unable to rely on anyone to help a lady in distress merely out of honor. Yet it was amazing how the goodness of people’s hearts overflowed once payment was offered.

She cleared her throat and answered in her haughtiest voice, hoping to sound mature and knowledgeable while maintaining her disguise. It had been two years since she’d left England, and Lord Markham had been away fighting Napoleon for six months before she left. It was unlikely he’d remember her. The Libertine Scholars avoided debutantes, very much in the manner of cunning foxes avoiding being torn apart by hounds.

“I’m skilled in all facets of a lady’s education. I am also fluent in Latin, French, and German, with a sprinkling of Russian. I am rather good with numbers, and botany and anatomy are particular interests of mine.” That sounded sufficiently bluestocking and appropriate for a governess.

She watched with growing horror as Lord Markham’s lips twitched at her boast.

“I’m not sure these are the skills my young ward will require in order to find an appropriate husband when she comes of age.”

The teasing in his voice transported her back to when she had been a young girl of fifteen. For a few seconds, Lord Markham’s disfiguring burns dissolved, and she was once again staring at the features of an Adonis, with lustrous thick hair shining as black as a starless night. Then the reality of the cruel scars invaded her vision once more, distorting the aristocratic handsomeness of his face.

He’d been a beautiful man once. A dark-haired, virile Greek god sent to walk among mere mortals. His injuries were a sacrilege. War had a lot to answer for.

He’d obviously read her thoughts and seen the fleeting look of pity race across her expression, because his mouth curled briefly at the corner. “The rewards of war.” He added dryly, “No matter. I assure you even I flinch at my reflection.”

His voice had become brittle, and she heard the note of pained cynicism underlying it.

He cleared his throat. “I believe you were going to assure me of your suitability for the role.”

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