Page 4

That was too much for Phoebe. She dropped the grip she had on Anna and fled.

Anna was alone in the room with the mad earl.

He kept barking and howling and making a tremendous racket. Anna was rooted to the spot by the door, clenching fistfuls of skirt in her hands so tightly that her knuckles whitened. The urge to flee was tremendous, to follow Phoebe out of the room, slam the door, run up the stairs and forget what she’d seen.

When he groped for the fire poker to clank it against the chimney walls in a steady rhythm to accompany his howling, Anna had had enough.

“Cease this instant,” she said in the most cutting voice she could muster. She was Miss Hilversham, after all.

The man dropped the poker and turned his head.

She had to summon all her willpower not to flee.

The man squinted at her. “Miss Hilversham?”

She was wearing one of Miss Hilversham’s sleek, grey dresses that looked elegant and distinguished, but also somewhat severe. The dress was a little too big for her, but Miss Grace had pinned the extra fabric at the back so that it appeared to fit. Miss Hilversham looked like a steel rod in it, tall, erect and strict.

Anna pulled her shoulders back in imitation and lifted her chin. “Yes. And who might you be, pray?”

The man scrambled up, towered over her and stared.

He was not a handsome man, she noted immediately. He looked as if he were hewn out of a slab of rock, rough and raw, as though the artist sculpting his bust hadn’t had time to refine the details and left them at that. He was all sharp angles and planes, high cheekbones, a nose that was too bulky and too big, his forehead too strong, the eyes dark and brooding, the eyebrows bushy and his thick, dark hair resembled more of a crow’s nest, sticking out in all directions. He had a strong, forceful chin, and his mouth, which immediately drew her attention, seemed the only pretty thing in his face. His lips were finely drawn, curving into a full, heart-shaped bow that seemed almost too exquisite for a gentleman.

He was unshaven, his cravat was hanging loosely about his throat, and his clothes were rumpled. Anna noticed to her relief that it was nothing worse than that; he looked merely travel-worn, like a man who had spent hours on end in a coach and had not bothered to clean up, possibly because he’d forgotten his comb. He was not half undressed or with clothes hanging from his frame in shreds, as she had feared.

“I am Lord St John.” He pronounced it ‘Sinjin’. “Phoebe’s uncle.”

Anna inclined her head in a cool greeting. She pressed her hands together to prevent them from trembling.

“St John.” She paused. “Is there anything the matter with the fireplace that you must see fit to bark up its chimney?” Her diction was cool and precise, just like Miss Hilversham’s. “I am loath to have to remind you that we expect all people, including our visitors, to follow the rules of this establishment and that such behaviour as you have exhibited just now is not acceptable.” There. That was Miss Hilversham at her best. Anna congratulated herself inwardly.

He didn’t reply, as if he hadn’t heard her, but kept staring at her with a penetrating, sharp look that left her cringing. But she forced herself not to move a muscle in her face and to hold his gaze firmly.

“Miss Hilversham,” he repeated softly, almost thoughtfully. “Somehow I expected you to look different.”

A flight of unease settled over her. He didn’t realise she wasn’t really Miss Hilversham, did he? Phoebe had said he’d never been to the school to meet the headmistress. He could not know she was not her, could he? Then why did he keep staring at her in that unsettling manner?

“My lord?” she said with as much ice in her voice as she could muster. “I asked you a question.”

He shook his head as if awaking from a reverie. He cleared his throat and rubbed his neck, looking at the fireplace. “Yes. Well. It’s the jackdaws.”

Now it was her turn to stare at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Jackdaws,” he explained, using his hands to make a vague sort of flapping movement as if they were wings. “Black birds.”

“Birds?” she echoed.

“Yes.” He walked up to her, and at this point, Anna’s courage nearly deserted her, and she would have fled if he hadn’t abruptly taken her hand. She assumed he meant to shake it, but the truth was she would never know what he’d originally intended to do. For what he did was to abruptly turn her hand up and bring it close to his face as if he were about to kiss it.

Her entire body broke out in goosebumps.

When she tried to pull it from him, he tightened his grip and brought it closer, inspecting her palm as if it were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.

The man radiated heat, and fire and brimstone, and he must be mad as a cuckoo for he tugged her even closer and Anna was so shocked, not a sound came out of her throat, not a scream, as he trailed one finger over her palm, and then traced her fingers, lighter than a feather’s caress. He reached into his pocket and produced a small tin. Flipping the lid open with his thumb, he gathered a trace of salve and gently smoothed it over her palm.

The sweet smell of chamomile filled the air.

Her mind was a muddle of thoughts and emotions. Her breath came in short gasps. “What, pray, are you doing?”