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Masterson’s residence study
An hour later
Hands folded in her lap, Mercy sat docilely and composed in the armchair situated before Lieutenant Masterson’s desk. She presented what Hester Shepherd had drilled into her students as the model of reserved propriety.
The young women of Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women might’ve been born into shame and disgrace, but each and every one could conduct herself with the comportment and poise a high-born noblewoman would envy.
Mrs. Shepherd had seen to that.
Lord Ronan Brockman—the epitome of casual repose—relaxed in the prominent chair Mercy had reluctantly used since Lieutenant Masterson’s death. It was rather peculiar to see another man behind the mahogany desk, but she supposed she ought to become accustomed to it.
If she was retained as a governess, that was.
Naturally, he’d conduct the estate's business from the study. Unless he planned on delegating that duty to a steward or man of business. Pray God not that repugnant toady, Joseph Bralen. She wasn’t in a position to object to such an arrangement, yet she could not abide the slimy little man.
Lord Ronan Brockman, on the other hand…
Schooling her face into neutral contours, Mercy took a visual inventory from beneath her lashes.
He was handsome.
Undeniably so.
His scar, though noticeable, wasn’t a hideous distraction. He didn’t seem self-conscious about the jagged flesh lashing his face either. Mercy had gathered he’d acquired the wound when the lieutenant had saved Brockman’s life.
She’d like to hear that story, in truth.
His superfine deep burgundy wool coat did marvelous things to the rich sun-streaked brown of his hair. Faint stubble shadowed his hewn, square, sun-browned jaw. A jaw which he rested atop one fisted hand as he shamelessly stared at her.
One thing was for certain. The gentleman before her was no soft-skinned, pale-faced dandy. No, indeed. He’d spent time outdoors, and from the breadth of his shoulders and the muscles straining to free themselves of the fabric constraining them, he was accustomed to physical exertion.
Mercy uncrossed and recrossed her ankles, positive he wasn’t obtuse but rather was purposely causing her discomfiture with his extended silence.
Why didn’t he say something?
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat, hoping the impatient noise might prompt him to speak.
It didn’t.
He must be aware his present untenable behavior was unconscionably impolite.
Truthfully, if it wasn’t for her devotion to Bellamy and Arabelle, she’d give her notice this instant. What an odious man to intentionally cause her disquiet.
The question was, why?
Why was he acting like this?
Had Brockman heard the unsavory rumors in Rochester that her friend Joy Morrisette had warned Mercy about? Righteous anger flickered low in her belly, and she curled her toes to release the tension.
Or had that weasel Mr. Braylen shared his lewd imaginings with his lordship?
She took a series of three deep breaths and slowly released them to calm herself.
Why must people be so ugly and unkind?
Whispering that she had been the lieutenant’s mistress.
Codswallop.
