“Let’s play house again,” Megan said.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Andrew said.
“Yes.” Dora jumped up and down on the spot. “Go for a walk.”
“I am sure we all need a brisk walk of at least five miles,” the marquess said, patting his stomach. He turned to Lilias. “You have been busy all morning, ma’am. Would you care to have a rest while I take the children walking?” He looked down at her hopefully. “Or would you care to join us?”
“I shall join you,” she said. “Fresh air sounds wonderful.”
Steady, Bedford told himself as he buttoned Dora’s coat a few minutes later and pulled on his own greatcoat. He must not become too mesmerized by the feeling of family he had had for the past few hours. Only Dora was his family. The other children belonged to Lilias, and she was not his family at all.
Perhaps she should have refused, Lilias thought as she drew her cloak about her and tied the strings of her bonnet. Perhaps she needed an hour alone in which to clear her head of this seductive feeling of warmth and belonging she had had in the past few hours. Perhaps she should not go walking with him, just as if they were one close and happy family.
But there was so little time left. Less than a week, and then a long and lonely life as someone’s governess.And the long illusion that one day she would earn enough money to gather her family back around her again.
Less than a week left with Megan and Andrew. Less than a week with Stephen and Dora.
No, she thought, pulling her gloves on resolutely, she was not doing the wrong thing. He had ordered the carriage for eight. That left them with six hours. Six hours. It was not long. She was going to enjoy every minute of it, even if to do so was only to invite future pain. She did not care about the future. Only the present mattered.
Dora attached herself to one of her hands, Megan to the other. Dora skipped rather than walked, and entertained her companions with stories of all that her papa had shown her in London and Brighton. Andrew and the marquess were striding along ahead, deep in conversation-doubtless about horses, Lilias thought with a smile. She was glad for Andrew. He needed more male company than he had had in the past two years. But then, of course, soon he would have nothing but male company, their grandfather during holidays, other boys of his own age during term time.
She shut the thought from her mind.
They walked to the lake on the grounds of Bedford Hall. It was looking very bleak and even had a thin layer of ice covering it.
“Yes,” Andrew was saying excitedly as Lilias and the girls came up to him and the marquess. “If it stays cold like this, we will be able to slide on the ice in a few days’ time.”
The children were soon running around the bank, gazing eagerly at the film of ice.
Lilias had not realized how cold it was until she stopped walking. The wind cut at her like a knife. She glanced up at the heavy clouds.
“Snow clouds,” the marquess said. “Are they just teasing, do you suppose? But I think not. I believe we are going to have our snow yet.”
“Yes,” Lilias said, “I think you are right.” Her teeth were chattering.
She shivered. She could feel him looking at her. She sought in her mind for something to say. There was an awkwardness when they were alone.
They needed the presence of the children to create an atmosphere of ease between them.
“Lilias,” he said. His voice was tight and withdrawn, the voice of the Marquess of Bedford again, despite his use of her given name, “your cloak is too thin. It must be quite threadbare. When did you last have a new one?”
She looked jerkily up at him. “It is quite adequate, I thank you,” she said. “It is just this standing still that is making me cold.”
“When did you last buy yourself anything?” he asked. His voice sounded angry. “Has everything been for the children in the last few years? Your lips are quite blue.”
“Don’t,” she said. His face had that shuttered look it had had the first few times she had seen him. “It is none of your concern.”
“Your dress,” he said. “It was quite fashionable six years ago when it was new. You wore it for Christmas then. Had you forgotten?”
She stared at him, though she did not see him at all. She was blinded by hurt and humiliation. She had forgotten. She had felt pretty that morning. Pretty for him. She turned quickly away.
“It is none of your business,” she said. “What I wear and what I spend on myself and the children is none of your concern at all. I am not answerable to you.”
“No, you are not,” he said, moving closer to her so that he stood between her and the wind. He lifted his head and his voice suddenly.
“Andrew,” he called, “your sister and I are going to begin the walk home. You may bring the girls along behind us. Don’t let anyone set even a single toe on that ice.”
“No, I won’t, sir,” Andrew called back.
He took her arm through his and hugged it close to his side. He walked at a brisk pace. And he plied her the whole way home with questions about her governess post: where it was and who the family were and how many charges she would have and how arduous the duties were likely to be. And he asked about Andrew, about what school he was to attend, how well he was likely to be treated by his grandfather, how much he looked forward to being away from home. He wanted to know about Great-aunt Hetty in Bath and how suitable a home she would be able to offer a nine-year-old child.
Lilias answered as briefly as she could.
“Why would your grandfather not take all of you?” he asked as they entered the village again.
“Papa defied him when he married Mama,” she said. “He has never recognized us. I was fortunate to be able to persuade him to take Andrew.”
“You are his grandchildren,” he said. “He ought to have taken you. Did you ask him to?”
She shook her head. “I will not answer any more questions,” she said. “I have arranged everything to my own satisfaction, my lord.”
“In other words, it is none of my business, again,” he said, his voice still angry. “You are right. But those children need you, Lilias. They are still very much children.”
She stared stonily ahead to the cottage. The temptation to tip her head sideways to rest against his shoulder, to sag against the strength of his arm, to close her eyes and pour out all her pain to him was almost overwhelming. She was only thankful that for the return walk he had chosen to be the Marquess of Bedford rather than Stephen. She might not have been able to resist letting down her guard with Stephen.
He put fresh logs on the fire when they went indoors while she filled the kettle. By the time they were ready to settle into an uncomfortable silence, the children were home, and they brought with them again all the joy and laughter of Christmas-and, yes, the warmth too, despite rosy cheeks and reddened fingers and noses.
“Tell the Nativity story again, Papa,” Dora begged when all outdoor garments had been removed and put away, climbing onto his knee.
“Again?” he said. “You have heard it three times already, poppet.”
“Tell it again,” she said, fingering the diamond pin in his neckcloth.
Megan was standing beside them. The marquess smiled at her-Lilias’s heart did a complete somersault-and reached out his free arm to draw her onto his other knee. He told both girls the story, and Andrew too, who was sitting at his feet whittling away at the sheep again, trying to improve its appearance. Lilias busied herself getting tea.
The time went too fast. He willed it to hold still; he willed eight o’clock never to come. But of course it did come. Stories and singing and charades and forfeits had passed the time merrily. Megan and Dora were bright-cheeked and bright-eyed and very giggly long before eight o’clock came, a sure sign that they were very tired.
“But I don’t want to go, Papa,” Dora said, yawning very loudly. “One more hour?”