The Governess and Mr. Granville. Abby Gaines
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He dismissed the thought. Likely she was moved by his own tale, not referring to a doomed romance of her own.
The silence grew awkward. Serena broke it.
“How will you determine if Mrs. Gordon is fit to be your children’s stepmother?” she asked.
“She’s a woman of good sense and few expectations,” he said. “I consider that an excellent start.”
Those cornflower eyes widened. “Oh, dear, she sounds rather uninspiring.”
He couldn’t help it; he groaned. “If by uninspiring you mean calm and reasonable...”
“That must be what I mean,” she said with that now-familiar mischievous twinkle.
“Her lineage is impeccable,” he said. “If not as elevated as your own.”
“I can’t help feeling Mrs. Gordon has attained the position of front-runner merely by coming from a good family and living close by,” Serena said. “Is your aim to make the nearest choice or the best choice?”
He refused to rise to that bait. “Since this will be a marriage of convenience, proximity seems a logical criterion.”
“What about whether she adores your children?”
Adores. What a word to use.
He straightened the storybook sitting on the chest of drawers next to the bed. “She will need to care about the children, of course. And to know how to nurse them and employ a governess and, when they’re older, introduce them to the world. She’s a mother already, so I’m sure she knows these things.”
“Hmm,” Serena said. It wasn’t a sound that expressed confidence in Dominic’s judgment. “What other qualities should the future Mrs. Granville possess?”
Like most of her questions, this one fell into the none-of-her-business category. But it was, he supposed, something he should be considering.
“Intelligence,” he said, “of course.”
“There’s no of course about that,” she said. “I hear many men don’t want an intelligent wife.”
“I’m not afraid of a woman with a brain, Miss Somerton.”
“Excellent,” she said warmly.
He shook off the pleasant feeling her approval induced. “For my wife to be attractive would be nice, but not essential.”
“A Christian woman,” Serena suggested.
“Naturally,” he said. “I believe most ladies of my acquaintance are Christians.”
“Someone...playful?” she proposed.
He frowned.
“You don’t object to play, do you?”
“Of course not,” he said. “It’s good for children to play. When it’s appropriate.”
Her quick grin said she considered him stuffy. To a twenty-one-year-old girl, he probably was. “I expect my wife to be mature,” he said. “Close to my own age.”
She nodded as if that made complete sense, which, perversely, left him feeling insulted. Who was to say he couldn’t find himself a younger wife if he wished?
Though a more mature woman was less likely to have romantic notions.
“The main thing is,” he said, putting an abrupt end to a conversation that had already become too personal, “the children should have someone to take the maternal role in their lives.”
“You mean, to love them.” Why did she have to twist everything, yet at the same time make it sound so uncomplicated?
“You really are very young, Serena.” Blast, he’d used her Christian name again.
“I suspect you mean I’m naive,” she said. “If believing in the power of love to transform lives is naive, then, yes, I am.”
“No doubt you’re right.” But Dominic would settle for a successful come-out for his daughters, and for a more comfortable existence for his sister.
Serena’s tsk suggested she knew he was fobbing her off. But she didn’t argue. “I think Louisa will sleep through now,” she said.
“Excellent.” He looked down at his sleeping daughter. Louisa had always been a small child, but huddled as she was, she seemed tiny. He had the urge to caress her in some way...but he didn’t know how. Awkward, he rubbed the bump in the blanket made by her foot. “I will do my best for my children in this matter of my remarriage, Miss Somerton, you may rely on that. I am more than conscious that they depend on me. Indeed, I would give my life for any of them.”
What on earth had possessed him to say something so dramatic? Blame it on the midnight madness.
Serena made a smothered sound. Dominic raised his eyebrows at her, daring her to comment.
She shook her head. “It’s time I returned to my chamber.” She bent over and kissed Louisa’s forehead. That was what he should have done, he realized, castigating himself. It seemed obvious now. The way Serena smoothed a lock of his daughter’s hair reminded him of Emily. For one moment, he found himself wanting that touch on his own hair, that tenderness directed at him. No.
Yet instinctively, he drew closer, and as Serena straightened, she bumped into him. Dominic grasped her arms to steady her. Immediately, he released her.
They stood staring at each other.
“Good night,” she blurted. And almost ran from the room.
Chapter Four
The next morning, Marianne’s complexion was redder than usual—one of those inexplicable days when her face started off the color of the crimson walls in the breakfast room and stayed that way. Small wonder that, having swallowed the last of her baked egg, she took to her room to lie down with damp cloths on her cheeks, with a plan to play some solitary chess later. A devotee of the game, she had a board set up in her private sitting room.
Outside, a spring storm had blown up, lashing the windows and bending trees at dangerous angles.
Serena visited the nursery and found the children fidgety, snapping at each other. Louisa was feeling much better, but her mood was subdued.
“What we need is a nice game,” Serena announced.
“Can we slide down the banister again?” William begged.
“No, dearest.” Even though it was exactly that kind of day, and Serena felt so peculiarly unsettled that she’d have relished the chance to climb onto the banister herself. Not that she ever would, of course. “We’ll play dominoes.”
The children pounced on the suggestion, and the twins soon had the game set up. Luckily, it didn’t require much concentration, because Serena’s mind was busy elsewhere. Wondering at Dominic’s unguarded, late-night declaration of love for his children.
Not that he’d said anything as simple as “I love them.” Instead, he’d said, “I would give my life for any of them.”
She doubted he’d been thinking of the verse from John’s gospel: “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” But she had thought of it, and had recognized a declaration of ardent love.
He would probably be horrified by her interpretation. What a pity that he should feel so much for his children, yet not show it in his words or deeds! During her eight months at Woodbridge Hall Serena had observed him as a cool, distant father. A provider and protector, but not a loving papa. When he embraced his children, she saw only duty on both sides.
Until last night, she’d assumed his behavior was a reflection of his thoughts.
She’d been wrong.