Read Online If the Slipper Fits by Olivia Drake - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Olivia Drake
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She rushed across the schoolroom and seized hold of his forearm. With her other hand, she knocked the wooden stick out of his fingers. It went clattering to the floor and slid underneath the desk.
The man staggered sideways, then pivoted to face her. Anger twisted his narrow, foxlike features. “Wha—” he sputtered. “Who are you? How dare you interfere!”
“I’m Miss Annabelle Quinn, His Grace’s new governess. And you will not strike him like that ever again.”
He glowered, his brown eyes raking her up and down. “Governess? Lord Simon never informed me there was a new member of the staff.”
She should have guessed, Annabelle thought. Lord Simon had exhibited little interest in the education of his nephew. Why would he consider the hiring of a governess to be important enough to mention? The answer was, he wouldn’t.
She glanced down at Nicholas who sat very still. His small shoulders were hunched, his head lowered, as if he hoped to shrink from sight. Using a corner of his sleeve, he furtively rubbed at the slate in his lap. A fierce sense of protectiveness gripped her. She would not allow him to be mistreated, not by this man and not by Lord Simon, either.
“His lordship engaged my services only yesterday,” she told the tutor. “Henceforth, I shall be overseeing His Grace’s studies.”
“I beg your pardon? If Lord Simon was displeased with my lessons, he would have told me so. Why, he knows I’m an exemplary tutor.”
You’re a bully, that’s what.
Annabelle swallowed the retort. Her tenuous position here required a conciliatory manner, no matter how much she detested this man. Anyway, it wouldn’t do to fling insults in front of Nicholas.
“I’m here to ensure that His Grace receives a well-rounded education,” she said. “I’m also to watch out for his safety in any manner necessary. Now tell me, what has he done to merit such a harsh reprimand from you?”
“He was scribbling nonsense instead of heeding my history lecture.” The tutor snatched up the slate from the boy’s lap and thrust it at her. “There! See how well he listens?”
She found herself gazing down at the chalk sketch of a horse. Nicholas had tried to rub it away, but enough remained for her to see that he had an uncommon flair for drawing. The fine rendering brought to mind the miniature cavalryman that he’d clutched the previous evening. When she’d returned to his bedchamber after eating dinner, the army of toy soldiers had been cleared away and he lay in bed, fast asleep—or at least pretending to be. She’d been pleased that he’d obeyed her instructions without a fuss.
Now, however, it seemed he’d acted out of fear of punishment. She suspected that he seldom—if ever—received kindness from this man or from Lord Simon. Why would Nicholas expect anything better from her? For all he knew, she’d report his every transgression to that despicable uncle of his.
“What I see is that His Grace has a wonderful artistic talent.” She handed the slate back to Nicholas. “Such a gift should be encouraged rather than punished. Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me your name.”
“The Reverend Percival Bunting.” The tutor spoke with a note of grating superiority. “I am vicar of St. Geren’s Church in the village.”
Vicar? Startled, Annabelle noticed for the first time the stiff white collar that rimmed the neckline of his robe. She would never have taken him for a cleric. The only one she’d ever known in Yorkshire had been a plump, happy fellow who’d loved children—the exact opposite of this curmudgeon.
“Is His Grace’s tutor ill, then?” she asked in confusion. “Are you filling in for him?”
“Quite the contrary. I am in sole charge of educating His Grace.” His mouth twisted in a sour line. “Or at least I was given to believe that I was.”
“But what of your duties in the parish? Visiting the sick, writing sermons, conducting services…”
“The assistant curate
The man staggered sideways, then pivoted to face her. Anger twisted his narrow, foxlike features. “Wha—” he sputtered. “Who are you? How dare you interfere!”
“I’m Miss Annabelle Quinn, His Grace’s new governess. And you will not strike him like that ever again.”
He glowered, his brown eyes raking her up and down. “Governess? Lord Simon never informed me there was a new member of the staff.”
She should have guessed, Annabelle thought. Lord Simon had exhibited little interest in the education of his nephew. Why would he consider the hiring of a governess to be important enough to mention? The answer was, he wouldn’t.
She glanced down at Nicholas who sat very still. His small shoulders were hunched, his head lowered, as if he hoped to shrink from sight. Using a corner of his sleeve, he furtively rubbed at the slate in his lap. A fierce sense of protectiveness gripped her. She would not allow him to be mistreated, not by this man and not by Lord Simon, either.
“His lordship engaged my services only yesterday,” she told the tutor. “Henceforth, I shall be overseeing His Grace’s studies.”
“I beg your pardon? If Lord Simon was displeased with my lessons, he would have told me so. Why, he knows I’m an exemplary tutor.”
You’re a bully, that’s what.
Annabelle swallowed the retort. Her tenuous position here required a conciliatory manner, no matter how much she detested this man. Anyway, it wouldn’t do to fling insults in front of Nicholas.
“I’m here to ensure that His Grace receives a well-rounded education,” she said. “I’m also to watch out for his safety in any manner necessary. Now tell me, what has he done to merit such a harsh reprimand from you?”
“He was scribbling nonsense instead of heeding my history lecture.” The tutor snatched up the slate from the boy’s lap and thrust it at her. “There! See how well he listens?”
She found herself gazing down at the chalk sketch of a horse. Nicholas had tried to rub it away, but enough remained for her to see that he had an uncommon flair for drawing. The fine rendering brought to mind the miniature cavalryman that he’d clutched the previous evening. When she’d returned to his bedchamber after eating dinner, the army of toy soldiers had been cleared away and he lay in bed, fast asleep—or at least pretending to be. She’d been pleased that he’d obeyed her instructions without a fuss.
Now, however, it seemed he’d acted out of fear of punishment. She suspected that he seldom—if ever—received kindness from this man or from Lord Simon. Why would Nicholas expect anything better from her? For all he knew, she’d report his every transgression to that despicable uncle of his.
“What I see is that His Grace has a wonderful artistic talent.” She handed the slate back to Nicholas. “Such a gift should be encouraged rather than punished. Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me your name.”
“The Reverend Percival Bunting.” The tutor spoke with a note of grating superiority. “I am vicar of St. Geren’s Church in the village.”
Vicar? Startled, Annabelle noticed for the first time the stiff white collar that rimmed the neckline of his robe. She would never have taken him for a cleric. The only one she’d ever known in Yorkshire had been a plump, happy fellow who’d loved children—the exact opposite of this curmudgeon.
“Is His Grace’s tutor ill, then?” she asked in confusion. “Are you filling in for him?”
“Quite the contrary. I am in sole charge of educating His Grace.” His mouth twisted in a sour line. “Or at least I was given to believe that I was.”
“But what of your duties in the parish? Visiting the sick, writing sermons, conducting services…”
“The assistant curate
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