Etiquette With The Devil by Rebecca Paula Read Free Book Online

was to be governess to his nephew and nieces. The family gossip would not affect how she handled the children. She was there to see to their education. That was all. That was all there was, because Mr. Shaw awaited for her if she left, if he had survived the blade that pierced his middle by Clara’s hand.
    Still, there was a corner of her mind that would not rest. Clara did not fear Mr. Ravensdale, but she was certainly cautious of him. It was true, after all, that in the light of day he looked very much like a savage; his skin was scorched by sun, his hair was longer than what was proper, he drank openly in public without care, and size-wise, he was quite intimidating.
    Whereas Mr. Barnes was tall and slim, Mr. Ravensdale was a great hulk of a man. Mr. Barnes appeared to have led a simpler, more leisured life. He did not carry the same scars that sullied Mr. Ravensdale’s skin, and he certainly did not have the body of a man who labored for a living. Mr. Ravensdale had broad shoulders built to carry the burdens of the world, and she supposed if the whispers they heard while in the shop earlier were true, he did.
    Grace stumbled and kicked against Clara’s side as she picked up the small girl once more. She couldn’t hold back the whimper as tiny feet collided with stitched flesh. If she were smart, she would wrap the wound with more than a single length of muslin, but that was all she had, and besides ripping up a dress for rags, she would have to make due.
    Mr. Ravensdale spun to face her.
    “Is there a problem, Dawson?”
    “No,” she lied. There wasn’t a problem, except that she should have been turning a room over in Burton Hall for a schoolroom, not escorting the men and children like a wandering theater group through the village’s streets. No problem, except everything had gone wrong for Clara and she simply wanted a moment of peace.
    In three long strides, he plucked Grace from her arms and swung the girl’s body around as if she were a ribbon on a maypole, bringing the tot to peals of giddy laughter. “There,” he said triumphantly, handing Grace back over. “That should do for now.”
    “It should,” Clara said. “But I think the children could do with a drink or maybe something to eat. Something other than sweets,” she clarified as he looked at her questioningly. “It is a long way back.”
    His hands settled onto his hips, drawing Clara’s notice to his whittled waist. The man was a walking wall of brawn. He yanked at the collar of his coat as he glanced over her shoulder, assessing something in the distance. “This bloody thing is going to choke me,” he grumbled, pulling the collar loose. With a swift movement, he shrugged out of his coat, tossed it over his shoulder, and stood the middle of the street in his shirtsleeves and suspenders.
    “Mr. Ravensdale!” As soon as she issued the warning, Grace struck her across the face, saving Clara the added movement of clamping a hand over her offending mouth.
    He eyed Clara, the corner of his mouth slightly quirked in the onset of a smug smirk, and continued to undress before her eyes. With a slip of a button, he rolled one sleeve up to his elbow, then the other to expose hardened forearms and—
    Clara’s eyes widened at the sight of his tattooed skin.
    “Mr. Ravensdale. Please.” The sake of good appearances was clearly not weighing on his mind. Their sorry excuse for a circus did not need to draw any more attention. “People are staring,” she hissed.
    “So they are, Dawson.” He met her wide eyes and rolled the other sleeve. “There’s a tavern nearby. We’ll see if we can feed the children there.”
    Her stomach growled in response. She wished he did not hear, but the lines around his eyes deepened. “And something for you as well.” He gave a brief nod and led the way.
    *
    Like something out of a fairy story, The Bee and Thistle stood close to the road toward the outskirts of the village, its windows made of rippled glass, its