The Dutiful Rake by Elizabeth Rolls Read Free Book Online

where there might be some spiteful whispers about her sojourn under his roof. After a decent interval he would settle some of Samuel Langley’s money on her, which was what the scaly old nipcheese ought to have done in the first place. He would tell her that Samuel had desired him to do so when the extent of his obligations and debts should be known. No need for her to think she was being handed charity. He would write to Diana tonight and send a note over to Mrs Garsby in a day or so, informing her that she would need to find another nursery governess.
    He smiled to himself in anticipation. He simply couldn’t wait to see her face. She would be disbelieving at first, would probably demur. Then she would be excited, happy. Her face would be flushed with pleasure, anticipation.
    A tap at the door informed him that Miss Fellowes had arrived to be told of the change in her fortunes.
    ‘Come in.’
    Meg heard the deep rumble and trembled slightly. His voice was just as she remembered it, dark and velvety…it was the sort of voice that made you want to stroke it…like a big cat. Nervously she opened the door and went in, wondering if her eyes had remembered as well as her ears.
    They hadn’t. She really must have been quite out of her wits with that influenza. Marc—faced with him she had trouble reminding herself to think of him as Lord Rutherford—sat there at Cousin Samuel’s old desk, looking even more lethally handsome than she recalled. His frame looked impossibly large and powerful, the shoulders too broad to be contained in any coat made for a normal human being. His hair was, as she remembered, a rich tawny brown. The eyes puzzled her. She had thought them warm and kind. Now they were coldand impassive, the sort of eyes that held their own counsel and gave nothing away.
    Perhaps if she concentrated on those chilly eyes she might be able to remember that this was Lord Rutherford—that Marc was a dream.
    Marcus was delighted to see that Miss Fellowes—he must remember to call her that—looked so much better. She was still far too pale, in stark contrast to the shadows under her eyes, but she looked as though she had put on a little weight in the last few days since he had seen her. There was actually some colour in her lips, which were, he noticed, quite beautifully cut, soft and full. Just the sort of mouth, he caught himself thinking, which begged to be kissed. Frowning, he reminded himself that kissing was not on his agenda for Meg…dammit! Miss Fellowes!
    Seeing the frown, Meg quailed inwardly and flushed; no doubt he thought her dress shabby, not at all the thing to wear for meeting an earl. Well, it was the best she had and if he didn’t like it then that was too bad. She didn’t like it either, being tolerably certain that dull black was not calculated to make her look her best. And it must look so dowdy to one used to women in the highest kick of fashion. She knew the crossover bodice was years out of date. So she held her head high, determined not to be flustered. From all Agnes had said, he did not have the slightest idea who she was. Fellowes, after all, was a common enough name.
    ‘Good morning Miss Fellowes,’ said Marcus politely. ‘I trust you are recovered.’ He noted the slight flush. Better not to say she looks much improved. No need to rub her face in the fact that I nursed her.
    But Meg was made of sterner stuff. ‘I am very much better, my lord. For which I am given to understand Imust thank you.’ Not for worlds would she have admitted that she could remember in detail all that he had done for her, including holding her in his arms for the whole of one night.
    Very embarrassed, he waved her thanks aside. ‘It was nothing, Miss Fellowes. A trifling service. I could wish Barlow had informed me earlier of the severity of your illness. You might then have been spared my very inexpert assistance.’ He thought he had never heard himself sound like such a pompous jackass, so cold and