Timothy smiled wryly. He had learned that from his father, and undoubtedly the man had learned the habit from his own father.

  It was a Clarcton thing. It was a strange feeling, knowing one could inspire such fear and yet such gratitude. Perhaps that was why the first Earl of Clarcton took up the tradition to give anyone who joined the household a place for life.

  The place itself could change. As far as he could remember, Mrs. Seton had begun her service as a kitchen maid.

  But the opportunity to rise, and grow, and earn good wages in good lodgings was there to anyone fortunate enough to join the Clarcton household.

  A job for life. Timothy had always smiled at that, when lectured by his father.

  “We have a job for life, don’t we, my boy?” he had always said. “Earl of Clarcton, that is not a role that one can simply lay aside. So why not for our servants, eh?”

  And the old boy had been right. Timothy had never seen greater loyalty, better work, than from servants who knew they were safe.

  On the rare occasions when he had paid house visits, he had seen just what service one received from underpaid and barely appreciated servants, and it had made him all the more thankful the Clarcton house was run differently.

  “You are confident in your cutlery, then?” he said aloud, conscious that he had been silent too long.

  The footman nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  Timothy walked down the table and picked up a spoon at random, holding it up to his eyes and examining it.

  A nervous cough behind him made the earl smile. It was perfect, just as the footman, whatever his name, had said. He had been right to have such confidence.

  “It is all perfect, and you are to be congratulated,” he said, placing the spoon in precisely the same spot he had removed it from.

  The footman’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Now, be off with you,” said Timothy easily. “I am sure there is something Cook has taken her eye off for more than two minutes that you can snap up. Go on.”

  The footman bowed and hastily retreated, leaving the earl alone in the dining room.

  Timothy’s eyes scanned the table once again. Yes, this was almost exactly how it would look when the Christmas ball came around, save for the flowers. He would have to tell Mrs. Seton––it was surely impossible she had forgotten such a detail, but it was a little while since the house of Clarcton had hosted anything like this. The first time in years it would be presided over by not just himself but also a woman. His countess. For want of a better term.

  The silver gleamed. It was all far more ostentatious than he would ever have, but he had his title to think of. An earl simply could not host an occasion like this without some sort of ridiculous show of wealth and power.

  “Ah, my lord.”

  Timothy turned. He had not heard Dewey come in, but then that was the sign of an excellent servant, wasn’t it? You barely saw them.

  “You have everything you need, my lord?” asked the butler.

  Timothy nodded. “Yes, I think so. Please congratulate…I cannot remember his name for the life of me, you know who I mean.”

  “Holt, my lord,” said Dewey smoothly. “Do not concern yourself, there are so many I do not often concern myself with learning their names until they become first footmen.”

  Timothy hid a smile. He was sure there had been a time, once, when Dewey himself had been a mere footman, but he was not foolish enough to remark on it.

  “I must say, it is rather unusual for us to have a rehearsal of this magnitude,” said Dewey with some hesitancy. “I assume there is a purpose to it?”

  There were few people Timothy would permit to speak to him in such a way, but thankfully for the butler, he was one of them.

  “It is essential Anne––Miss Gilbert is fully trained on the correct etiquette for such a thing. The last thing we need is for someone to notice her using a salad fork during the fish course.”

  He had not considered his words inflammatory, but the servant looked uncomfortable.

  “Yes,” he said delicately, “but even so…I cannot help but feel we are going far beyond what is necessary. If you do not mind me saying so, my lord.”

  Beyond what was necessary? Well, he supposed he was, in a way. He cast his gaze along the table that could seat twenty. The last ball––the last one with Louise attending––they had only laid the table for three when he had perused it to ensure his standards were kept.

  Twenty sets of knives, forks, and spoons glittered under the candlelight.

  Perhaps it was a little much.

  Timothy swallowed. What had possessed him to do order a thing? Was this a desperate attempt to…well, impress the governess?

  He must not think of her as Anne. That was a habit he had slipped into, desiring to hear his own name on her lips, but he had to force himself away from that.

  If he had needed a sign he was considering Miss Gilbert with anything more than masterly reserve, then the dancing in the ballroom had been the perfect wakeup call.

  He had been mere seconds away from kissing her. Timothy had wondered, late at night, tossing and turning in his bed attempting to find elusive sleep, whether he should have.

  Perhaps one kiss with the delectable Miss Anne Gilbert would rid him of this desire.

  It was crippling, this heat he felt whenever he was in her presence. It prevented him from thinking, removing conscious thought and leaving him with nothing but yearning.

  “My lord?”

  But she was just a governess. The thought had occurred to him several times, but each time it had been pushed away by the very presence of the woman.

  Just a governess? No, she was far more than that. She was a lady, her father had been a gentleman. She was no typical servant, and her curiosity made her an interesting woman.

  And that form; the way her lips pursed whenever she was thinking…

  Dear God, it was enough to drive a man to distraction.

  Timothy could no longer deny it, even if he was the only one who knew it; but he was finding himself daydreaming about the damned woman far more than he would like.

  And yet she was the mirror image, of Louise. Christ, it was all tangled in a most discomforting way. How was he ever to concentrate on the ruse if endless distracted by––

  “My lord, can you hear me?”

  Timothy jumped. The butler was waving his hands before his eyes, evidently concerned he had utterly lost all grip on his senses.

  Hell, Anne. She was not even here, and still she was having a damnable effect on him.

  “Yes, yes, I was just thinking,” he snapped. “Can’t a man think for a minute, must he always be speaking?”

  It was a return to his typical gruffness, and it seemed that was what gave the butler the confidence to step back and nod.

  Timothy slowly walked around the table, looking to all the world as though he was carefully examining the placement of the crockery.

  Anne would be here any moment, if she had taken his request to heart and bothered to dress for dinner. He would seat her…

  No, not there. Timothy’s jaw tightened. It could have been only yesterday when he had last seen Louise seated there, face laughing at his outrage at what she had just revealed.

  “You really thought otherwise?” she had said, giggling. “Goodness me, Clarcton, you really do have a way of deluding yourself. But you know what they say, just keep going!”

  A muscle spasmed by his temple.

  No, while Anne and Louise may look similar, a trick of nature, there was nothing of the nature of one in the other. The pain of Louise’s betrayal, so sharp though two years had elapsed, had not yet been eclipsed by the joy Anne had brought him.

  But it was not far off.

  “Excellent plates,” he said aloud, conscious that the butler was still watching him. “Which service will we use on the night?”

  “Oh, I thought the Clarcton star,” said Dewey impressively. “Yes, I don’t think we have used that service for a while, and it is most impressive, the light blue with the gold. I remember when we first used it, I thought…”

  Timothy let the man carry on. His mind was still consumed with the pain of her betrayal. He had never felt more double crossed than in that moment, and the sharp bitterness which had filled his heart at the time was still only a heartbeat away.

  How would he ever forget it? He was not entirely sure he ever would. Still, if he was ever to find the blaggard…

  “…so that would be my choice,” finished the butler.

  Timothy nodded. “We’ll need footmen for Anne––for Miss Gilbert to practice.”

  Dewey nodded. “They do have other duties, my lord, but I can spare you a pair, if that would be useful?”

  “Perfect. Send them in.”

  It was only after the door had closed behind the butler that Timothy breathed out. He had to concentrate on what was important here; the fact that in just a few days, a woman who had probably never seen this many forks was about to be presented to the world as his countess.

  His wife.

  Yet he was not entirely ignorant of the secret reason he had insisted on these countess classes, as Anne called them: all in the name of spending more time with the woman.

  Timothy smiled. Yes, it was true; and the way she was with Frances made it worse. If she had taken a dislike to the child, he would have found it far easier to…

  To what? He was not in love, he was no fool. So what was this? Pure desire?

  “Ah, good evening, my lady.” The voice came from outside the door, in the corridor. A footman.

  “Pardon?” That was Anne’s voice, then she realized her mistake. “Oh, yes. Thank you. Good evening.”

  Timothy shook his head wryly. She was going to have to do much better than that if she was to fool the neighborhood she really was his countess.

  The dining room door opened and the footman and Anne stepped into the room; but it was an Anne he had never seen before. One of the gowns Madame Griffon had already arrived––Timothy had ended up ordering several––had changed her.

  She looked…

  Almost regal. Even her posture was different, wearing silk instead of muslin. There was something about her, a confidence he had never seen before. Perhaps it was just how she held herself. Whatever it was, it made her even more beautiful. Even more intoxicating.

  Anne smiled, evidently pleased with his reaction,. “Will I do, do you think?”

  A strange strangling noise was heard in the room, and only after a moment did Timothy realize that it was himself. Bloody hell man, get a grip on yourself!

  Anne twirled, the pleats of the gown allowing it to blossom around her. Timothy could not take his eyes away––until he realized the footman, Holt, who had stepped into the room behind her was also goggling at her appreciatively.

  Timothy straightened up. He was not going to make a fool of himself like a mere footman. He would control himself.

  Clearing his throat with a pointed look, the footman caught his eye and immediately dropped his gaze to the floor, ears flaming red.

  “Have…have I done anything wrong?” Anne had stopped twirling and was looking between the two men with a look of concern.

  Heat flushed across his chest. “No, not at all. Come, sit here.”

  Anne obeyed, and the footman had the good sense to step forward and pull out the chair. Seating herself at the head of the table, she smiled as Timothy sat beside her.

  He was close to her. Very close. Closer than he had expected, and now every inch of him was crying out to reach his hand out and––

  “I had not expected the dining table to be so attired,” Anne said with a smile. “Will it really be this impressive on the night itself?”

  “More so,” said Timothy, fighting the temptation overwhelming him. “There will be flowers upon it, of course, and candles. I wished to give the footmen a good practice.”

  Anne’s eyes met his. “Yes, I see.”

  And she did, Timothy realized. She saw right through his lies to the truth. It was all for her; all to impress her, to beguile her.

  He swallowed. Having a woman about the place who could so easily see right through him was disconcerting. It had been difficult enough with Louise, but she had a streak of cruelty within her entirely missing from the woman before him.

  The idea which had come to him in the carriage from London had certainly taken on a life of its own. Dinners, dancing, music… Was he making a mistake? Should he have leaned more towards simplicity, given him less time with Anne fewer? [what?]

  Wouldn’t it have been easier to just lie at the ball and say that his countess was still away? She had been ‘away,’ that wonderful word which seemed to say much but revealed little, for years now. For all he knew, there may not have been any questions about her at all…

  “Well, I have not seen the countess in years. Many in the neighborhood are not even sure whether you are still married.”

  The last ball he had attended had been in London, and even there the rumors had followed him. He had been introduced to woman after woman––all Galcrest’s fault, of course—and he had barely had five minutes in the card room.

  No, he would not suffer through that again. No more young ladies wondering whether he was secretly divorced, no more mamas attempting to beguile him with their daughters.

  He would bring out his countess, and that would be an end to it.

  “This should be a good learning experience for you,” he said aloud into the silence.

  Anne raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I don’t know. You may be surprised.”

  Timothy smiled. “Few people believe they cannot navigate a fish knife, but I think you would find the complexities of fine dining are as numerous as they are opaque.”

  It required just a quick glance at the footman for the servant to tap gently on the door behind him, carefully concealed with the red velvet wallpaper on the walls. At once, the door opened, and the first course was brought out—a steaming pile of snails.

  Timothy tried not to smile. He had instructed Cook to challenge the governess of the house, and it appeared she had taken the challenge rather to heart. Even he had not expected something as complex as…

  “Now,” he said, full of anticipation. “How would you go about…”

  His jaw fell open as his voice trailed away. Without so much as a hesitation, Anne had reached out for the escargot fork, turned it the correct way in her hand, popped a snail out of its shell, and––

  “Delicious,” she said with a smile.

  That smile became laughter as Timothy’s mouth remained open.

  “My dear Timothy,” she said, causing a ripple of delight through his body. “I am a governess! I have been for years, to the sons and daughters of noblemen!”

  “B-But…” he stammered, purposefully not looking at the footman who was, he was sure, sniggering. “But you ate that like a Parisienne!”

  Anne raised an eyebrow. “Ah, au Français? Mais oui, c’est possible.”

  She cleverly released another snail from its shell and popped it into her mouth.

  “You speak French as well as one of them!”

  Anne shrugged, placing the escargot fork carefully onto her plate. “I lived in Paris for just under a year, when Lady Maria was at finishing school. The entire family moved there, except for the winter Season. It was considered better for her, you see, to be close to her parents.”

  Timothy could not understand it. The woman ate in a more refined manner than half the duchesses he had ever encountered!

  Was there anything Anne Gilbert could not do?

  “You said you did not know how to eat at a fine dining table,” he said, unable to keep the accusatory tone from his voice.

  Anne met his gaze with one as steely as his own. “No, you assumed. You never actually asked.”

  Timothy thought back, but found she was perfectly correct. He had assumed. He had thought a woman like her, no title, no family of note, would be overcome at such a table.

  He laughed ruefully. “Anne Gilbert, you minx!”

  Ye gods, he was in trouble now. Her red fiery hair shone in the candlelight, and there was a teasing smile on her lips, and Timothy wanted her. He wanted her badly.

  Worse still, the physical desire was now starting to be matched by an equally strong desire for her company. For her.

  No one surprised him like she did. No one had made him laugh like she did in a long time. In fact, he could not remember anyone making him laugh like that.

  “I will have to learn not to underestimate you,” he said sheepishly.

  Anne nodded with a smile. “Yes, you will.”

  Her blue eyes met his, and Timothy’s breath caught in his throat. She was beautiful, sensual, clever, witty. She was everything a countess should be. He had almost nothing to teach her, and the temptation to reach out and take her hand was growing.

  It was only then he realized Holt was looking at Anne with quite the same adoration he assumed was on his own face.

  Clearing his throat, Timothy placed his hands in his lap––out of harm’s way. He would have to learn to control himself.

  “Tell me,” he said, nodding at the footman to bring through more courses. “Tell me about becoming a governess. Did you always wish to join the profession?”

  Anne shook her head as she looked with interest at the tureen of soup and the basket of rolls that were brought through. “No, to tell the truth. I had not considered any profession while my father was alive. He had a number of investments that kept us to a lifestyle that was quite pleasant––though nothing like this, of course.”

  Timothy nodded. “But then you lost your father.”

  “We did,” said Anne shortly. It was clear speaking of him was painful. “And that left me with little choice. He had no siblings living and my brother took on the mantle of the family, with disastrous consequences. Never give a fifteen year old boy access to the family wealth.”

  The last was said sourly, and Timothy shook his head. “Better men than he have been sorely tempted, believe me.”

  “Oh, I do not blame him––not really,” said Anne, nodding her thanks to the footman as he helped her to soup.