Betrayed Countess (Books We Love Historical Romance) by Diane Scott Lewis Page B

His hard-lined face still morose, he looked her over from around the door’s edge.
    She assumed he didn’t like what he saw, her drab attire not ‘suiting’ him in the least. Ignoring her qualms, she trailed him a short distance down a gloomy, dark-paneled hall—a narrow introduction to this pretentious abode. The place smelled musty, unhappy somehow.
    “Wait in here … ah … Miss.” He opened a door on the left. His eyes were slits of disdain, and he seemed perturbed with the whole affair.
    “Thank you, Mr. Slate,” Bettina said to his disappearing back. She kept her tone airy, though she resented his rudeness. She wondered briefly if Ann had a puny brother.
    She stepped into a handsome room with walnut paneled walls. An imposing stone fireplace graced one end. Flames crackled in the grate, smelling of coal rather than turf and furze. Floor-to-ceiling cases filled with books stood to the right behind a large oak desk. The desk had a tooled green leather inlay. A brass inkstand sat atop, with sharpened quill pens, near one neat stack of papers. Two winged leather chairs faced the desk.
    Bettina stood in the room’s center. After what seemed half an hour, she grew impatient. Perhaps they’d decided not to bother with her. She wanted to admire and touch this elegance, something so out of her reach now. Walking over to peruse the bookcase’s contents, she caressed the smooth leather covers: Shakespeare, Alexander Pope, Laurence Sterne, Daniel Defoe. As she was about to pull one off the shelf, the door opened behind her. She withdrew her hand and turned. A towering lean man with brown hair and assessing blue eyes stood in the doorway.
    “Good afternoon. I’m Mr. Camborne.” Camborne didn’t smile nor attempt to press her hand in welcome. But his stern expression added to the interest of his features: a patrician nose and chin, with a wide mouth beneath a trimmed mustache.
    “Bonjour, Mr. Camborne. I am Mademoiselle Laurant.” Bettina inhaled the fresh scent of him—so very different than the inn patrons. She thought him unique, as most men were clean-shaven. Was this the sort of man who might murder his wife?
    “Won’t you have a seat, Miss Laurant?” His tone formal, he sat behind the desk, his gaze still studying her. Tense with anticipation, she took one of the winged chairs.
    Camborne appeared to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He wore no wig and his hair was unpowdered. His style of dress, though refined, was simple; he wore a buff frock coat over his broad shoulders, and a waistcoat of unadorned cloth.
    Bettina liked the intelligence she saw in his eyes, though his stare unnerved her. She felt dowdy in his presence and smiled to hide her discomfort. “I believe we have already met.”
    “Slate says I should determine if you are … appropriate enough to teach my nephew French. I have my doubts about someone who resides and works at an inn.”
    “Mr. Camborne, I am French. My knowledge of my own language is très excellent.” She dug her fingers into the soft leather of the chair seat. “I consider myself a person of decency, no matter the circumstances.”
    “My nephew has a regular tutor for his grammar and mathematics, but learning a foreign language is always useful.” Camborne shuffled a few papers on his desk as he scrutinized her. “It is difficult to find a specialized tutor so far removed as we are here, without having to … board someone. Do you have any references?”
    “No. This would be my first tutoring position.” Bettina tried not to squirm in the chair.
    “You do look quite young. Do you think you possess the skill and intellect to instruct a nine-year-old boy? And personally, I must be careful of my nephew’s influences.”
    “Sometimes appearances deceive.” Disappointed by his boorishness, she realized she should have expected it. “I am sorry that you doubt my ‘appropriateness.’ But I would like to tutor your nephew. My influence will meet with your