Her Proper Scoundrel by A. M. Westerling Page A

was young. His name is Tom. You are Philip Stanford, er – Sharrington. Yes, Philip Stanford Sharrington,” she repeated.
    Even to her ears, it sounded a cock and bull story and she peeked up at Lady Oakland to gauge the woman’s reaction. Her dark head was tipped to one side, the perfect picture of skepticism.
    Josceline’s heart sank through the floor. How could this get any worse?
    “Is the tea to your liking, Lady Oakland?” Christopher’s voice was hearty, too hearty.
    Josceline risked a quick glance to spot him motioning wildly to her to remove Philip. She turned to do so when came a clatter of running feet and Tom, blonde curls flying, burst into the room carrying a fluffy bundle of kitten. Behind him huffing as fast as her legs could carry her, came Mrs. Belton.
    “Look, Philip,” Tom cried. “Look, they ‘ave kittens!”
    “I must beg pardon, Mr. Sharrington,” puffed Mrs. Belton, “the lad got away from me.”
    If the situation hadn’t been so grave, Josceline would have laughed out loud at the housekeeper’s beet red face and mortified expression. Instead, Josceline looked away to hide the smile quivering on her lips at the sight.
    Philip unclasped his hands and reached for the kitten. “Cor,” he breathed. “It’s as white as a swan.”
    His hands were almost black against the fur. Beads of perspiration popped out on Josceline’s forehead. First his voice, now the hands, what was Lady Oakland to think?
    Lady Oakland’s eyes darted from one blonde headed boy to the other than back again. Bewilderment wrinkled her brow. “Oh my,” she murmured. “They could be brothers.”
      “Tom is the housekeeper’s grandson,” explained Christopher smoothly. A muscle ticked in his cheek but he carried himself with considerable composure.
    Josceline took comfort in that and willed her pounding heart to slow down.
    Mrs. Belton’s mouth dropped open but before she had a chance to protest, both boys darted from the room. She threw a murderous glance at Christopher before stomping after them.
    “I have seen quite enough,” said Lady Oakland. She put down her tea cup.
    Her tone was pleasant yet Josceline saw suspicion lurking in her eyes. Suspicion that again set off Josceline’s rattled nerves and she had a difficult time catching her breath.
    “Mr. Sharrington,” Lady Oakland continued, “I do not claim to understand what is going on here at Midland House but your son appears to be very comfortable with your housekeeper’s grandson. Beware the boys do not spend too much time together. Indeed, I do not see gently reared children but rather, two boys who are ill-behaved monsters.” She got to her feet and pointed to Josceline. “I fear, Lady Woodsby, you have quite the challenge in front of you.” She flung her shawl around her neck. “I bid you both good day.”
    Without a glance back, she marched out of the room, calling for her carriage.
    The whole episode had lasted less than ten minutes, not even enough time for her to finish her tea, for her cup sat half full.
    The room was silent as a tomb. Josceline and Christopher just stared at each other. Far in the distance, they could hear the shrieks of Philip and Tom.
    “Do you think she is convinced?” Josceline tried, and failed miserably, to keep the gloom from her voice.
    “Of course,” Christopher replied energetically. Too energetically, for his slumped form belied the brisk tone in his voice. He slouched back against the chair, eyes dark, mouth grim, the very picture of dejection.
    A dejection, Josceline was sure, mirrored on her own face.
    For one insane instant, she wanted to bury her head on Christopher’s shoulder, and feel his strong arms wrapped around her. Wanted him to hold her close and tell her everything would be splendid. She closed her eyes and willed the sensation to go away – he employed her, she reminded herself. Nothing more.
    She opened her eyes to catch his somber gaze on her.
    “This is a fine to do, is it