Master of Sin by Maggie Robinson Page B

silken pillows under the sun.
    Fat chance of that. She was a courtesan’s daughter. No matter how pretty a word courtesan was, it simply meant whore. No decent man would ever want her.
    Although there were many moments when she thought Andrew Ross was not decent at all.
    â€œWe should go out. Build a snowman. There seems to be enough of it on the ground.”
    Mr. Ross raised an eyebrow. “Do you think that’s wise? What if Marc catches a cold?”
    â€œPoo. I’ll dress him warmly. Fresh air will do us all good. We cannot spend the entire winter indoors. We’ll go mad. What do you say, sweetheart? Do you want to play outside? Farla vuole giocare fuori?”
    Marc clapped his chubby hands and wriggled to get down.
    â€œAll right,” Mr. Ross said reluctantly. “I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour. I’ll tell Mrs. MacLaren to make us some flasks of tea, some warm milk for Marc.”
    â€œGoodness, we’re not trekking through the Alps.” Gemma laughed.
    â€œNevertheless, I don’t want Marc to catch a chill. May I remind you there’s no doctor here? He’s only just recovering from his journey. I don’t want to take any chances.”
    Gemma bit her tongue. It was clear Mr. Ross was a concerned parent, if overprotective. But a little boy needed exercise and activity. Since there were no leafy parks here in which to promenade with Marc, the wild outdoors would have to do.
    She changed Marc’s nappy and layered him into so many of his clothes he could barely stand up. Bringing him next door to her room, she did the same to herself, until she was weighted down with yards of ugly fabric. Once she was satisfied that no frozen tongue of wind would pierce her defenses, she carried Marc down the stairs carefully. She would not want to fall into his father’s arms again. She might never find the strength to extricate herself.
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    Every time he saw her lately, he had to refrain from laughter. Miss Puffy Peartree minced down the stairs looking like a poor homeless waif who wore every bit of clothing she owned, layer upon layer of unmitigated ugliness. His son was little better in circumference, padded against the cold, although at least his clothes had been purchased from the finest French clothier. Andrew had put on several coats and scarves himself. He imagined he looked just as ridiculous as his two companions.
    â€œWe’ve sustenance,” he said, gesturing with a basket. “Are you sure this is wise? Going out in the middle of a storm?”
    â€œAbsolutely! And I wouldn’t even call this a storm. For once there’s white, fluffy snow, not miserable needles of sleet. I haven’t seen this much snow since Vienna.”
    Here was an intriguing tidbit to add to the paucity of his knowledge on the subject of his nameless governess. “I thought you said you lived in London.”
    Miss Peartree shrugged. “I’ve lived in lots of places. My mother traveled quite a bit in her later years and took me with her when she could.”
    â€œDid she perhaps give you an Austrian name? Heidi? Analiese?”
    â€œMr. Ross!” she said warningly, but her lip curved upward.
    â€œAll right, all right. I thought it was worth a guess. You are a stubborn chit. Let’s go then.” He made a show of taking a deep breath and girding his loins before he opened the front door.
    They stepped out into a fairy world of snow frosting the usually bleak landscape. Great fat flakes fell, slow and silent, almost warm to the touch in comparison to the usual Batter Island precipitation. They walked a little ways from the house, the crushed shell path hidden by a thick blanket of drifting snow. Miss Peartree set Marc down with care. The snow was over his knees. He took a step and toppled down instantly.
    Instead of crying, the little one laughed, his little hands flailing through the crust of snow. The sound was so rare and so precious,