The Secret Pearl by Mary Balogh

hair, Pamela? And all over your dress? Whatever will Nanny say?”
    “She will scold,” Lady Pamela said. “Papa, come and feel Tiny’s funny nose. It’s all cold.”
    The Duke of Ridgeway passed Fleur and knelt down beside his daughter.
    Fleur stood where she was before the easel and felt turned to ice. She had hoped not to see him for a long, long time after that morning—particularly after that morning. She had felt utterly humiliated.
    He had been furious. Every word he had spoken had been like the lash of a whip. She had been forcefully reminded of the fact that he had been an infantry officer with His Grace of Wellington’s armies for several years. And she had believed that he spoke the truth.
    He had given her this post because he pitied her, not because he desired her.
    And her first words to him had been, “I will not be your mistress.” Words spoken to the Duke of Ridgeway! Her employer. They did not bear remembering.
    He got to his feet and turned to her while Pamela played on.
    “You brought her here to paint?” he asked.
    “Yes, your grace.”
    “And have not insisted that she do so?”
    “She is very excited about her puppy this afternoon, your grace,” she said.
    “Was it not agreed yesterday,” he asked, “that the puppy was not to interfere with lessons?”
    “Yes, your grace.” She looked into the dark depths of his eyes and firmly quelled the terror that his height, the breadth of his shoulders, his black hair and hawkish features threatened to turn to panic. And she looked at the disfiguring scar,reminding her of the other marks on his body, which were far worse than just scars. “Sometimes with young children, lesson plans ought not to be rigidly adhered to. We have talked this afternoon about the puppy’s teeth and the reason for their small size and impermanence—as with Lady Pamela’s. We have talked about the shape of the dog’s head and of how it will change as it grows. I have explained how your grooms will train the dog so that eventually it can live in the house. We have—”
    “I was not about to dismiss you, ma’am,” he said, “though it was a good answer. What was the purpose of the painting lesson?”
    “I was going to describe Corinthian columns and pediments,” she said, glancing out to the pavilion, “and point out how everything is reversed in a reflection. But your daughter is five years old, your grace. Mainly I planned to allow her to enjoy the fresh air and to experiment with using her paints.”
    Her chin rose stubbornly. Let him reprimand her if he chose. The child had far too little spontaneity in her life.
    “Another good answer,” he said. “Do you specialize in them?”
    There was no reply to such a question.
    “I suppose you have noticed,” he said, “that the temple is an exact replica in miniature of the central block of the house?”
    “Except for the horseshoe steps,” she said, turning to gaze across the lake below them. “Is it the same inside too?”
    “Very like,” he said, “even to the painting on the inside of the dome. But there is no gallery in the temple. It was built to be picturesque, as was everything else in the park, but it is used as a music pavilion during fêtes and garden parties. And will be used by the orchestra at the ball in three days’ time. You have been told that you may attend?”
    “Yes, your grace,” she said.
    He turned to talk to his daughter. “Let’s walk down to the water’s edge,” he said. “The pavilion looks more imposingfrom there. And the bridge can be seen off in the distance, and something of the cascades. Carry the puppy, Pamela. She will never walk so far.”
    “But it is time for us to go home,” Fleur said.
    Dark eyes were turned on her. One lifted eyebrow. “Who says so?” he said.
    Fleur felt herself flush. “Mrs. Clement will be expecting us, your grace,” she said.
    “Nanny?” he said. “Then Nanny will just have to wait, won’t she?”
    Pamela went clattering