MARRIED BY MORNING

hamshire, England August 1895 Anyone who had ever read a novel knew that governesses were supposed to be meek and downtrodden. They were also supposed to be quiet, subservient, and obedient, not to mention deferential to the master of the house. Leo, Lord Ramsay, wondered in exasperation why they couldn’t have gotten one of those. Instead the Hathaway family had hired Catherine Marks, who, in Leo’s opinion, cast an unflattering shadow upon the entire profession. It wasn’t that Leo found fault with Marks’s actual abilities. She had done an excellent job of instructing his two youngest sisters, Poppy and Beatrix, in the finer points of social etiquette. And they had needed an inordinate amount of help, since none of the Hathaways had ever expected to mingle in the upper circles of British society. They had been reared in a strictly middle-class environment, in a village west of London. Their father, Edward Hathaway, had been a medieval history scholar, considered a man of good blood but hardly an aristocrat. However, after a series of unlikely events, Leo had inherited the title of Lord Ramsay. Although he had trained to be an architect, he was now a viscount with land and tenants. The Hathaways had moved to the Ramsay estate in Hampshire, where they had struggled to adjust to the demands of their new life. She was not alone. Leo stopped at twenty yards’ distance, drawing into the shade of a heavily foliated yew. Marks was sitting beside Poppy’s new husband, Harry Rutledge. They were engaged in what appeared to be an intimate conversation. Although the situation wasn’t precisely incriminating, neither was it appropriate. What in God’s name could they be talking about? Even from this remote vantage, it was clear that something of significance was being said. Harry Rutledge’s dark head was inclined over hers protectively. Like a close friend. Like a lover. Leo’s mouth fell open as he saw Marks reaching beneath her spectacles with a delicate hand, as if to wipe away a tear. from behind. “Don’t touch me!” Leo turned her to face him, controlling her easily. His hands closed over her slender upper arms. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin muslin of her sleeves. As he held her, the innocent scent of lavender water rose to his nostrils. There was a faint dusting of talc at the base of her throat. The fragrance of her reminded Leo of a freshly made bed with pressed sheets. And oh, how he wanted to slip into her. “You have too many secrets, Marks. You’ve been a thorn in my side for more than a year, with your sharp tongue and your mysterious past. Now I want some answers. What were you discussing with Harry Rutledge?” Her fine brows, several shades darker than her hair, gathered in a scowl. “Why don’t you ask him?” “I’ve asked you. ” Met with her mulish silence, Leo decided to provoke her. “Were you a different kind of woman, I’d suspect you of casting your lures at him. But we both know you don’t have any lures, don’t we?” “If I did, I certainly wouldn’t use them on you!” “Come, Marks, let’s attempt a civil conversation. Just this once.” “Not until you take your hands off me.” “No, you’d only run. And it’s too hot to chase after you.” Catherine bristled and pushed at him, her palms flattening against his chest. Her body was neatly packaged in stays and laces and countless yards of muslin. The thought of what was beneath … pink and white skin, soft curves, intimate curls … aroused him instantly. A shiver ran through her, as if she could read his thoughts. Leo stared down at her intently. His voice softened. “Are you afraid of me, Marks? You, who bludgeon and cut me down to size at every opportunity?” “Of course not, you arrogant ass. I only wish you would behave like a man of your station.” “You mean like a peer?” He raised his eyebrows mockingly. “This is how peers behave. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed by now.” “Oh, I’ve noticed. A man fortunate enough to inherit a title should have the decency to try and live up to it. Being a peer is an obligation—a responsibility—but instead you seem to regard it as a license to engage in the most self-indulgent and disgusting behavior imaginable. Moreover—” “Marks,” Leo interrupted in a velvety tone, “that was a perfectly wonderful attempt at distracting me. But it’s not going to work. You’re not getting away from me until you tell me what I want to know.” She swallowed hard and tried to look everywhere but at him, which wasn’t easy when he was standing right in front of her. “The reason I was talking privately with Mr. Rutledge … the scene you witnessed…” the spectacle lenses with the edge of his sleeve, he said, “Hold still.” “Give them to me.” “Let me do it, hardhead. Arguing comes to you as naturally as breathing, doesn’t it?” “No, it doesn’t,” she said immediately, and colored as he gave a husky laugh. “It’s no fun to bait you when you make it so easy, Marks.” He placed the spectacles on her face with great care, running his fingers along the sides of the frame, viewing the fit with an assessing glance. Gently he touched the tips of the earpieces. “They’re not fitted well.” He ran an exploring fingertip over the upper rim of one ear. She was remarkably pretty in the sunlight, her gray eyes containing glimmers of blue and green. Like opals. “Such small ears,” Leo continued, letting his hands linger at the sides of her fine-boned face. “No wonder your spectacles fall off so readily. There’s hardly anything to hang them on.” Marks stared at him in bewilderment. How fragile she was, he thought. Her will was so fierce, her temperament so prickly, that he tended to forget she was only half his size. He would have expected her to slap his hands away by now—she hated being touched, especially by him. But she didn’t move at all. He let his thumb brush the side of her throat, and felt the tiny undulation of her swallow. There was something unreal about the moment, something dreamlike. He didn’t want it to end “Is Catherine your real name?” he asked. “Will you at least answer that?” She hesitated, fearful of yielding any part of herself, even that scrap of information. But as his fingertips slid along her neck, the light caress seemed to disarm her. A bloom of color rose from her throat. “Yes,” she choked out. “It’s Catherine.” They were still kneeling together, her skirts having billowed and settled everywhere. Folds of flower-printed muslin had been caught under one of Leo’s knees. His body reacted strongly to her nearness, heat sliding beneath his skin and gathering in inconvenient places. Muscles tightened, thickened. He would have to put an end to this, or he was going to do something they would both regret. “I’ll help you up,” Leo said brusquely, making to rise. “We’ll go inside. I warn you, however, I’m not through with you yet. There’s more I—” But he broke off, because as Marks had tried to struggle upward, her body had brushed against his. They went still, caught front to front, their breath mingling in uneven surges. help. They stared at each other. It was hard to say which one of them was more appalled. But judging from her expression, it was probably Marks. “This never happened,” she snapped. “If you have the gall ever to mention it, I’ll deny it to my last breath.” She gave her skirts a few agitated whacks to remove the bits of leaves and grass, and shot Leo a fierce warning glance. “I’m going to the house now. And don’t follow me!”