Bertie’s smile was soft. “Cheers.”

Sinclair buttoned the last button, hiding her from him again. He kissed her lips, lightly this time. If he didn’t keep it light, he’d have her on the floor, to hell with Mrs. Hill or anyone else who happened to walk in.

Sinclair deliberately stepped away from her and opened the door. “Go,” he said.

“Good night,” Bertie answered. She glided out of the room, then she turned around, grinning, holding up his handkerchief and his silver case again.

Sinclair slapped his hands to his pockets. “Wretch!”

Laughing, Bertie came back to him and slid the things into his pockets. Her hands were warm, enticing as they moved on his body, but Sinclair made himself not touch her.

She whirled away again and was gone, the warmth leaving with her. Sinclair watched her skim up the stairs, his body aching and stiff, the night grown cold.

The next morning, Bertie looked up from the large book she held in her lap when Sinclair shoved open the library door.

Light from the hall haloed him, making his hair glisten golden. He looked like an angel from the pages of an illustrated Bible—one of those big, strong archangels who made everyone tremble.

“What the devil is this?” he demanded.

Andrew answered, his loud voice cutting through Bertie’s headache. “We’re learning books!”

“What, all of you?”

Sinclair’s sharp gaze swept around the library, taking in Cat, Andrew, Macaulay, Aoife, Peter, Mrs. Hill, and the cook—who rarely came out of her kitchen—bent over books in various parts of the room.

Bertie placed a ribbon in the tome on the English Civil War, closed the book, and got to her feet. “It was my idea. Don’t be angry at them.”

The members of Sinclair’s household looked up, except for Cat and the cook, who kept reading. Cat had found she liked the books on art best, and the cook was reading hard about constellations of the southern hemisphere.

Sinclair’s sharp gaze landed on Bertie. Last night, he’d been tender, smiling, holding Bertie in his strong arms. This morning, he was the barrister again, looking at her as though she were another fool in the dock. “Your idea?” he rumbled. “Your idea about what?”

“Making people believe I’m a governess. People like your brother-in-law.” Bertie twined her fingers together, suddenly nervous under the unwavering gray gaze. “I knew I’d never be able to read all the books in here myself and remember what was in them. I decided that if each person in the house read some of them, then they could come out with a piece of information at an opportune time, and pretend I taught it to them.”

Sinclair kept staring. He could knock a person over with that gaze. He was like a wolf with his eye on a poor rabbit who couldn’t get away.

“Pretend you taught it to them,” he repeated.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Mrs. Hill said. She’d risen to her feet, folding her hands at her waist and looking so very respectable. “It is not a bad plan. We’d not be obvious about it, of course. But the intent is to make Miss Frasier appear to be very, very clever. Then even if her origins are known, it can be argued she’s clever enough for that to be overlooked.”

Bertie knew Sinclair heard Mrs. Hill, because a muscle moved in his jaw, but he never looked away from Bertie.

“Aye,” Macaulay said, looking up from his book on animal husbandry. “I remember the fuss Mrs. McBride’s relations kicked up when you married her. Not only did you marry quick, but they hate Scots. We’re trying to keep them from kicking up another stink. Miss Caitriona and Master Andrew belong here, with us. We’re willing to do anything to make sure they stay.”

“I say bugger Uncle Edward!” Andrew shouted. “We love you, and Bertie!”

Chapter 13

“Master Andrew, such language,” Mrs. Hill said quickly, but she appeared to agree with Andrew.

Sinclair couldn’t wrench his gaze from Bertie. In her demure gray, every hair in place, but her eyes full of merriment, she was both a beauty and an erotic joy. Erotic because he knew what she looked like with the buttons loose at her throat, her hair coming down, her eyes closed in pleasure while she parted her lips for his kisses.

He clenched his hands, tamped down his rising hardness, and made himself look around the room. “Since you’re all settled in here, Andrew, you won’t want to go out with me then,” he said in a dry tone.

Andrew’s book flew into the air and came down on the floor with a clatter. “Yes, we do! Are we going to the pantomime? I’ve never been to a panto. Bertie calls it a panto.”

“Panto’s not until Christmas, Andrew,” Bertie said quickly. “Starting Boxing Day.”

“But we’ll be in Scotland then!” Andrew wailed.

Sinclair gave him a stern look. “Bertie, get them into their things and outside. Richards is on his way with the coach.”

He delivered his command and swung around out of the room, before he realized he’d called her “Bertie” and not “Miss Frasier,” to the great interest of the rest of his household.

The weather was cold today. Rain had come in the night, and though the morning had cleared, a thin sheet of ice lay on roadways. Sinclair watched Bertie settle with Andrew and Cat in the carriage seat opposite his, the glowing box on the floor giving the coach some warmth. Bertie kept Andrew from bouncing on the seat by pointing out interesting things about the coach itself as well as what they passed. Stopped Andrew bouncing a little bit, anyway.