Head in the Clouds by Karen Witemeyer Page B

soft, letting her virtuous manner and religious drivel turn his insides to mush. Reginald would never fall for such tripe, and Lucinda knew it. She had thought herself so clever by fleeing England. Yet she hadn’t been able to outrun death, had she? He brushed his thumb and forefinger over the thick mustache that sat atop his lip. No. He always won in the end. Always.
    Too bad that fact was harder to prove to his creditors than it had been to his sister-in-law. The impatient leeches. He had bought some time when Lucinda died, assuring them the Petchey fortune would revert to him. However, now that news of the will had spread, they would be back, and more demanding than ever. Reginald’s hands bent into fists. Ruin. Disgrace. Sour contemplations. It was his duty to protect the Petchey name. His ancestors fought and died to bring honor to this house. He wouldn’t allow it to be stripped away just because his brother had abdicated family loyalty in order to please his delusional wife.
    Sunlight streamed through the window and glinted off the ring on his right hand. Reginald lifted it up to take a closer look and frowned as dark memories assaulted him. The black onyx stone overlaid with a gold P had been handed down to first sons for generations. Now it belonged to him, ever since the day a hunting accident had taken Stuart’s life.
    Ah, Stuart. He wished things could have worked out differently. The two of them had been close once upon a time. Before Lucinda. Reginald tapped the ring against the glass, his agitation building. The taps grew more forceful until he finally willed himself to stop. With mechanical precision, he lowered his hand to his side. The past could not be changed. He must focus on the future.
    Stuart’s daughter was the future. Petchey blood ran through her veins, and it was his duty to restore her to her rightful family. Westcott couldn’t give her that heritage. Only he could. And with his niece under his protection, he’d have the blunt he needed to settle his debts and rebuild the Petchey fortune. All he had to do was remove Gideon Westcott from the equation.

Chapter 6
    Adelaide leaned against the spindled porch railing and waved farewell to her traveling companions. Mrs. Carmichael sat stiff in her seat, but Miss Oliver returned the gesture, her genteel expression unruffled. Mr. Westcott said a few final words to his friend, shaking his hand and thumping him on the back before Mr. Bevin climbed aboard the wagon. With a snap of the reins, Mr. Bevin set the horses in motion, leaving her behind. The new governess. Her. Adelaide Proctor. The truth struggled to settle into her brain.
    Mr. Westcott stood in the yard watching the wagon depart, and Adelaide watched him. The man seemed to be two people. By day he was a rancher wearing cotton shirts and denim trousers, wrestling pregnant ewes, and watering strange women’s horses. But in the evening, he became an elegant nobleman in silk ties and fine coats with fancy manners and cultured charm. The hardworking rancher earned her respect, but the English gentleman made her heart flutter, embodying every storybook hero she’d ever fallen in love with.
    He was well formed and tall, but not overly tall. He kept his dark hair trimmed short, and his eyes were the color of melted chocolate. But it was his smile that did her in. He had dimples. Amazingly, the boyish creases did nothing to hinder his masculinity. Instead, they enhanced it and gave him a cheerful mien that was impossible to resist.
    When he’d entered the parlor last night and met her gaze for the first time since their encounter in the stable, his eyes had teased her, bringing a blush to her cheeks and even greater warmth to her heart. It was as if she were Jane Eyre arriving at Thornfield to begin her position as governess to the young Adèle, but instead of finding the house without its master, her Mr. Rochester was in residence. A sigh bubbled inside her as the daydream played out in her mind,