Lady Dearing's Masquerade by Elena Greene Page B

cousin and his wife. My aunt has raised a son and daughter of her own and she has always been more than kind to me. She and my uncle became my guardians upon my parents’ death. She has had some experience dealing with . . . difficult children.”
    Her gaze softened, as if she realized he spoke of himself.
    “I see you have given this much thought,” she replied. “Perhaps your aunt may succeed with Mary. Still, I wish you would allow me to continue trying.”
    Whether it was the sympathy in her voice or some other enchantment, he did not know. But her pleading struck him with something like an inward pang. She did love Mary.
    “I will consider it.”
    She lowered her gaze, coloring a little, then looked up again. “Thank you.”
    For a moment he returned her gaze, pierced by the depth of feeling in her voice. Her eyes were bright with the hint of tears. Such eyes . . . Beautiful as they were, they seemed older than her fresh, glowing complexion implied. They were eyes that had seen pain. The eyes of a mother.
    He cleared his throat. “May I see the schoolroom now?”
    As they got up to leave, he reminded himself that even if she doted on the children, that did not mean she was a fit person to care for them.
    No one knew better than he that love was not always enough.
    But as he followed her out of the room, her scent—of roses, narcissus and sheer femininity—tugged at his senses, along with the rustle of her skirt, the natural undulations of her hips as she climbed the stairs ahead of him . . .
    What had gotten into him? He was here on Hospital business. He was here for Cecilia.
    But he’d not felt so powerfully affected by a woman’s charms in years.
    At the top, Lady Dearing turned and led him down a hall into a large room painted the same cheerful yellow as the drawing room. Jeremy turned his attention to the colorful artwork adorning its walls: framed samplers, pastels and watercolors.
    “You are seeing some of the children’s work,” Lady Dearing explained, in something of a rush. “I realize the foundlings are not taught drawing at the Hospital, but Miss Burton and I have discovered that allowing them to exercise such talents has proven beneficial.”
    “It is unusual. But so are these children,” he concurred, wishing she would be more at ease. Was this the sort of thing she was nervous about?
    “I am so glad you see it so,” she said, with a slight smile.
    The breathless quality in her voice drew him to look at her again. She seemed so nervous, standing there with her long filigree earrings swinging slightly, her hands clasped together. He felt an absurd longing to reassure her.
    Instead he looked about some more. Long shelves lay against one wall, for the most part filled with books, although one bore toys ranging from a hoop to a carved and painted Noah’s ark set. A side table held a globe, a microscope and several small boxes whose contents he could only guess at.
    “I see the children enjoy a rather broader education than those at the Hospital,” he observed.
    “But you do not think it wrong?” The strain in her voice was almost painful to hear.
    “I wish such subjects were in the reach of every child in England.”
    “You do?” She watched him wide-eyed, not the first to be surprised by his highly progressive views on the matter.
    “Most of the Governors do not agree. In any case, we cannot afford to pay masters to teach geography or natural philosophy,” he continued. “The most we can do is to provide an education to prepare the children for a trade or domestic service.”
    “I know. They are taught their letters and how to do sums, which is far better education than they would have received otherwise. Had they lived at all,” she added earnestly. “I am sure the Committee must weigh every expense against the possibility of saving more children’s lives.”
    She did understand. Not even Cecilia could have expressed herself with greater sensitivity.
    And Bromhurst