“Much the way most instructors come to be at Mrs. Belden’s.”
Which was how? “And will you return to Mrs. Belden’s employ after you complete the terms of your service here?” His gut tightened at the prospect of her gone. He’d had too many spirits this night. There was no other accounting for this irrational response.
“Where do you believe I might go?” Ah, her question with a question.
At her deliberate evasiveness, annoyance blended with amusement. Gabriel finished his drink in one, long, slow swallow and then set his snifter on the mahogany side table. He unfolded his leg and leaned close. “Who are you, Miss Munroe?”
She stilled at that deliberately emphasized word. He expected her to look away. Then, he was fast learning Jane never did or said the expected. She tipped her chin up and held his gaze with an unflinching directness. “I’m just a—”
“Do not say you are just a companion,” he said with a growl of annoyance. Suddenly, her repeated words coupled with Waterson’s disparaging remarks snapped his patience. The lady, through her work, demonstrated character and strength. How many women would or could take on the employment? “What if I say my questions have nothing to do with my role as your employer?” Jane stared unblinking at him. He angled closer. “What if I say I want to know about you?”
“Why?”
Why, indeed? Why when he’d committed himself to never worrying after the cares and desires of anyone outside the knit of his family’s fold? Because, after an evening of burying the memories in a bottle, he’d confronted the truth—he was lonely. In the light of a new day, such a fact would not matter. It would even bring him solace and comfort and the assurance that he’d not be indebted to another soul. Yet now, with just him and the guarded Jane Munroe, he craved this momentary connection, one that he’d comfortably sever come morning.
“I enjoy reading.”
That brought his attention up and he started at her unexpected admission.
She held the book in her hand aloft. He tried to make out the title, but Jane swiftly lowered the leather volume to her lap. It did not escape his notice the manner in which she hurriedly flipped it over, shielding the title from his scrutiny. His intrigue redoubled. “What do you read, Jane?”
“Anything,” she said quickly. “Everything.”
“As a companion do you have much time for reading?”
She gave her head a shake. “I do not.”
“Do you have any family?” With his question, he craved an answer that set her apart from his own tortured childhood. It was a desire to know that when he’d been subjected to hell, she’d known the comfort of a predictable familial life.
“You have a good deal of questions, my lord.” He gave her a long look. She sighed. “As a child, there was only my mother and me. I knew no siblings and my mother,” she slid her gaze off to a point beyond his shoulder. “My mother was whimsical and fanciful while I craved practicality.”
Even as a child? A familiar pang tugged at his heart. Then with the sobering reality of his own childhood, had he been at all different than Jane in that regard? There was bitterness in her tone that steered him away from questions of her family, a confirmation that hers was not the easy childhood he had hoped. “What did you read?”
“I used to read fairytales.” Another one of those wistful smiles played about her lips. “Not all fairytales. Only those silly ones of love and happily ever afters.” An image flickered to life. A small, bespectacled young Jane with her nose buried in a book about princes and princesses and unending love. The idea pulled at him with an inexplicable appeal that fought the decade’s worth of disavowing those tiny beings, susceptible to hurt, who’d only bring him greater responsibility and ultimately failure.
Then two of her words registered, driving back the musing. Used to. Some hard, indefinable emotion twisted in his stomach. “At what point did you cease believing in the dream of love?” She was entirely too young to also have given up on happiness.
She clasped her hands in front of her. “It is not that I do not believe in love, my lord.” Ah, it was to be my lord, again, was it? So the lady was uncomfortable discussing matters of the heart with him. “I do believe in love. I’ve witnessed the power of that emotion.” Witnessed. But not experienced? Her lips turned up in a wry smile. “I’ve no desire to turn myself over to its hold.”