The Governess Affair

nothing lost. There was nothing so cold as regret.
    If she walked away now, Mr. Marshall would know that he could drive her away. It would just spur him on to greater efforts.
    And so she chafed her hands together and paced.
    Nobody was out unless he had to be. And so that was why, when a figure came around the corner, she turned to look—and then froze. It was Mr. Marshall—the Wolf of Clermont, she reminded herself—looking very grim. He had a bundle under his arm. He walked, head down. When he came abreast of her, he glanced down the street and crossed quickly.
    He walked right past her without saying a word, and instead marched up to the men sitting on the bench. She had struggled to see the Wolf of Clermont in him when he’d confessed his identity three days past, but in that instant, she saw it. His ordinariness was an illusion, a cloak of normalcy that he donned for politeness’s sake. Now, he projected a quiet menace—one so palpable that she stepped back, raising her hand to her throat, even though his ire wasn’t directed at her. He fixed the men on the bench with a look.
    “Well?” he asked. “Get out of here.”
    “But—” said one.
    “You heard what I said. It’s over. I have no more need of you. Get out of here.” He gave his head a little jerk.
    The men exchanged glances, and then, one by one, they stood and filed out of the square. Serena raised her hands to her lips and blew on them, trying to warm them through her sodden gloves. But Mr. Marshall didn’t look at her. He unfolded his bundle. It was, oddly enough, a load of towels wrapped around an umbrella. He laid the towels out on the bench, drying the seat. Then he popped open the umbrella and motioned her over.
    “Sit,” he said. His features were stone.
    She was too bedraggled—and too cold—to object to being ordered about. She came over and sat. He hooked the umbrella to the back of the seat, fastening it in place with a bit of rope so that it shielded her half of the bench from rain. Then he unrolled a second towel and took out a metal flask, an irregular package wrapped in wax paper, and, inexplicably, a teacup. He handed her the cup. “Hold this.”
    She tried to take it in her hands, but her fingers were too cold to grasp properly and it slipped away.
    He caught it midair and glared at her, as if it were her fault her hands could not grip. Without saying a word, he took hold of her wrist and, before she could protest, he had slipped a finger beneath her glove.
    She jerked spasmodically away; his grip tightened in reaction. He raised his head, met her eyes, and became very still.
    She could count his breaths. She could feel her pulse thrumming in her wrist, encased in his fingers.
    Slowly, he let go.
    “My apologies,” he said. “I was not thinking. I was going to take off your gloves and rub some sensation into your fingers. Can you do it on your own?”
    She fumbled with her own glove, but the material clung to her skin and she could scarcely feel what she was doing.
    “Will you let me?” he asked.
    Serena met his eyes. He’d dropped his air of menace, and—even knowing full well how wrong the notion was—that same sense returned to her. Safe. Safe. This man is safe.
    Ridiculous.
    Nonetheless, Serena held out her hands to him.
    He took off one glove and then the other, touching her only long enough to work the fabric down her fingers.
    The air was cold against her bare skin, but the sensation lasted only a few seconds. He set her gloves aside, wrapped her hands in a towel and rubbed them vigorously.
    The touch should have felt intimate and invasive. His hands engulfed hers. And he’d practically disrobed her—well, maybe dis gloved her. But he was so matter-of-fact about it that his touch felt…normal.
    Safe, the back of her mind whispered.
    He left her hands wrapped in the towel, like some oversized muff, and then picked up the metal flask. It looked like the sort of container in which gentlemen stored gin—flat and thin. But he unscrewed the cap and a curl of steam escaped.
    Serena sighed in longing. He poured the contents—a glorious golden-brown—into the teacup, and then held it out to her. “I don’t know how you take your tea,” he said, “and I had no way to bring the cream and sugar out here. I added both. I can only hope the result is palatable.”
    She maneuvered a hand out of the towel and took the cup. Her hand was still shaking; he watched her with narrowed eyes. But the cup was