How to Claim a Governess’s Heart - Bridget Barton Page 0,81

in her own circle with Mrs. Smith.

Setting Miss Thatcher down, her face was quickly overshadowed.

“What if he does want to publish your book?”

“Is that a bad thing?” Lord John chuckled.

“I won’t know what to say. I don’t know how these things work. What if I make a bad deal or, worse, get swindled. Perhaps he only wants to take advantage because I am a woman.”

Lord John chuckled as Miss Thatcher’s worries spiralled out of control.

“Nonsense. You’ll do just fine. He can’t swindle you as I am already willing to pay the full price of the publishing cost. All you need from him is a signed contract of the deal.”

Miss. Thatcher furrowed her brow in deep thought as she considered the matter.

“You’ll do just fine,” he finished brushing her cheek.

He would have liked to kiss her right there and then. They were not yet engaged, however, and Betsy and Mrs. Smith were still in the room. Though he didn’t think Bridget Thatcher would mind the silly technicality of official engagement, he was sure she didn’t want their first kiss to have an audience.

“Now, I think we need to distract Miss Thatcher until her appointment time, or she will be sure to find ways to worry. What do you suggest, little one?” he asked, looking to Betsy.

“Oh, let’s go to the museum again,” she said, clapping her hands.

“I don’t know if we have time for all of that. Perhaps we can take a stroll through the atrium in the back. There is a separate entrance, and if we take a hansom there and back, we should have time to walk and enjoy the paths.”

Lord John paced the narrow hall just outside the front door. He knew that Miss Thatcher wouldn’t want to be bombarded the moment she walked in and that he really should wait in the parlour, but his nerves wouldn’t allow it.

After spending a perfect morning walking arm-in-arm along the atrium’s path, he had sent her on her way to meet with the publisher. To celebrate the occasion, he had sent Mrs. Smith out on an errand while they were studying butterflies.

Miss Thatcher had returned home from their brisk walk to find a new hat box sitting on her bed. It wasn’t an extravagant item, as Lord John was starting to get dangerously low on funds, but it had suited Miss Thatcher perfectly.

He knew the moment he saw her walk down the stairs in her best black dress and her new blue velvet hat with small white baby’s breath flowers. She looked the perfect image of a lady. It wouldn’t have mattered if she was wearing sackcloth and ashes, he would have still thought the same of the image before him.

“Lord John, this is too much. It is real velvet.”

“It looks perfect on you. I think you give off the air of a real businesswoman in that hat. It will do its job well.”

Miss Thatcher blushed and insisted for a second time that she couldn’t keep such a gift. He assured her that she had better get used to such things because he planned to spend every penny he owned spoiling her and Betsy.

Now he waited for the return of his accomplice and possibly the end of this year-long ordeal. He checked his pocket watch a third time. She had now been gone for almost three hours. It did take some time in the travelling, but still, the meeting had gone on much longer than he expected. He wondered if that was a good sign or a bad one.

Perhaps Miss Thatcher had been rejected hours ago on account of the book lacking substance. Maybe she had just decided to keep away from the house for as long as she could so as not to have to give the bad news.

He was sure this time around was more nerve-wracking than his first attempt to gain attention from the publishing agents. At least that time he could not fault his work for not being published but the duke instead. Now he was about to learn if his writing had any merit at all.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he would do if they were denied. Of course, he would try again with the next publisher. But what would happen if all found his manuscript wanting? Would that be the end of his writing dream?

He didn’t have the liberty of pursuing his passion longer then the bet allowed. He had other mouths to feed and people under his care. He couldn’t risk their wellbeing