Mr. Gardiner and the Governess - Sally Britton Page 0,10

charity work. With the vicar’s wife fallen ill, and her husband still in attendance, he accepted the reprieve gladly.

Perhaps the duke’s guests intimidated her. As her assigned escort and dinner companion, it fell to Rupert to set her at ease. “Miss Sharpe?”

Her blue eyes widened a fraction before meeting his. “Yes, Mr. Gardiner?”

Rupert leaned toward her to murmur. “I am glad to see you again. It gives me the opportunity to inform you that I released the little butterfly you caught. Back into the wilds of Clairvoir.”

After a quick glance at others sitting around the table, Miss Sharpe spoke in a soft tone unlikely to carry farther than his ears. “I am pleased to learn it, sir. I imagine she is grateful she was only your captive for a short time.”

Rupert tipped his head to the side. “You think butterflies have the capacity for gratitude?”

She lifted one shoulder less than an inch, toying with the slice of candied beet on her plate. “I cannot be certain they do. Can you be certain they do not?”

“Most of the world would say it is not possible for so tiny a creature to have thoughts or feelings.” Rupert tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, then reached for his cup.

“Most think creatures of insignificance, unworthy of notice by their betters, are therefore unworthy of everything.” She dropped her hand into her lap. “Simply because we do not know the inner-workings of an animal or insect, and cannot know, does not make them beneath our care.”

Rupert lowered his cup without drinking, studying instead her profile. No hint of a smile or laughter took away from her words. “Do you care about butterflies in general, Miss Sharpe?”

“Yes. I think most should. Do they not carry pollen from one flower to another, as bees do? For creatures performing such an important function, they merit some thought.” Miss Sharpe’s smile appeared, albeit briefly. “I might ask if you care about butterflies, sir, given your collection of them.”

“I do. Of course.” Ah. Now her strange behavior grew understandable. He had thought that someone might have told her about him, given his position as a guest of the duke. But she had only taken up her position the day before. Perhaps it was arrogant of him to assume people spoke about his work when he was not present. Certainly, not everyone found the subject of his studies worth notice. “I am an amateur entomologist and botanist.”

Miss Sharpe’s smile changed into a puzzled frown. “I am sorry. Entomologist?”

“A relatively new term for my branch of study.” He took a turn glancing about, to be certain no one else listened. “Some call it insectology. I am a naturalist who studies insects.” The young ladies of his acquaintance did not consider the mention of insects appropriate dinner table conversation.

“Oh.” Apparently, given the way Miss Sharpe’s blue eyes brightened, she was not like most people in that regard. “That was what you were doing. This whole afternoon, I thought you were in the gardens inspecting the flowers. Then I thought your enthusiasm over the butterfly was something of a hobby.”

He injected his words with some humor rather than take offense. “I suppose some would call it that.”

Most of his acquaintances in the world of science termed his interest in bugs a hobby. Some added the adjective disgusting to qualify their opinion on the fact. Except for his father, whose studies centered on birds. Ornithology commanded a great deal more respect than the newly renamed study of insects. But Rupert’s father had always encouraged him to follow his passion.

“I have so many questions.” Miss Sharpe’s voice raised just slightly, to a normal conversation level. “Are you a member of the Linnean Society? I have a cousin who dabbles in botany. He subscribes to their journal, and I have read some of the articles. I confess to finding the most interest in things which pertained to flowers.” Ah, there was that spark in her eyes.

Rupert sat back a little in his chair. “You? A lady, reading scientific journals?”

The spark fizzled and turned dark and smoky instead. “Yes, as fantastic as it might seem, I—a woman—have a curiosity about the natural world.” She turned to give more attention to her plate, angling herself in such a way as to avoid looking at him.

Her tone held enough of a chill in it to make him shiver. Apparently, he was the one now in danger of giving offense. “Miss Sharpe. I meant—”

“Pardon me, Mr. Gardiner.” The