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her arms around his neck. She hadn’t been carried like this since she’d fallen off that horse, and though she was full grown and well fed, Mr. Grey carried her as if she weighed no more than little Priscilla. It was disconcerting, sweet, comforting, and awful, all at once.
    He bent his knees a little at her door, so Alice could lift the latch, then he kicked the door shut behind them. Alice found herself gently deposited on the edge of the bed, facing a stern-faced Mr. Grey, who was glaring down at her, his hands on his hips. Without warning, he dropped to hunker before her and took one of her boots in his hands.
    She stared down at him. “What are you doing?”
    “Removing your shoes,” he replied, unlacing her half boot as he spoke. “Bending at the waist is likely uncomfortable for you.”
    Protests dammed up behind the truth—bending at the waist hurt abysmally, though Alice nearly died of mortification and shock when she felt Mr. Grey’s hands slip under her skirts and tug down her stockings.
    “Mr. Grey!” She tried to scoot back on the bed, but that hurt like blue blazes, so she had to settle for glaring at him as he rolled her stockings like a practiced lady’s maid.
    “Oh, simmer down.” His tone disgruntled, he looked around and put the stockings on her vanity. “I was married for several years, you know, and it isn’t as if I’ll be ravishing you over the sight of your dainty feet.”
    Alice went still on the bed, all other indignities and imprecations forgotten. “What do you mean, you were married?”
    “My sons are legitimate.” He frowned at her, his hands back on his hips. “I would not wish bastardy on any child, much less my own.”
    “But you said you were married,” Alice pressed. “You aren’t married now?”
    “I am not,” he replied, cocking his head. “And were I not in polite company, and did it not sound insufferably callous, I would add, ‘thank God.’ My wife expired of typhoid fever a little more than three years into our union. I would not have wished her dead, but she is, and I quite honestly do not miss her.”
    “Mr. Grey! Surely you haven’t voiced those sentiments before your children?”
    “And if I have?”
    “You would have much to apologize for,” Alice shot back. “Much to be forgiven for. She might have been the worst mother in the world, but those little boys need to believe she was in some way lovable, much as they would need to believe the same about you, lest they see themselves as unlovable.”
    His gaze narrowed. “You presume to know a great deal about my sons.”
    “I knew well before you did that one of them had been birched too severely,” Alice retorted. “And I know they need to regard their parents in some reasonably positive fashion.”
    “Well, then, fine.” He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture Alice had seen his younger brother make often. “Your expertise confirms my choice of you as the boys’ next governess.”
    Alice opened her mouth to say something, then shut it abruptly.
    “I will take my leave of you.” He stepped back from the bed. “A maid will be along posthaste. Will you want some laudanum?”
    “No. Thank you, that is. No, thank you.”
    “Good day, then. I’ll have our terms drawn up into a contract and provide a copy for your review.”
    She nodded, not even watching as he took his leave. Her hip hurt, and it was going to hurt worse in the next few hours, and she’d just made a devil’s bargain with a man who smelled divine and handled her like she was a sack of feathers. Alice was tucked up in her night rail, a glass of cold lemonade by the bed, before she realized she was just as disgruntled with Mr. Grey for being widowed as she was for his handling her like she was a sack of feathers—and not even a female sack of feathers at that.

Three
    Argus churned along ahead of the dust and racket of the coach, no doubt sensing the approach of home even though Tydings was still at least an hour