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encourage him to view her as weak and dull-witted, unfit to be governess to a duke.
    Annabelle shivered. The chill she felt had more to do with the precarious state of her future than her saturated gown. She would not—could not—allow his misogyny to daunt her. Somehow, she had to make herself indispensible to Lord Simon Westbury.

 
    Chapter 4
    Seated at his desk, Simon focused his eyes on the accounts book that lay open before him. Or at least he attempted to focus. Twice already he had begun adding a long column of numbers in his head, only to lose his place and have to start all over. The first time, he had been distracted by a crash of thunder outside; the second by the loud pop of a log settling in the fireplace.
    He jammed the quill back into the silver inkpot. The damned chamber was too dim, anyway. Although the casement clock showed only half past five, the overcast sky had brought on an early twilight.
    Pushing back his chair, Simon grabbed a branch of candles and prowled to the hearth. He held one taper to the flames and then used it to light the others. Yet even with the added illumination on his desk, he felt no inclination to resume his tedious task.
    His moody gaze flicked to the letter half tucked beneath the blotter. He picked it up, reread the message, and then threw down the paper in disgust. Blast it all! Clarissa had gone too far this time. She had presumed upon a long-ago friendship with his late grandmother in order to undermine his authority.
    Why had she done it? Did she truly believe he was doing such a wretchedly poor job of raising Nicholas?
    The sword of guilt stabbed at Simon, but he deflected it. He had sacrificed his own plans and ambitions in order to safeguard his orphaned nephew. He had canceled an extended trip abroad to seek antiquities in Egypt and Greece. He had settled down to a dull life as a farmer—at least until the child was old enough to go to boarding school.
    What more was a man supposed to do?
    Stewing over the matter, he paced to the tall window and peered out into the murk. The rain had slowed to a steady drizzle. Every now and then, a gust of wind rattled the glass panes. White-capped waves churned against the rocky shoreline, shooting frothy plumes high into the air. As a boy he’d often stolen down there to find whatever debris the latest storm had washed ashore. Bottles, seaweed, a waterlogged shoe—they had all been treasures to him.
    At present, however, the wild beauty of the coast failed to interest him. He had too many other matters weighing on his mind. With a grimace, Simon acknowledged the true source of his inner agitation.
    It was that woman. Miss Annabelle Quinn.
    Her unexpected arrival had brought out the worst in him. Already irritated from a battle-scarred leg that ached in damp weather, he had been too swift to brand her a conniving female out to entrap a wealthy nobleman. There were plenty like that in the neighborhood; he’d even turned one away earlier in the day. But none of them had ever been so devious as to hike up the steep rise of the cliff. They generally came to the castle by carriage along the main drive or lay in wait for him when he went down to the village of Kevernstow.
    Besides, the simplicity of Miss Quinn’s garb should have told him she was no husband hunter. Her gown was fine, but it lacked the frills and ruffles favored by ladies of the local gentry. She didn’t simper or flirt like them, either. So why had he so badly misread her purpose? Why had he been robbed of rational thought by the sight of her emerging from the forest like a wood nymph?
    Though no classic beauty, she had pleasing features with chestnut brown hair and a curvaceous figure. He had watched her climb the hill with a purposeful confidence. The sparkle in her blue eyes revealed a zest for life. Maybe he’d been momentarily bewitched by the innocence she exuded—an innocence he’d quickly found suspect.
    He tightened his jaw. No young lady was truly