Read One Little Sin for Free Online

baggage brought in and see you made comfortable for the night. In the morning, he will introduce you to the staff. And then we will do”—he waved his hand vaguely—“well, whatever one does under such circumstances.”
    “And you will write to Edinburgh straightaway?” Miss Hamilton pressed.
    “Straightaway,” he agreed. And then Sir Alasdair left his new governess in Wellings’s capable hands, and went upstairs to bed, no longer even remotely secure in life as he knew it. A child! In his house! And now, he was the last thing he’d ever wished to be. A father. Good God. A damned inconvenience did not begin to describe this.
    The schoolroom, Esmée Hamilton soon learned, was occupied by a nine-foot billiards table, its green felt top almost bald from use. The nursery which adjoined it had long since been converted into a smoking parlor stuffed with worn leather furniture, and the shelves which should have held toys and books instead held stacks of hinged wooden boxes which Wellings called “Sir Alasdair’s numismatic collections,” whatever that meant.
    Esmée was too tired to ask, so she just wrinkled her nose at the stale smell and followed Wellings, who was no longer so condescending. “And this way, ma’am, is the bedchamber, which also opens onto the schoolroom,” he said. “Will it do?”
    Esmée laid Sorcha down on the bed and looked about. The room was not large, but it was high-ceilinged and airy. “Aye, thank you,” she said quietly. “’Tis lovely. I don’t suppose you have any sort of crib or cradle?”
    “I am afraid not, ma’am.” But he helped Esmée position a large dresser drawer between two chairs near the bed.
    She had become adept at such makeshift arrangements in the long weeks since her mother’s death. It was that, in part, which had convinced her Sorcha must have a proper home. The child deserved a better, more stable life. And she deserved a competent parent, too. Esmée was not at all sure she met that qualification. Still, surely that brazen devil downstairs was worse?
    After Wellings provided hot water and a profuse apology for the bed’s not having been properly aired, he bade Esmée good night and pulled the door shut. Esmée went to it at once and turned the key. A sudden sense of relief mixed with sorrow surged through her as she stared down at the fine brass lock. Her mother was dead. Beloved Scotland was far away.
    But for tonight, they were safe. For tonight, they had a proper bed, and every expectation of a proper breakfast on the morn. It seemed so little. And yet, it had come to mean so much.
    Oh, how she wished she were older and wiser—and mostly the former. In eight more years, she would have an inheritance from her grandfather—a rather large one, she thought. But eight years was a long time. Sorcha would be almost ten. Until then, they had to live by Esmée’s wits—a slender reed if ever there was one. Oh, if only Aunt Rowena had come home!
    Esmée returned to Sorcha’s side. The bairn was already sound asleep. Esmée sat down on the bed and tried not to cry. She was not qualified to take care of a child. And she certainly should not be here in this house. Even Esmée, gudgeon that she was, knew better.
    Sir Alasdair MacLachlan was even worse than she’d been led to believe. He was not just a hardened rakehell; he was bold and unapologetic about it. And he was quite astonishingly handsome; too handsome for his own good—or any woman’s peace of mind. Even when he was angry, his eyes seemed to be filled with laughter, as if he took nothing seriously, and though his hair had been a disheveled mess, the golden locks had gleamed in the lamplight.
    Her stomach had done something very odd the moment he kissed her hand. She supposed that was just the sort of shivery, flip-floppy thing one felt when one was kissed by a practiced rake. Worse, he had not for one moment remembered Mamma. God, what an embarrassment that had been! But Esmée had parted company