The Governess Club: Sara by Ellie Macdonald Page B

up and took her place.
    “Where are the ribbons?” Mr. Grant asked. Unable to do anything else, Sara pointed at their location and he led her there. “We must make this look genuine.”
    They stopped and Sara stared at the assortment of colors; the height of the shelf shielded them from the others in the shop. He had done it again, acted without thought to her desires, treating her as a lesser being who had no say over her own life. An ache was growing in her chest that had nothing to do with the ants or noose; indeed, this ache was displacing them, allowing her to breathe. Her chest rose and fell with this foreign indignation and the back of her eyes began to burn with anger.
    He kept talking. “You rescued me. I cannot fully express my gratitude.”
    Sara found her voice. It was tight and quiet, laced with resentment. “I doubt being forced into doing something would be considered a genuine rescue.”
    “Ah, she speaks. I wondered when that would happen today.”
    She ignored that, choosing to focus on her present anger. “I had been waiting for Mrs. Yardley for nearly twenty minutes.” She could not keep the heat from her voice. “It was nearly my turn to be assisted and you dragged me over here, to something I have no wish to look at.”
    “Tsk, and speaking with anger. How intriguing.”
    Sara was still staring at the ribbons, not seeing them. “Why is it you believe I deserve such treatment from you? Every encounter I have with you leaves me feeling humiliated and dismissed.”
    “Every encounter . . . Sara?”
    At the sound of him saying her name, she looked up to see him watching her intently, a pair of white ribbons, the exact shade of those from her ruined bonnet, dangling from the hand he was holding up.
    He took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Society would say I owe you an apology, but I make it habit to not regret the things I do.”
    “You apologized to me the other day,” she pointed out, trying to ignore the way his closeness made her pulse jump.
    “An aberration. I assure you I will do my best to not let it happen again.”
    “I suppose that must be convenient to never have to apologize,” Sara retorted. “It saves you the pain of having a conscience. Have you no consideration for the effect your actions have on others?”
    Something flared in his eyes and he tilted his head. “Has anyone told you how you look when you are angry?”
    She huffed. “I am never angry.”
    His brows raised and the corners of his mouth tugged slightly. “It appears you and I both experience occasional lapses of our general characters, then.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “You think you are far superior for having lived in London, sir. We may not be as worldly or have any of the town bronze you so proudly display, but we are decent people here. Your wit, your flip comments and jibes will gain you no footing, no respect in our little town; that may work in London, but not here. We judge a man based on his character and on how he treats others. We and every other decent person in Christendom live by the Biblical teaching that we are to treat others the way we want to be treated.”
    Mr. Grant took another step toward her. This time he was so close Sara had to tilt her head back to look at him. He met her eyes, the glint in them matching his sardonic smile. “Does that mean you are going to kiss me?”
    Sara gasped.
    He continued. “I really wouldn’t object. Perhaps not quite here,” he allowed with a quick glance around. “I prefer not to have an audience. But if you are amenable . . .”
    Sara turned her back on him, holding herself stiffly. She could not look at the man. She took several deep breaths to calm herself, her mind reeling from her uncharacteristic confidence and the flash of awareness his words had brought. “I can see now, sir, that it is not town bronze I see but a rusty, tarnished soul.”
    She heard him move and heat flushed down her back where he pressed himself against her.