Patrick stared at her. Perhaps he wasn’t like most men, but if a young lady had tried to capture his attention with one of those pursuits, then he would have learned she hadn’t a hint of logic engrained in her and he’d have lost interest. “Airy academics” as she referred to them, only held a man’s interest so long. “All right,” he drawled, leaning backward in his chair. “What of reading? Do you consider that to be an academic a young lady ought to pursue?”
“Absolutely,” Miss Farrell agreed, nodding with vigor. “She’ll need to be able to read the scandal sheets.” She raised her right hand and swept a hank of brown hair from her forehead.
Patrick grimaced at the site of the dark blood beading up at the end of her finger and reached into his breast pocket for his handkerchief. “Miss Farrell―”
“Here,” Juliet finished for him, handing Miss Farrell her handkerchief.
Miss Farrell knit her brows.
“Your hand,” Juliet explained, waving her snow-white handkerchief in Miss Farrell’s direction.
Miss Farrell turned her hand over to look at the spot she’d been picking and gasped. Then, before another word could be spoken, she peeled back the end of her glove and popped the end of her finger into her mouth, presumably to soothe her fingertip with her tongue. She took it out and inspected her wound. “Pardon me. I don’t know how...”
“Why don’t you remove your glove so it doesn’t stain,” Juliet suggested.
Miss Farrell complied and for a reason unknown to Patrick, she removed the other one, too.
Schooling his features to appear impassive despite his urge to cringe at the image of her ten almost bit-to-the-quick, red-tipped fingertips, Patrick stuffed his handkerchief back into his pocket. “It’s all right, Miss Farrell. Would you care to tell us your experience with some of the academics you would like to teach the girls?”
Miss Farrell rubbed her hands along the length of her skirt again, then used her thumb to soothe the tender spot on the side of her finger. “Well, I am quite an accomplished painter,” she said, beaming. She leaned forward and put her elbow on her knee, and propped her chin on her palm, mindlessly tapping her nails against her teeth as she thought. “Oh, and I had three Seasons in London, so I’m very well versed in social etiquette and such, which they’ll need to learn.”
“What of music. Do you have any musical abilities?”
Miss Farrell gulped. “No.” She closed her teeth around one of her nails and chewed the end. “But I do know how to dance!”
Juliet responded, but Patrick didn’t hear her. His attention was consumed by the image of Miss Farrell’s sharp, white teeth biting down on the end of her fingernail. If she kept doing that, wouldn’t she eventually bite it off? If she did, what would she do with the nail clipping? Swallow it?
He had to wait only three seconds before he had his answer.
Eyes focused solely on her mouth, Patrick had an eagle’s view of Miss Farrell’s knifelike teeth as she bit down one final time while she was talking, severing the tip of her fingernail from the rest. His eyes shifted to her throat, waiting to see her swallow the clipping once she ended her sentence. But she didn’t. A second later, the tip of her pink tongue shot out to lick her pink lips, and in her attempt to moisten her lips, she deposited her fingernail right in the center of her top lip. Then, heedless to the new decoration she was now wearing on her lip, she continued her explanation.
Patrick inwardly cringed. He swallowed and considered tearing his eyes away just long enough to catch Juliet’s expression, but couldn’t. He was too enthralled with what she’d do when she stopped speaking.
And then it happened.
Concluding some explanation about her former dance tutor, Miss Farrell licked her lips again, this time catching her fingernail clipping. Her eyes went wide, and she placed her fingertips just above her upper lip and with a faint but still distinct blowing sound, expelled the bit of nail right onto the skirts of her forest green day gown. Then, with a nervous smile, she used the back of her hand to brush the nail off her lap and onto the floor.
“All right, Miss Farrell,” Patrick said, jumping to his feet. “I believe that’s all the questions we have. We’ll be in touch with Mrs. Rawlings at the staffing agency.”
After Miss Farrell exited, Patrick sighed. Miss Farrell wasn’t fit to be a governess, let alone a maid.
Juliet wagged a finger in his direction. “She was just nervous.”
“How did you know what I was thinking?”
“Having seven younger siblings does have its advantages.”