Kitabı oku: «The Regency Bestsellers Collection», sayfa 3
Chapter Two
Governess?
Alexandra was speechless.
“I’ll show you upstairs.” In a display of masculine presumption, Mr. Reynaud took the satchel from her grip. As he relieved her of its weight, his hand grazed hers. The fleeting brush of warmth pushed her brain off balance. He turned and walked to the back of the room. “This way.”
She shook life into her frozen arms and followed. How could she do otherwise? He’d taken her satchel—and with it her chronometer, plus her ledger of clients and appointments. Her livelihood was literally in his hands.
“Mr. Reynaud, I—”
“They’re called Rosamund and Daisy. Aged ten and seven, respectively. Sisters.”
“Mr. Reynaud, please. Can we—”
He led her through a kitchen and up the stairs. They emerged into a first-floor corridor. She followed him down a passageway with walls covered in striped emerald silk. From the springy plush beneath her boots, she would have guessed the corridor to be carpeted in clouds. Her work took her into many a fine London house, but she never ceased marveling at the luxury.
He led the way up the main staircase, taking the risers two at a time.
“They carry the last name Fairfax, but it’s likely an adopted name. They’re natural children. Some distant relation sired a few by-blows and left their guardianship to the estate.”
As they climbed flight after flight of stairs, Alexandra could scarcely keep pace with him, much less change the topic of conversation.
“I’m sending them to school at Michaelmas term.” He added wearily, “Assuming I can bribe a respectable school into taking them.”
At last, they reached the top of the house. Alex darted forward to grab his sleeve. “Mr. Reynaud, please. There’s been some sort of misunderstanding. A grave misunderstanding.”
“Not at all. We understand one another perfectly. I’m a paltry excuse for a gentleman, as you say. I’m also no fool. That scolding you delivered downstairs was brilliant. The girls need a firm hand. Discipline. I’m the last soul on earth to teach them proper behavior. But you, Miss Mountbatten? You are just the one for the job.” He gestured at the rooms that opened off the passageway. “You’ll have a bedchamber to yourself, of course. The nursery is this way.”
“Wait—”
“Here we are.” He flung open the door.
Alexandra’s mind refused to make sense of the scene. Two flaxen-haired girls stood on either side of a bed. A beautiful bed. A grand four-poster with a lacy lavender canopy, gold-painted posts, and matching bed hangings tied back with pink cord. The bed would have been any young girl’s dream. Beneath it, however, was a nightmare. The white bed linens were streaked and spattered with crimson.
“You’re too late.” The younger of the two turned to face them, her expression eerily solemn. “She’s dead.”
“Curse it all.” Mr. Reynaud heaved a sigh. “Not again.”
Chase couldn’t believe it.
Twice in one morning. Insupportable.
He put down Miss Mountbatten’s satchel, stalked to the bed, and swiped a finger along the soiled linens. Red currant jelly, by the looks of it.
“It was the bloody flux,” Rosamund said.
Of course it was. Chase set his jaw. “From now on, there will be no jelly. None, do you hear? No conserves, no jam, no preserves of any kind.”
“No jelly?” Daisy asked mournfully. “Whyever not?”
“Because I am not eulogizing another leprosy victim covered in sores that weep marmalade! That’s why not. Oh, and no mushy peas, either. Millicent’s bout of dyspepsia last week ruined the drawing room carpet.”
“But—”
“No arguments.” He leveled a finger at his morbid little wards. “Or I’m going to lock the both of you in this room and feed you nothing but dry crusts.”
“How very gothic,” Rosamund replied.
“I’m afraid I must be going now.” The faintly voiced interruption came from Miss Mountbatten, who’d remained near the doorway.
And who, shortly thereafter, made a stealthy reach for her satchel and vanished through said doorway.
Damn it.
He strode to the map and jabbed a tack into the first empty expanse he saw. “Start packing your things.”
“There aren’t any boarding schools in the Lapland,” Rosamund said.
“I’ll put up the money to start one,” he said on his way to the door. “I hope you like herring.”
Then he ran after his newest—and please, God, not latest to quit—governess.
“Wait.” He took the stairs three at a time, vaulting over the banister so as to catch her on the next landing. “Miss Mountbatten, wait.” With a flailing swipe, he caught her by the arm.
They stood wedged in the stairwell. She was short, and he was tall. The crown of her head met him mid-sternum. Conversation was comically impossible. He released her arm and took two steps downward so he might look her in the eye.
Her gaze nearly knocked him down the stairs. For a woman of small stature, she made a prodigious impact. A delicate snub of a nose, olive skin, and a glossy knot of midnight-black hair. And fathomless dark eyes that pulled on something deep in his chest. He needed a moment to collect himself.
“Millicent is Daisy’s doll. She kills the thing at least once a day, but—” Curse it, he’d left red smudges on her sleeve, and God only knew what substance she presumed it to be. “No, it’s not what you think. It’s only red currant jelly.” He held up his stained index finger. “Here, taste for yourself.”
She blinked at him. “Did you just invite me to lick your finger?”
He wiped his hand on a fold of his shirt. God, he was making a hash of this. If she worried for her virtue, that wouldn’t aid his case. Any sensible young woman would hesitate to accept employment in the house of a scandalous rake—even if the rake’s wards were perfect angels. Chase’s wards were incorrigible, morbid hellions.
In fact, the post offered few advantages, save one.
“I’ll pay you handsomely,” he said. “An astronomical sum.”
“There’s been a mistake. I came to offer my services as a timekeeper. I’m not a governess. I’ve no training, no experience. And governesses are gently bred women, aren’t they? I don’t meet that qualification, either.”
“I don’t care if you’re gently bred, roughly bred, or a loaf of brown bread with butter. You’re educated, you understand propriety, and you’re . . . breathing.”
“I’m certain you’ll find someone else to fill the post.”
“The post has been filled. And vacated. And filled and vacated several times over. Sometimes multiple times in one day.”
You’re not doing your offer any favors, Reynaud.
“But you’re not like the rest of those candidates,” he hastened to say. “You’re different.”
She was different.
Here was a woman who’d just schooled him within an inch of his dignity. She thought him a crude, unintelligent layabout. A paltry excuse for nobility and a waste of good tailoring. Miss Mountbatten—quite wisely—wanted nothing to do with him.
And Chase was positively desperate to keep her near.
The desire rising in him wasn’t physical. Well, it wasn’t entirely physical. She was pretty, and he appreciated a forthright woman who knew what she was about. But mingled with the attraction was something more. A wish to impress her, to be worthy of her approval.
She made him want to be better. And wasn’t that an ideal quality in a governess? He had to keep this woman in his employ.
“It’s only for the summer,” he said. “A year’s wages, for a few months of work.”
“I’m sorry.” She sidestepped him and continued down the stairs.
“Two years’ wages. Three.”
“Mr. Reynaud . . .”
Chase caught her at the door. “It comes down to this. Those girls need you.”
He waited until she looked at him, and then he reached into his arsenal of persuasion.
A hard swallow, indicating a manful struggle with emotion.
An intense, searching gaze.
The husky whisper of a confession.
“Miss Mountbatten.” Hell, why not go for it all? “Alexandra. I need you.”
There. That line worked on every woman.
It didn’t work on her.
“No, you don’t.” A flash of irony crossed her face. “Don’t worry. You’ll forget me soon enough.”
And then she did what Chase yearned to do, often. She flung open the door, fled the house, and didn’t once look back.
Chapter Three
Two hours later, Alexandra found herself standing on a Billingsgate dock.
Terrified.
The June morning was soaked with sunshine, but she’d left Mr. Reynaud’s house in a mental fog. Her distraction was such that she’d made two wrong turnings on her well-trod path to London Bridge, and now she had missed the noon coach to Greenwich.
The rational solution was to take a wherry down the Thames. However, the mere sight of the boat sent an irrational shiver rippling down her spine.
I can’t. I just can’t.
But what were her alternatives?
If she risked waiting for a later coach, the bridge would be madness, crushed with carts going nowhere. She’d never make it home before dark.
She could call off the journey entirely. However, calibrating the chronometer once a fortnight was her signature promise to customers. They paid for precise Greenwich time, and she delivered it, without fail.
Just do it, she told herself. It’s time to move past this, you ninny. You were raised on a ship, after all. A merchant frigate was your cradle.
Yes. But it had nearly been her coffin, too.
Nevertheless, here she stood ten years later. Alive. She could survive a brief jaunt down the Thames to Greenwich.
She could do this.
As the boatman loaded bundles and helped passengers into the wherry, she hung back, waiting until the last possible moment.
“Are you coming, miss, or ain’t ye?”
“I’m coming.” Alex accepted his hand and boarded the boat, wedging herself on a plank between two older women and settling her satchel on her lap.
When the boatman cast off the ropes mooring the wherry to the dock, she decided to set her mind on something else. Now that she knew better than to fantasize about Chase Reynaud, a good portion of her brain was suddenly available for other pursuits. Naming all the constellations bordering Ursa Major, perhaps.
Drat. Too easy. She rattled through the list in moments—Draco, Camelopardalis, Lynx, Leo Minor, Leo, Coma Berenices, Canes Venatici, Boötes—and there her concentration fractured. Once the first oar hit water, she couldn’t piece a single thought together.
She balled her hands in fists and dug her nails into her palms, attempting to distract herself by means of pain. That didn’t work, either. She felt nothing but the lift and roll of water beneath the craft. That terrifying sensation of coming unmoored. Drifting untethered.
No. She couldn’t do this after all.
Alex pushed to her feet, making her way to the edge of the boat. They hadn’t yet pushed off. Still just a foot from the dock. “Wait,” she told the boatman. “I’ve just recalled something. I need to disembark.”
“Too late, miss. You can cross again when the boat comes back.” He moved to push off with the oar.
“Please.” She was begging now, her voice cracking. “It’s urgent. I must get off the boat. I . . .”
“Sit down, woman,” he barked, bracing his oar to push off.
Alex was frantic, wild. She scrambled atop the rail of the boat, wavering on her toes. The other passengers cried out in alarm as the boat tipped to one side. The boatman gripped the hem of her frock, attempting to yank her down into the boat. His grasping only increased her desperation.
She quickly judged the distance between the wherry and the dock. She could make it, she thought, but only if she jumped.
And jumped now.
She made the leap.
Her judgment wasn’t faulty. If not for her boot slipping on the wherry’s edge, she would have made the jump cleanly. Instead, she plunged into the water with a splash, gasping as she went and catching a foul, wretched mouthful of the Thames.
When she surfaced, a man on the dock caught her under the arm, pulling her up and helping her scramble out of the river.
On the dock at last, she sputtered and choked with relief.
That’s when she noticed it had gone missing. Her satchel. The chronometer. When she’d tumbled into the river, it had fallen from her grip and sunk into the depths.
Her livelihood, gone.
A sob wrenched from her body, like a droplet wrung from damp cloth.
One more thing the water had taken from her. It was the insatiable monster in her life. Jonah’s whale. Devouring everything she loved, but spitting her back out, again and again, more lost and lonely than ever.
And once more, there was nothing to do but pick herself up and start over.
“Well? What do you think?” Chase spread his arms and turned slowly, putting on a display of his unfinished apartment. “I’m remaking it into a manly retreat.”
Barrow stared at the shambles of what had formerly been the housekeeper’s quarters. “Where are Mrs. Greeley’s things?”
“I’ve moved her to a bedchamber on the second floor. Far superior accommodations.”
“Dare I ask the reason behind this renovation?”
Chase went to pour them two tumblers of brandy. “Until Rosamund and Daisy go off to school, I need somewhere to escape.”
“A grown man escaping from two little girls. Now that’s rather pathetic, isn’t it?”
“Come now. I don’t know what to do with children. There’s no point in troubling to learn. I’m not going to sire any of the grimy things. Even if I wished to marry, there’s no use searching for a wife. You’ve laid claim to the best woman in England.”
“This is true.”
John Barrow Sr. had been Chase’s father’s solicitor, and from the time Chase and John Jr. had been boys, it was understood they would continue the family tradition. Also understood, but never spoken of, was the reason why. They were half brothers. Chase’s father had impregnated a local gentleman’s daughter, and his loyal solicitor had taken it upon himself to marry her and raise the child as his own.
So Chase and John had grown up together, sharing both tutors and paddlings. Squabbling over horses and girls. Despite the disparity in their social ranks, they’d maintained a close friendship through school and beyond. A damned lucky thing, on Chase’s part. Now, with a dukedom at stake, he needed a trusted friend to help manage the estate.
“How is my godson?” Chase asked. “Speaking of grimy things.”
“Charles is living up to his namesake, unfortunately.”
“Ah. Charming every woman in sight.”
“Lying about while everyone else does the work.”
“I’ll have you know,” Chase said indignantly, “I have been hard at work during your absence. Witness the renovation in progress around you. I built that bar myself, thank you very much. It only needs a few coats of lacquer. And if that’s not sufficient for you—in the past week alone I’ve gone through a decade of bank ledgers, given seven orgasms, and interviewed five governesses. And no, none of the governesses were recipients of the orgasms, although a few of them looked as though they could use one.”
“Five candidates, and you didn’t find one to hire?”
“I hired each and every one of them. None of them lasted more than two days. In fact, the latest didn’t even make it past the nursery door. A pity, too. I had hopes for her. She was different.”
Normally, Chase was the one coaxing women to leave. He wished he’d been able to make Alexandra Mountbatten stay.
Barrow peered at him. “That was odd.”
“What was odd?”
“You sighed.”
“That’s not odd at all. Not lately.”
“Well, it was the tone of the sigh. Not weary or annoyed. It was . . . wistful.”
Chase gave him a sidelong look. “I have never been wistful a day in my life. I am entirely devoid of wist.” He tugged on his waistcoat. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an engagement this evening. The women of London can’t pleasure themselves, you know. I mean, they can pleasure themselves. But on occasion they generously let me have a go at it.”
“Who is she this time?”
“Do you really care?”
“I don’t know. Do you?” Barrow gave him a look that cut like a switch. “Someday you’ll have to put a stop to this.”
Chase bristled. “You are a solicitor. Not a judge. Spare me the moralizing. I make women no promises I don’t intend to keep.”
In truth, he made no promises at all. His lovers knew precisely what he had on offer—pleasure—and what he didn’t have to give—anything more. No emotional attachment, no romance, no love.
No marriage.
As war, illness, and his own unforgivable failures would have it, in the space of three years, Chase had gone from fourth in line for his uncle’s title to the presumptive heir. It was a development few could have imagined, and one that nobody, Chase included, had desired. But once his uncle let go the thin cord connecting him to life, Chase would become the Duke of Belvoir, fully responsible for lands, investments, tenants.
There was only one traditional responsibility he wouldn’t take on.
He wouldn’t be fathering an heir.
The Belvoir title should have been Anthony’s by rights, and Chase refused to usurp his cousin’s birthright. His line was the crooked, rotting branch of the family tree, and he meant to saw it off. Cleanly and completely. It was the least he could do to atone.
And since there would be no marriage or children in his future, didn’t he deserve a bit of stolen pleasure in the present? A touch of closeness, now and then. Whispered words in his ear, the heat of skin against skin. The scent and taste and softness of a woman as she surrendered her pleasure to him.
A few scattered, blessed hours of forgetting everything else.
“Which of these would look better hanging above the bar?” Chase held up two paintings. “The fan dancer, or the bathing nymphs? The nymphs have those delightful bare bottoms, but that saucy look in the fan dancer’s eyes is undeniably captivating.”
Barrow ignored the question. “So if you haven’t found—or kept—a governess, who’s minding the girls?”
“One of the maids. Hattie, I think.”
No sooner had he said this than screams and a thunder of footsteps came barreling down the stairs.
Hattie appeared in the doorway, her hair askew and her apron slashed to tatters. “Mr. Reynaud, I regret to say that I cannot continue in your employ.”
He cut her off. “Say no more. You’ll have severance wages and a letter of character waiting in the morning.”
The maid fled, babbling with gratitude.
Once he heard the door close, Chase sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. There went his plans for the evening.
“Now that,” Barrow said, “was a despairing sigh.”
The front doorbell rang. “I’d better answer that myself.” Chase rose to his feet. “I’m not certain I have any servants remaining to do it.”
He opened the door, and there she was: Miss Alexandra Mountbatten. Soaked to the skin, her dark hair dripping.
He tried not to look downward, and when he did so anyway, he told himself it was out of concern for her well-being. He was concerned for her well-being. Especially if one defined “well-being” to mean “breasts.”
So he noticed her nipples. What of it? He spent a ridiculous portion of his waking hours thinking of nipples. Hers just happened to be the nearest, and the most chilled. Hard as jewels beneath her bodice. Red as rubies, maybe. Or pink topaz, pale amethyst . . . ? No. Given her dark coloring, they were most likely a rich, polished amber.
The chattering of teeth pulled his attention back upward. God, he was every bit the repulsive cad she’d called him, and more.
She caught her bluish bottom lip beneath her teeth. “Is the post still available?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Name your price.”
“Ten pounds a week. Another hundred once they’ve gone off to school.”
“Five pounds a week,” he countered. “And two hundred once they’ve gone off to school.”
“One more thing.” From beneath a dripping umbrella of eyelashes, her eyes met his. “I want the use of your telescope. The one down in your . . .”
He crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “Cave of Carnality?”
“Yes.”
Chase supposed he had offered her an astronomical sum. Besides, he wasn’t making use of it. “Very well.”
She sniffled. “I’ll report first thing tomorrow.”
He caught her arm as she turned to leave. “Good God. At least come in and get warm first.”
I’ll warm you.
He chased the errant thought away, like he would an eager puppy. She was in his employ now, and there would be no such ideas. Even he had that much decency.
“Thank you, no. I’ll need to pack my things.”
She walked away, leaving a trail of sloshy bootprints. Chase looked about the entrance hall for an umbrella and found none. Of course there wouldn’t be a greatcoat, either, not in the middle of June.
With a curse, he bolted through the door empty-handed and dashed after her. “Miss Mountbatten.”
She stopped and turned on her heel. “Yes?”
“You’re not leaving dressed like that.” He shrugged out of his tailored topcoat, shaking it down his arms.
“I can’t accept your coat.”
“You can, and you will.” He swung the coat around her shoulders and tucked it tight. She was so petite, the garment’s hem nearly reached her boots. The sight was equal parts comic and piteous.
“But—”
He jerked on the coat’s lapels, drawing them together. “Yes, yes. I know you’re bossy. As a governess, it’s to your credit. But I’m your employer, as of two minutes ago. For as much as I’m paying you, I expect you to do as I say.” As he worked the buttons through their holes, he went on. “Given the alacrity with which you fled my offer of employment this morning, it’s obvious something dire occurred to make you change your mind. If I were any sort of decent fellow, I would ask about that dire situation and sort it out. Seeing as I am a selfish blackguard, however, I intend to take full advantage of your lowered circumstances.”
There, now. He had her buttoned, and he stood back to look at her. She looked like a sausage roll.
A soggy sausage roll.
A soggy, confused sausage roll with slick ebony hair that would feel like satin ribbons between his fingertips.
Right. He dragged himself back to the point.
“I need a governess. Not just any governess, Miss Mountbatten. I need you. Which is why I will not have you walking home in the rain and catching the grippe.”
“But it isn’t—”
“I insist. Most insistently.”
She blinked at him. “Very well.”
Finally, she heeded his demands. She walked down the pavement and turned the corner, disappearing from view.
As he returned to the house, Chase took note of an unexpected sensation. Or rather, the lack of an expected sensation. Miss Mountbatten had appeared at his front door soaked to the skin, and he hadn’t yet felt a single raindrop.
He tipped his head to the sky. Strange. Nothing overhead but the periwinkle and orange streaks of twilight.
It wasn’t raining.
In fact, now that he thought of it, it hadn’t rained all day.
