He’d had no choice but to send her on. It was that or allow her to help him, but her arm about his waist, her hip to his, the softness of her breast pressed into his ribs would have been too much. Too many lungsful of her fresh, feminine scent and he would have tossed her skirts there on the lawn, and the devil take propriety.
Just as well he hadn’t seen her or the boy. At least that meant she was doing her job, even if her methods struck him as unorthodox.
But with her brother due to arrive for supper at any moment, he began to wonder. Would she even bother to put in an appearance? Sanford didn’t know she was here. To hell with that. Whether or not she showed her damnably fetching backside this evening, Sanford was likely to find out the truth either way. And if the situation angered him, then God help her.
God help the both of them.
Moreover, an overly irritated Sanford just might defect to Battencliffe’s side. That was the last thing Lind wanted. He needed Sanford’s cooperation, and if he couldn’t get that, he must at least ensure Sanford wouldn’t help Battencliffe, financially or otherwise.
Lind eyed his empty tumbler and stared at the carafe of brandy on an end table across the room. He could summon a servant or shuffle.
He’d taken his first painful step when the door opened. Smithers loomed on the threshold. “Mr. Alexander Sanford has arrived with his wife.”
“Yes, yes.” Punctual as ever. “Show them in.” Damn it all, where was Cecelia? “Has Miss Sanford been alerted her presence is required?”
“I believe Grant has been seeing to her, since Miss Sanford has no lady’s maid.”
Grant? Ah, yes, the new girl. Naturally Cecelia had no maid. Governesses did not usually require such luxuries. Unheard of. What a singular situation he found himself in. “Please notify her that she is expected without delay.”
With a nod, the butler retreated, only to reveal Lind’s old school chum hovering in the doorway, just behind his wife. Lind hadn’t seen Henrietta nee Upperton in over eight years, since the time of her original engagement to Sanford. She’d never been a great beauty, although a wealth of intelligence sparkled in her light blue eyes, but the years had been kind enough to her. She floated into the room, the embodiment of self-possession, her husband marching behind like a man about to face a firing squad.
An awkward sort of silence fell over the room. Yes, and the last time Lind had seen Sanford hadn’t been any more comfortable. Too many obstacles lay in the road to renewing their acquaintance on its former terms—the biggest one of all, a bastard named Battencliffe. Lind muttered a trite pleasantry and bowed to Henrietta before extending a stiff hand to his former schoolmate.
Damn it, where the hell was Cecelia? Not that her presence was likely to relieve the tension in the room. She would only shift its focus, but that would have to do.
Plastering a taut smile on his lips, he gestured to the carafe. “Brandy?”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Sanford replied.
“Smithers should be along shortly with some sherry,” Lind added to Henrietta.
Her lips stretched into a valiant attempt at a smile. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this invitation?”
“To congratulate you on your recent marriage and welcome Sanford back to England, as well. I’ve been rather remiss in renewing our acquaintance.” He winced to hear himself. He’d never been handy with these sorts of social niceties. He’d always left that to Lydia, and in the past, he hadn’t needed to worry about putting on such a façade for Sanford. Then, to call the man an acquaintance after running Eton’s gauntlet together.
Such a thing would have been unthinkable before Sanford left for India. But then, so many other unthinkable occurrences had come to pass. No one could have predicted Lind’s injuries and near-death. No one could have predicted he’d be a widower before he was thirty. No one could have predicted Jeremy’s accident. Above all, no one could have predicted Battencliffe would plunge a knife into Lind’s back while he was in Belgium with Wellington. Lind had never before had reason to question his friend’s loyalty.
Lind cleared his throat. “Last time we met…in the village near your aunt’s manor…” To the devil with it, he’d never been any good at this. “We may have got off on the wrong foot. I intend to make up for that.”
Before Sanford or his wife could respond, Lind felt a shift in the air. It might have been the thickening atmosphere in the room, or it might have been the slight rustle of a skirt. Whatever it was made him turn. Cecelia hesitated in the doorway, her dark gaze pinned on her brother, her cheeks reddening.
He had no idea what sort of wardrobe such a young lady as she would possess, but the gown she had donned for supper was the last thing he’d expect to see on a governess. It shimmered in the firelight with the soft glow of costly, pale rose silk. While she was alive, his wife had worn that shade to perfection, and it managed to enhance Cecelia’s dark beauty just as it had set off Lydia’s blond loveliness.
The bodice plunged to reveal an expanse of creamy bosom. His throat went dry, and he wished more than ever he’d reached for the carafe sooner. As it was, he nearly downed the glass he’d just poured for Sanford.
Sanford leapt to his feet. “What the devil are you doing here? Lindenhurst, what is this?”
Henrietta reached out and tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “Sit down, darling. I’m sure an explanation is in the offing.”
Cecelia advanced slowly into the room, her skirts swishing. Her dark hair swept up in layers of curls that revealed the long curve of her nape. Lind couldn’t take his eyes off the contour of her neck. In the flickering firelight, he imagined he could see the soft flutter of her pulse just below her ear. And if he pressed his lips to the spot, just how might she react? With a sigh or a slap?
“Lord Lindenhurst has requested my presence at this supper to round out the numbers,” she said quietly, as if she were a regular guest at his table.
“That does not explain how you come to be here,” Sanford insisted.
Cecelia looked her brother in the eye and raised her chin. “Lord Lindenhurst has hired me as his governess.”
Sanford broke into a fit of coughing. “Governess,” he spluttered. “You?”
His wife tugged at him once again. “Do sit down. And why shouldn’t she be a governess? I am forever telling you a woman ought to be able to do whatever she sets her mind to.”
Sanford exchanged a look with his wife. “But…But…Lind, I believe you and I need to have a serious talk about this situation. Now.”
Henrietta yanked at his sleeve until he regained his seat. “I don’t think that’s really necessary.”
Cecelia’s cheeks had turned a deep red, but she looked hard at her brother. “No. Whatever you have to say to Lord Lindenhurst, you can say in front of me.”
Lind had to admire the way she stood up to Sanford, who was glaring at her like a sergeant ready to berate a troop of green recruits. He’d much rather Sanford be on the receiving end of her cheek, at any rate.
“In fact,” she went on, “allow me to say it for you and save us all the pain. My lord, he is about to inform you I am the most irresponsible of chits and the last thing I am fit for is overseeing the well-being of young children. Is that about right, my dear brother?”
Smithers came in at that moment, bearing glasses of sherry. Cecelia plucked one from the tray and swallowed the blood-red wine in a single draught. Muscles rippled along her white throat, and her eyes flashed as she set the glass aside. Damn, she was magnificent in a temper. And she’d never looked less like a governess. In fact, when it came to high dudgeons, she’d give any dowager duchess a run for her money.
Except for the creamy smoothness of her bosom, and the lovely flush that spread across it.
Sanford leaned forward in his seat. “That’s about the gist of it.”
“Now, really,” Henrietta interjected. “It is hardly the time to dredge this up. We’ve been invited to dine, not criticize Lord Lindenhurst on his choice of
staff.”
“At least we know where she’s gone.” Sanford nodded in his sister’s direction.
“After weeks of listening to you criticize her over one small mistake, you can hardly blame her for packing up and leaving,” Henrietta replied.
“As well as how much trouble she’s in,” Sanford added, as if his wife hadn’t spoken. “I expect you’ll wish to discuss the marriage settlements with me at an agreeable time.”
Cecelia emitted a strangled screech of outrage.
Lind spit out a mouthful of brandy. “Marriage settlements?”
“Naturally. My sister has been housed under your roof without a proper chaperone for—How many days has it been?”
“Less than a week.” Cecelia forced the words between gritted teeth. “And absolutely nothing untoward has happened, not between me and Lord Lindenhurst. Not between me and his son. So I highly recommend you keep your nose out of it.”
“I’m afraid I must agree with Cecelia, dear,” Henrietta added before Lind could formulate a response. “Society harbors the most vexing expectations when it comes to young females. They must either marry or remain dependent on their families. It is quite commendable that Cecelia’s made a strike toward independence.”
Sanford caught his wife’s eye, and his expression softened. “You married me.”
“It’s not the same thing.” How she kept her tone so reasonable while Sanford insisted on running off on one of his moral tangents, Lind would never know. “I chose to marry you. I was not forced into the situation.”
Then she smiled, and the fool nearly melted. An odd feeling burned through Lind’s veins. It felt strangely like jealousy. His marriage might have been that way. Damn it all, he’d wanted to have that sort of marriage with Lydia. He’d been working toward that very thing when the war tore them apart. And now she was gone.
“Be that as it may, I will not have this family embroiled in more scandal.” Sanford riveted his gaze on Lind; his expression clearly said, What are you planning on doing about it?
“Do not be ridiculous.” Cecelia’s expression mirrored her brother’s only it was turned on Sanford, thankfully. “As I informed you, there isn’t the slightest bit of scandal going on here. I’ve been hired, quite legitimately, as Master Blakewell’s governess, and I intend to fulfill that role until I no longer suit.”
“That shouldn’t be long. Lind, I do believe we need to have a serious talk about this, no matter what the ladies say. You do not have all the facts of the matter. And once you’ve put Cecelia out, what’s to be done with her? She’ll be quite ruined for the rest of society.”
“Alexander.” Henrietta’s voice held a note of warning.
Thank God, Smithers appeared in the doorway once again. “Dinner is served.”
—
As the door to the drawing room closed behind her, Cecelia resisted the urge to lean back against the carved wooden panel. The better to shut out the men, after what had to be the most uncomfortable dinner party she’d ever experienced. The next time Lindenhurst decided to have guests over, he could deuced well find another hostess. She never thought she’d express such an opinion, but there was something to be said for remaining a lowly governess and taking her meals in the nursery—when she wasn’t summoned to Lindenhurst’s study to give reports.
She might have avoided her brother and his low opinion of her abilities, for one thing. And that went double for his insistence that Lindenhurst make her an offer. An offer. Good heavens. It wasn’t as if she weren’t already ruined. Not that her brother knew anything about that. Not unless Lindenhurst was telling him so over port at this very moment.
But what could Lindenhurst know of any scandal attached to her name? He’d exiled himself from polite society for years. At any rate, he’d never have hired her if he’d held the smallest suspicion her reputation was anything less pristine than new-fallen snow on Christmas morning.
“Do you think we might order some brandy for ourselves?” Henrietta arranged her pale green skirts across the blood-red brocade covering the settee. “After that meal, I declare I need some.”
The very thought set the contents of Cecelia’s stomach to churning. Not that she’d eaten much, but what little she’d picked at now threatened to put in a reappearance. “It was awkward, wasn’t it? How long do you think it’s been since Lord Lindenhurst had a supper party?”
“Based on his conversational skills? Ages, I would think.”
Cecelia suppressed a smile. “The fashionable thing is to hire someone to play the hermit on one’s property, I hear, but Lindenhurst doesn’t need to go so far. He’s already made a practice of being a hermit himself.”
Henrietta let out a trill of laughter. When the sound subsided, Cecelia strained her ears toward the door. “Aren’t you in the least bit curious to know what they’re discussing?”
“Certainly, but not enough to risk getting caught listening at the door.” Henrietta picked a bell off a side table and rang it. “I imagine Alexander is trying to discover what happened between Lindenhurst and Battencliffe while he was in India.”
“I doubt very much he’ll learn anything,” Cecelia commented. Not as tight-lipped as Lindenhurst was about…well, nearly everything, even when it came to necessary information such as Jeremy’s difficulties.
“Whatever he learns, I can get the details out of Alexander later.” Henrietta smiled. “I’ve learned more than one way to loosen his tongue.”
Cecelia took a seat opposite her. “Good gracious, that’s my brother you’re talking about here. There are some things I’d prefer not to imagine him doing.”
Henrietta arched a brow. “And just what things are those? As an unmarried young lady you’re not supposed to know about such.”
As little as seven years ago, she might have blushed at the suggestion. “Are you going to try to convince me you went to the altar a complete innocent?”
Henrietta giggled, an incongruous sound from a woman who was generally so serious. “Not at all. But now you’ve made me curious. Perhaps Alexander was right in demanding Lindenhurst make an honest woman of you?”
Smithers’s appearance at the door saved Cecelia from having to reply. “Bring us a bottle of brandy and two glasses, if you please,” she ordered.
If such an unorthodox request from a governess shocked the butler, he gave no sign. “Very good, miss.”
“Quite fortuitous, that interruption,” Henrietta said when he’d gone. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s going on between you and Lindenhurst?”
“What could possibly be going on? I truly did come here to become his governess.” For a moment, she toyed with the notion of telling Henrietta about Jeremy’s troubles, but Mrs. Carstairs’s desperation to keep her position floated through Cecelia’s mind. She couldn’t betray the housekeeper’s trust so blatantly.
“I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the way he watched you throughout dinner. It seems like there’s more to matters than meets the eye.”
Cecelia forced a laugh; the noise sounded false even to her own ears. “He watched me?”
“He couldn’t take his eyes off you. You cannot tell me you didn’t notice.”
Oh, she’d noticed all right. The way his gaze had burned into her. Or rather, her breasts. She’d be the first to admit her gown revealed a great deal of bosom, but that was hardly her fault. She hadn’t intended to draw Lindenhurst’s attention. Still, the very memory of his heated glances caused her nipples to tingle and harden. “I can’t say that I did.”
“You ask me to believe that?” Henrietta cocked a light brown brow. “That gown fairly begs a man to tear it off you.”
Once again, Smithers’s entrance saved Cecelia from an immediate response. He set a bottle of deep amber brandy and two tumblers on the table between them and bowed himself from the room. Cecelia poured two fingers for Henrietta before serving herself a healthy measure. Despite the several goblets of rich burgundy she’d consumed at dinner, she raised her glass in salute and
downed half the portion. The brandy burned a path to her stomach, where it warmed her.
As if the thought of Lind’s attention hadn’t already stoked a fire within.
Henrietta sipped at her glass. “Ah, very nice.”
“And since when do you drink such a masculine tipple as brandy?”
“Since your brother introduced me to such pleasures. Among other things.” She cleared her throat. “And you’re avoiding the question. Where did you come by such a sumptuous gown?”
Cecelia glanced at her bodice as if to remind herself that she was wearing pale rose silk. Sumptuous was an apt descriptor of the way the fabric molded to her figure and ran through her fingers like water. Even as a young miss in her first season, she’d never owned such a lovely ball gown. The dress was most definitely beyond the means of a woman who called herself a governess. No wonder Alexander had become upset. A gown such as this made her look like a kept woman.
“I didn’t have anything suitable, and I asked one of the maids to help me dress. This was her idea.” Heaven help her, she hoped she didn’t get the poor girl into difficulty. “This gown belonged to Lord Lindenhurst’s wife, apparently.”
Henrietta took another sip of her brandy, wincing slightly as she swallowed. “And don’t you think it strange that he still keeps his wife’s old ball gowns about the place? She’s been gone now…what is it, three years?”
“Almost four,” Cecelia corrected before she could think better of it. Yes, four would be right, given Mrs. Carstairs’s story of Jeremy’s accident. “And I’m praying he doesn’t notice. Men…gowns…you know how they are.” She swatted at the air as if that would disperse her own doubts along with Henrietta’s. “We’re lucky they notice we wear clothing at all.”
“I daresay if you were to parade about without anything on, Lord Lindenhurst would take note.”
“Oh, pooh.”
What a Lady Demands Page 7
