“I say you’re mad,” she blurted.
He grinned. “Perhaps.”
Mad or desperate.
After all, Juliet had learned at Albert and Baron Williams’ hands that desperation drove a woman to do desperate things. “Why would a powerful, wealthy earl such as yourself ask a young lady he does not know to care for his sisters?” She detected the heavy skepticism in her own question.
The carriage rattled over a solid bump, and jostled Juliet. Her derriere left the seat a moment, and then she landed with a solid thump back on the bench. She winced and resisted the unladylike urge to rub her now sore buttocks.
The earl angled his head, coolly elegant and wholly un-jostled. “Are you interested in the position or not, Miss Marshville?”
Ah, so he didn’t intend to answer her very reasonable question. Life with Albert had taught her early on to be suspect of others’ motives. The world tended to operate in shades of blacks and whites, but hardly ever the grays of in between. She could imagine four very sinful sisters in dire need of a governess. She expected she should be repelled at the prospect of trading all hopes of a marital state for a life of work. Even if the post of governess were a respectable one, it would relegate her to an ambiguous world in which she was neither lady nor servant.
And yet…interest flared. The post would afford her respectability and just as important, independence. Freedom from her brother and Lord Williams’ machinations.
Juliet put her palms to her knees and leaned close. She ran a searching gaze over his face. “How many governesses have your sisters had thus far, my lord?” She’d wager three.
He hesitated a moment. “Five.”
It appeared she was about as good at wagering as her brother. “Five.”
“You would be the sixth.”
Hence his desperation. It begged the question as to what he’d seen in her that had compelled him to make such an outlandish offer.
A young lady only sought the role of governess under the direst of situations; daughters and sisters of wastrel fathers or brothers in need of finances. Of course, she’d be there soon if Albert were to continue on this course. No young lady would ever choose the role of governess before marriage.
She tossed her chin up a notch. “Whyever would I want to take on work as governess to your surely incorrigible sisters?”
The earl stretched his legs out as far as the carriage would allow, swallowing up the slight space between them. His oak-hard thigh brushed against hers and even through the fabric of her muslin cloak and modest day dress, her skin burned at the contact. “I believe work for my, what did you call them, incorrigible sisters?” he arched an eyebrow, “Would be preferable to life with your odious brother.” He rested a hand on the top of his thigh, and drummed two fingertips over his black breeches.
He most likely would be correct.
She expected she should feel some modicum of sisterly loyalty to defend Albert, but couldn’t even muster a small bit for show. Odious was one of the lesser charges the earl could have leveled her brother’s way.
Still…
“What else would be the benefit to me in trading the life of a lady for work as governess?” Other than freedom from Albert, of course.
His fingers ceased their distracted movement. “Why, your Rosecliff Cottage, Miss Marshville.”
Her breath caught and held in her chest. Her cottage. If she agreed to this position, the cottage would be hers. Not Albert’s, nor the Earl of Sinclair’s, but rather, hers. The cottage represented freedom from her brother’s horrid treatment. It represented freedom from Lord Williams’ improper advances.
And more, it represented something that belonged to her and no other.
Hope hung suspended in her chest, as she eyed him warily. “Surely there is more to this generous offer?” There had to be. There always was where grasping, greedy gentlemen were concerned.
He flashed his devil’s grin, and her fool’s heart skipped a beat. “All you must do is shape my sisters into models of proper, English gentility. If you do that, then the cottage is yours.”
“And if I do not?” she asked, even though she already knew his answer.
“Then I’ll be the proud, still owner of Rosecliff Cottage.” A teasing glimmer sparked in his blue eyes. “What is it then, Miss Marshville?”
Juliet’s gaze caught and held on the crimson velvet curtain and lingered, as she remembered the puddle of blood under Lord Williams’ head from where she’d clubbed him with the candelabra. A frisson of fear unfurled in her belly as she considered the punishment the cruel, letch would try and exact for her assault on his person that day.
“Miss Marshville?”
“I accept the terms of your offer, my lord.”
She gathered from the slight narrowing of his eyes that she’d surprised him with her acquiescence.
Good, the sooner the roguish Earl of Sinclair recognized she was an indomitable woman who could not be easily ruffled, the better he would be for it. “I would like to begin immediately, my lord,” she informed him.
That roguish grin played about his lips. “Splendid. The girls are in dire need of a proper governess.”
Unease rolled through her. The hint of a sparkle in the blue of his eyes indicated his amusement.
She squared her shoulders. So he thought she would be easily scared by his surely troublesome sisters? Fortunately, she’d learned how to handle her wicked brother and his childish outbursts through the years. In fact, she’d wager her three charges combined could not even come close to Albert’s nastiness.
A renewed sense of eagerness filled her. The sooner she began molding his sisters into models of proper, English gentility, then the sooner she could attain Rosecliff Cottage and freedom from her brother.
How difficult could three girls really be?
Chapter 5
His butler, Smith, opened the door and bowed. Jonathan held a finger up to his mouth, but too late. “Good afternoon, my lord.” The graying man with his loss of hearing spoke even louder than the vendors hawking their goods in the bustling London streets.
“Smith,” Jonathan drawled. He shrugged out of his cloak and handed it over to the man’s waiting, heavily wrinkled hands. Perhaps he could make it to his rooms before the final echo of Smith’s greeting reached—
“Wherever have you been, Jonathan?”
He winced. Too late. He directed a lazy smile, up the stairs to where his mother stood, a hand resting on the top rail. She looked for all the world a cross between Joan of Arc prepared to battle and Queen Charlotte herself, stern-faced with disappointment. “Mother,” he greeted, as he climbed the stairs.
She launched right into her disapproval. “Where were you last evening?” She tossed her hands up, as she’d grown accustomed to doing for all the Tidemore offspring. “At your clubs, I gather.”
He reached the landing, and paused to drop a kiss on her ageless cheek. “At my clubs,” he confirmed. However, what enthralled him wasn’t what had occurred inside the Hell and Sin Club, but rather what had taken place outside the gaming hell. Specifically inside his carriage with a certain, freckled beauty.
Mother pointed her gaze to the ceiling. “You think to soften my disappointment?”
He winked. “Did it work?”
“Hardly.” She snorted. “I’m not one of your moon-eyed young ladies, Jonathan. It will take a good deal more than a kiss on the cheek and a sly wink to soften my displeasure.”
Jonathan sighed, and clasped his hands behind his back, as they started onward to his rooms.
“To your office,” she commanded like Lord Nelson himself.
He bit back a curse and cast a single, longing glance down the corridor to where the comfort of his own rooms could be found. “Not my rooms?”
Her jaw set. “Not your rooms, and certainly not after you spent the night gaming…and doing all manner of other inappropriate things.” Color filled her cheeks.
Jonathan shot a sideways glance at his mother
. “My activities last evening were perfectly respectable.”
They hadn’t involved too much drink, or any obliging young woman in his bed. Though he’d very dearly wanted a particular young woman in his bed last evening. That should constitute a perfectly respectable evening.
“You must help Patrina make a match.”
They reached his office and Jonathan opened the door, gesturing for Mother to enter ahead of him. He looked over his shoulder. Perhaps if he made a quick beeline…
“Do not even consider it.”
With a long sigh, he entered the room, and closed the door behind them. “Patrina does not need my assistance making a match,” he said as he walked over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of port. He’d not see her wed to any lack-wit who didn’t have the sense to court her without prodding on Jonathan’s part. He picked his glass up and took a drink.
“All young ladies need the guidance of their older brother, my dear,” his mother said chidingly. She folded her hands in front of her and took an audible breath. “Which brings me back to the reason for our meeting right now, Jonathan. Your sisters,” she shook her head forlornly. “They are in desperate need of guidance.” Mother cast a longing glance over at his sideboard and for a very long moment he suspected she wanted to pour herself a glass of liquid fortitude.
He took another sip. “They’re perfectly lovely,” he said defensively. Yes, his sisters, all four of them were spirited, and tended to utter the occasional curse, but he’d not turn them into the placid, English miss. A grin tugged at his lips as he thought of the impossible charge he’d tasked Miss Marshville with.
“You are a good brother, for the most part,” his mother seemed inclined to amend. “I do not know how I failed all of my children. I know with your father’s death, you indulged them. But you’ve allowed them too much freedom. Riding. Shooting. Hunting. You,” she motioned to him. “Well, I understand. Those are the expected behaviors of a gentleman. But your sisters. No single woman, not a governess, nor any of the nursemaids from their younger years could have ever undone such an influence.” She eyed his port covetously.
Jonathan held it up as a kind of offering.
His mother gave her head a shake, and seemed to snap herself from the woeful, self-pitying state. “They are not perfect,” she said bluntly. “They’re in dire need of ladyification.”
He coughed around his drink. “Is that even a word?”
“No, but it should be.” His mother frowned. “Now, stop distracting me this instance. We need to—”
“I found a governess for the girls.”
His mother went silent. Then, “You did what?”
“A governess,” he said after he’d taken another drink. “A polished young lady.” A crimson beauty with fast fingers and fire in her eyes. He thought back to his meeting with Miss Marshville whose first name he didn’t even know. “She’s quite accomplished at needlepoint and watercolors,” he opted to slightly exaggerate the young lady’s abilities. “She is proficient on the pianoforte.” But I can imagine a good deal many more enjoyable activities to occupy those long fingers.
Mother rocked back on her heels, her hands clasped to her breast like a child pleading with Cook for the last tart. “You…how…when…?”
He snorted. “You erroneously assumed I was out carousing yesterday afternoon, Mother. In actuality, I was finding a governess for the girls.” In addition to all the carousing. He smiled as he thought about the dusting of freckles over the young lady’s cheeks. It wouldn’t do to point out that she had, in fact, found him.
The hopeful glimmer in Mother’s eyes dimmed with a world-wariness. “How did you find her? Did she come with references?”
“Of course, I have references,” he infused all the hurt he could into that pronouncement. Hopefully, she’d not delve too deeply into the first part of her line of questioning.”
One of Mother’s ice-white eyebrows shot up. “And how did you find her?”
“Through a friend,” he said automatically. He’d never consider Sir Albert Marshville any kind of friend, but for this, that would do. “Her references are splendid.” Non-existent, splendid, it was all the same.
After all, the previous six governesses had each come more highly recommended than the next. In the end, none of those highly recommended young women, or old women if one was to consider two of the frowning governesses, had managed to even do an adequate job in seeing to his sister’s proper deportment.
Mother planted her hands upon her hips. “What is her name?”
“Miss Marsh—”
“How old is she?” Mother tossed at him.
“Two and twenty.”
Her eyebrows dipped. “Her family connection?”
“She is the daughter of a now deceased baronet.” He picked up his port and took another long swallow, praying above all else that his mother ceased with her infernal line of questioning.
“When does she begin?”
Jonathan rolled his glass back and forth between his hands.
I want to begin immediately.
“I intend to send the carriage ‘round for the young lady shortly.”
His mother gave a pleased nod and started for the door. She spun back around. “And who was your friend?”
Jonathan’s mind spun. “Friend?” Some of the droplets of port spilled over the rim of his glass and landed upon the surface of his desk.
Mother’s eyebrows knitted into a single line. “You said you found this Miss Marsh through a friend. Who is the friend?”
Miss Marsh? He opened his mouth to correct the error but then thought better of it. Perhaps it was for the best if he withheld the lady’s true surname, lest his mother make the connection between Miss Marshville and a certain baronet.
“Jonathan?”
“Er, uh, Lord Drake,” he said quickly. “Miss Marsh is an old,” as in never was. “Acquaintance of Lady Emmaline.” He would have to pay a visit to his oldest and closest friend, the Marquess of Drake and his wife, Emmaline and just remind them of this particular acquaintance.
A pleased smile split his mother’s wrinkle-free cheeks. “The Marquess and Marchioness of Drake? Well-done, then, Jonathan. I look forward to meeting Miss Marsh.”
Once she sailed from the room, and pulled the door closed behind her, Jonathan released a pent up sigh. Now, he really needed to pay an immediate visit to Drake and Emmaline, and of course remember Miss Marshville was now to be referred to as Miss Marsh.
He took another small sip of port. She’d been skeptical as to how he’d come by Miss Marshville, that much was clear. Knowing Mother, she’d even now launched her own inquiry into Miss Marshville’s connection to Emmaline. Why, she’d probably sent ‘round a servant to speak to Emmaline and Drake’s servants who hopefully were a good deal more loyal than Jonathan’s, whose loyalty seemed pledged to his mother the countess.
Bloody hell.
Jonathan downed his port in a single swallow and set the empty glass down. With a sense of urgency he set out to see Emmaline and Drake. He all but ripped the door from its hinges and sprinted through the house, back down the corridor—
A small figure stepped into his path.
Penelope, his thirteen-year-old sister with her crop of black curls glared at him. She planted her arms akimbo looking entirely too much like another mother in that moment.
He sighed. “What is it, Penny?”
Her glare darkened. “Do not call me, Penny.” She gave a toss of her curls. “Why, I’m—”
“I know. I know. You’re thirteen, now.” These girls with their tendency for the dramatics would be the end of him. No wonder his father had died an early death. God rest the old earl’s soul. Jonathan made to step around her.
“Do not move another step, Jonathan Marcus Harold Tidemore,” she ordered. “What is this I hear of another governess?”
Which only reminded him of the utmost urgency in getting to Emmaline and Drake’s and remind them of their acquaintance with
Miss Marshville…er Marsh.
Jonathan matched his sister’s stance and planted his hands on his hips. “Yes. I’ve found you a new governess.”
“I’m sure she’s horrid.”
Miss Marshville’s visage flashed behind his eyes, and a swift desire filled him. Enticing, entrancing, and captivating but never horrid. “She’s not horrid,” he assured Penelope.
She leaned close, a glint in her eyes. “What was that?”
“What was what?”
“You had that, that,” she waved a hand. “Look. You know, the one you had when you began taking on with that opera singer.”
Jonathan scrubbed his hands over his face. Oh, by all the saints in heaven. He shook his head back and forth.
“You’ve hired a fancy piece, haven’t you, Sin?” his sister hissed.
“Do not call me, Sin,” he automatically corrected, and he frowned. “I most certainly have not hired a fancy piece. Nor should you be speaking as…oh, hell, this is why I’ve hired Miss Marsh.”
Poor Miss Marshville did not stand a chance in earning back her cottage.
Penelope waggled a finger at him. “You shouldn’t curse in the presence of a lady.” Her cat-like eyes narrowed into tiny slits. “There is more here, Jonathan, and I intend to find out just what the more is. Do you hear me? And when I do, your Miss Marsh—”
“She’s your Miss Marsh.”
“Will be gone just like the others,” Penelope continued as though he’d not spoken.
He bowed. “I have to leave. I have a meeting. I’ll be glad to speak with you more about Miss Marsh when I return,” he lied. He considered this matter at an end.
“Liar,” she called out after him.
He didn’t even pause to glance back and fuel her already accurate suspicions.
His butler, Smith, God love the man held the door open and he sailed through it, where his horse had been readied for him. The female members of his staff would lay down their lives for his mother, the Countess, but the male members of his staff must have taken pity on him. They seemed to anticipate his frequent need to flee the gaggle of females under his care, even before he himself did.
Always a Rogue, Forever Her Love (Scandalous Seasons Book 4) Page 5
