Her Proper Scoundrel

by A. M. Westerling

  Realizing the rudeness of her perusal, Josceline lowered her gaze. However, she couldn’t stop herself from looking at him. Slowly her eyes lifted, drawn to him like iron shavings to a lodestone.

  Beneath the self-assured shell, an air of sadness hung about him, almost as if he had lost something precious. A muscle twitched in his cheek and she longed to touch it, to feel it quiver beneath her fingers, to smooth it away. Horrified at the impropriety of the thought, she flexed her hand to stop herself from reaching out.

  He must have felt the movement for he looked at her, catching her gaze squarely with his. He said nothing although one side of his mouth lifted slightly.

  Blushing, she looked away. He must think her bold.

  They rode in silence for an hour or so until the carriage turned into a cobblestone drive. Several minutes later, to the sound of accompanying shouts and the pounding of feet, they stopped.

  “We’re here. Midland House. I assure you, there is no impropriety with your position here. I have a housekeeper, maids, a butler. In short, Lady Woodsby, we are not alone.”

  He skewered her with his gaze, bringing another flush to her face. Drat the man, he had knocked her off kilter.

  “I assure you I shall be comfortable with whatever arrangements you have made.” She nodded coolly, tightening her lips, willing the heat in her cheeks to disappear.

  The carriage door swung open. With the aid of a footman dressed in livery so new it shone, she stepped out, stopping abruptly when she spied the house.

  It was lovely, a rectangle of mellow brick, standing three stories tall. Ivy-covered, its mullioned windows reflected the sun into a thousand shards of light. Two massive stone chimneys flanked the structure, both rising well clear of the slate roof. A central archway on which perched a pair of stone gargoyles sheltered the front entrance. Although not a large estate, Midland House spilled warmth, inviting one to step inside and rest for awhile.

  “Charming, is it not?” Christopher’s husky voice carried pride and he squared his shoulders. He didn’t wait for her nod but continued. “I’ll have Mrs. Belton, the housekeeper, show you to your room. We shall talk further when you join me for tea.”

  His suddenly brisk tone of voice indicated she had been dismissed. It rankled but she worked here now and must do as he bid whether she liked it or not. It was an idea she must accustom herself to. With stiff back and tight lips, she turned and followed the rotund housekeeper.

  Christopher watched Josceline stumble up the stairs behind the always efficient Mrs. Belton. He knew he had stretched protocol to have the woman show Josceline to one of the second floor guestrooms rather than to the empty governess’ quarters on the third floor but he had done it regardless.

  She claimed to be the daughter of a duke and deserved to be treated as such. Moreover, she wasn’t here to serve as governess - she was only here long enough for him to retrieve the handkerchief and forestall any accusations she might make towards him.

  However, an interesting idea had occurred to him while she had been listing her skills during the carriage ride home. He had no child but perhaps as long as she was here, he could make use of her governess skills.

  For himself.

  * * *

  Josceline stood in the doorway of the drawing room for a few seconds. She had been determined to be punctual for afternoon tea and it pleased her to see she was the first to arrive. It would give her time to get her bearings before her conversation with Mr. Sharrington.

  A tray with a silver tea service had been placed on a linen covered table in front of one of the room’s two windows. On one side of the table stood a leather arm chair, on the other, a carved oak chair with a tufted seat cushion. Only two cups had been laid out, suggesting there would be only her and her new employer.

  She edged her way into the room and looked at the two chairs placed on either side of the table. The arm chair was much too masculine – surely she could see a man’s outline in the body-shaped depression in the leather. She sat down in the oak chair, primly tucking her skirts about her knees before looking around.

  As with everything else in the house, the contents of the room were new. All the wood surfaces were gleaming, polished so recently the smell of lemon oil yet hung in the air. Mrs. Belton did her work well, apparently.

  Josceline knew the good fortune of having a competent woman to oversee the daily household chores. The untrustworthy Mrs. Smeets was merely the latest of a long parade of housekeepers, for the wage her father offered did not attract the best.

  Before she had a chance to examine anything more closely, footsteps pounded down the hall and Mr. Sharrington stepped into the room.

  “Prompt, I see,” he said as he crossed the room. He sat down across from her and smiled. “That is a trait unknown to me from the females of my acquaintance.”

  Christopher’s voice held a hint of approval and she looked at him suspiciously. He had taken the time to wash his face and tidy his hair. His jacket had been brushed, the nap of the black velvet laid down properly so the sheen was visible. He looked every inch a gentleman.

  Looks can be deceiving. Only last night, the man masqueraded as a highwayman.

  “Shall I pour?” She made her voice calm but her hands shook as she picked up the pot. His frank gaze made her uncomfortable. Don’t be silly, she scolded herself, you’ve poured tea a thousand times before.

  “Do.” He nodded, waiting until she had finished and had picked up her cup before saying anything more. “I have a suggestion. Perhaps you could be governess to me.”

  “Oh no.” Surprised, she put down her cup before she even had a sip. He must be joking. “You are a grown man.”

  “Aye.” He inclined his head. “However I intend to take my place in polite society and I have a few rough edges in need of polishing.”

  What mad proposition was this? He wanted her to polish his rough edges? It simply wasn’t proper.

  “No, I think not.” She shook her head. “No.” She picked up her cup then put it down again. She must make him understand it just wasn’t done.

  “May I remind you, you yourself had me engage your services as governess. I do not have a child but I could use instruction in some of the finer arts. Dancing, for one. And perhaps water colors.” Unperturbed at her reaction, he added a spoon of sugar to his cup, stirring the tea so briskly the spoon chattered against the china.

  “Dance?” Wide-eyed, she stared at him. The idea was absurd. To teach him would involve touching him. She remembered how her arm had tingled when he had escorted her to his carriage – it just wouldn’t do.

  “Cake?” He picked up the plate of cakes and held it out to her. At the shake of her head, he shrugged and took one for himself before putting it down. “And water colors. I’ve always fancied trying my hand. I admire the work of Thomas Girton.”

  Water colors? Girton? Was he serious? Stunned, she said nothing until she realized her silence implied her compliance. She opened her mouth to voice her protest - she must knock the preposterous notion from his head.

  “I shall pay you handsomely for your efforts.” He named a sum, his mien sober.

  She gasped at the amount. Although the entire idea of instructing him was outlandish, the generous offer tempted her. She did a quick calculation – three months employment with Mr. Sharrington would provide enough to buy her food and lodging while she looked for another position.

  Josceline reconsidered. Perhaps the suggestion was not so outlandish after all. Three months was not that long a time. If no one knew of the impropriety of her actions, there should be no harm to her reputation.

  “Of course, if what I ask is beyond your capabilities, you could trade me the handkerchief for the price of the fare back to London.” His eyes held a devilish glint. “Plus a little extra for the inconvenience.”

  He thought he could intimidate her into running back to London. Her ire rose.

  “I will not be bought off or bribed, Mr. Sharrington. I prefer to make my own way.�
�� She lifted her chin. “I accept the challenge.”

  “Challenge?” His voice was lazy but his eyes had hardened. “Do you see me as a dull study, Lady Woodsby?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Sharrington. However, do not flatter yourself that what you wish to learn shall come easily. A child’s mind is much more malleable than that of an adult. It could require more time than what you are expecting.” She paused to take a sip of cold tea. “I am willing to take on the task for a period of three months but I do have one condition.”

  He raised his eye brows. “Now you are giving me conditions?”

  “Yes,” she snapped. She held out her left arm and pulled out the bloodied corner of his handkerchief.

  Understanding flooded through his eyes. “Of course,” he said, unperturbed. “What is it?”

  “That you tell no one of our lessons.”

  “I have no one to tell.” He shrugged. “Are we agreed to a term of three months?”

  She carefully placed her cup on its saucer. Although the generous offer satisfied her, it wouldn’t do to appear too eager. Her ploy worked for she caught his anxious gaze when she glanced at him.

  “Yes, Mr. Sharrington, we are. When and where shall we begin?”

  “Tomorrow, after breakfast. In the library.” He relaxed visibly against the back of his chair.

  She nodded. “Tomorrow morning, Mr. Sharrington.”

  A ray of the setting sun shone full onto his face imbuing it with an eerie, reddish hue, giving him a forbidding air.

  A shiver of apprehension ran down her back. She resolutely pushed it away.

  What he requested of her was simple enough although it was blatantly obvious the lessons were only a pretext. He desired to retrieve the handkerchief thereby protecting his name.

  The flimsy item was the only hold she had over him and she must guard it closely until she had saved enough money to find another position.

  Assuming, that is, she would be able to find another position after being at Midland House with the disconcerting Christopher Sharrington.

  Chapter Six

  The following morning, Josceline took her breakfast alone. Christopher’s plate sat clean and unused, silverware lined up neatly and napkin folded beside it. The skinny, pock-marked maid who came in to fill the servers on the sideboard informed Josceline the master had eaten elsewhere and she was to join him when finished.

  His absence rankled in that he did not wish to share his meals with her. Yet she must accustom herself to this – as a governess, she had none of the rights of a family member.

  And oddly, his absence also disappointed her. She lingered over her jam-filled scone, half-filled with the wishful notion he would stride into the breakfast room but he did not appear.

  As much as she enjoyed the cheerful room, with its yellow walls and crisp white lace drapes, she couldn’t wait for him any longer or she would risk being tardy, a trait she recognized he abhorred as much as she.

  She drained her already empty tea cup and patted the stickiness from her mouth with her napkin. There was nothing for it but to make her way to the library and see if he was there.

  Two wrong turns later, Josceline found the library. The door stood slightly ajar and with firm knuckles she rapped on it with enough force for it to swing open.

  “Come in.”

  Stomach churning in trepidation, she stepped across the threshold. The spacious room ran the entire width of the house. Mullioned windows filled one wall from floor to ceiling; the entire wall across from it was lined with a jumble of books and papers.

  She spied Christopher at the far end, sitting with bent head at a massive mahogany desk. By the looks of things he worked on a book of accounts. Several ink-smeared maps were pinned on the wall behind him, mute evidence of his naval career, as was the black bicorne hanging on a peg beside the door.

  Rooted to the spot, she watched him dip his quill into the pewter inkwell. The soft morning light spilled across his face, illuminating the creases lining his forehead and the laugh lines radiating from the corners of his eyes. His mouth was set in a slight moue of concentration and he scratched several figures before lifting his head to peer at her.

  Her heart fluttered as he caught her gaze. Don’t be silly, she scolded herself. He was her pupil, nothing more.

  “I trust you found breakfast to your satisfaction?” He laid aside the quill and leaned back to stretch.

  “Yes, delicious, thank you.” She nodded. “The company lacked, however,” she added boldly.

  He caught her meaning immediately and a dull flush colored his cheeks. “My habit is to eat early. I like a brisk walk in the morning as it clears my head of the cobwebs. I had no idea I needed your permission to do so.”

  It was a pointed comment and now she flushed. It was not her place to criticize how he spent his mornings.

  “This is quite a collection of books.” She changed the subject.

  “They came with the house. I don’t know myself what is here. Please feel free to read them at your own pleasure.”

  “Oh.” She swiveled her head to inspect the shelves. It was a generous offer and would help pass the evenings. She turned her head to face him again. “Thank you,” she replied. “I shall enjoy it.”

  He regarded her in amusement. “A rather subdued response. You need not, if it does not appeal to you.” He leaned forward on his elbows and looked at her, sweeping her up and down with appreciative brown eyes.

  She felt his stare as surely as if he had reached out and run his fingers over her arms. Alarm crept into her at the sensation yet she refused to let it overwhelm her. It was time to throw the first dart - that should wipe the satisfied expression from his face.

  “Tell me, Mr. Sharrington, how does a gentleman not know the dance?” She made her voice sarcastic.

  “My father saw fit to send me to sea at an early age. As a captain’s servant. I worked my way up to the captaincy of my own ship. Needless to say, it did not give me the time to engage in the more genteel aspects of life.”

  His voice was mild. The question had not disturbed him in the slightest, leaving her feeling foolish for her uncivil manner.

  “And your time at sea was enough to give you all this?” she blurted, sweeping her arm around to encompass the library. It really was none of her concern but it was the first question that had popped into her head.

  “Yes. The spoils of captured enemy ships are divided amongst the crew.” He lifted an eye brow. “And you, Lady Woodsby? How come you to be governess? Particularly with your expectations.” His eyes mocked her.

  She flushed again, knowing he referred once more to her acerbic comment regarding his absence at the breakfast table this morning. No matter a lady’s transgressions, a gentleman did not offend her, never mind twice in one conversation. He lacked much more in the way of the social graces than simply not knowing how to dance.

  The task daunted her more by the minute.

  And they hadn’t even set foot on the dance floor.

  “To avoid an unwanted marriage,” she replied crisply. She would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he had rattled her. “My father wished to pawn me off to a merchant.” She shuddered as a vision of the vile Mr. Thomas Burrows rose in her mind. “I decided it would be more to my liking to become a governess. This is my first posting,” she added.

  “Shall we begin?” His voice was suddenly brusque and he looked at her with fierce eyes. “The carpet has been removed.” He jumped to his feet and strode around the desk to stand in front of her.

  His reaction startled her and she took a step back. Perhaps it had been unwise to disclose this was her first posting. Well, then, she would show him she could very capably handle her duties.

  “There is no pianoforte.” She tipped her head back to look at him. Yes, she could teach him the steps but it would be difficult to put them all together without a musical instrument. “Do you not have a music room that would suit the purpose better?” She stammered over the last words for
his looming proximity wiped all reason from her mind.

  “No. I suggest you count very loudly, Lady Woodsby.”

  She glared up at him at his ridicule. But no, his face was mild although merriment lurked in his eyes.

  “Very well, Mr. Sharrington.” She lifted her hand. “Shall we begin?”

  Christopher focused on her upraised hand then lifted his gaze to her expectant face. He had seen the tell tale shudder when she referred to the merchant her father had wanted her to marry. He could only assume all British aristocrats sneered down their noses at common men who made an honest living.

  What would she think of him, Christopher, when she realized he intended to earn his living as a merchant captain himself? Would she snatch back her hand to look at him with the same disgust that had limned her face at the thought of the man her father had wanted her to marry?

  Much to his surprise, he found he wanted her admiration. It made no sense, for within three months she would be gone so why the devil should he care what she thought of him?

  But he did. Very much.

  * * *

  “I warned you, did I not, Mr. Sharrington? The finer arts are not so easy to master. Now once again from the beginning.”

  Christopher groaned. “And what is it I have done incorrectly this time?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. It was his fifth morning of lessons in the library and the lovely Lady Josceline Woodsby was proving to be a stern task master in all matters related to dance. And this was only the Contredanse. How many more were there to master? He groaned again.

  He was beginning to doubt the wisdom of seeking her instruction. First, his feet hurt like the very devil. Second, he had no capabilities whatsoever of keeping any semblance of a rhythm. And third, and most disturbing, he was not entirely immune to the charms of the green-eyed, russet-haired young woman standing before him.