Her Proper Scoundrel

by A. M. Westerling

  “The floor, too, I fear. I do so apologize.”

  He leaned over to look. “No. It would seem you caught the ink. That particular inkwell was almost empty. It was in the drawer awaiting a refill.”

  She swallowed hard, feeling foolish. “I must beg pardon,” she managed to squeak.

  The moon came out from behind a cloud, suddenly washing the library in silver. Christopher’s face wasn’t visible to her for he had his back to the windows but she could see he wasn’t in night clothes. His linen shirt gaped open at the neck, his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and he still wore his riding boots. It would seem he had had trouble sleeping as well this night.

  “You have only to ask.” He came around the desk to stand in front of her. “Mrs. Belton would have brought you what you needed.”

  “Yes, I understand. The clock chimed and I couldn’t sleep and I wished to write a letter.” She was babbling but Christopher stood much, much too close. So close, she could feel his breath on her cheek. So close, she could smell leather and citrus. So close, she could reach up and touch his hair if she so chose.

  He tugged the ties of her cloak, pulling her towards him.

  She placed her palms on his chest, trying to push herself away. He caught her wrists with a firm grip. “Your hands are cold,” he whispered before placing them on his waist. “Here, warm them.”

  “Oh, I could not.” Panic thumped through her breast. Josceline tried to pull away her hands but they had a mind of their own. Her fingers curled into the heavy fabric of his shirt, her knuckles felt the warmth pulsing from his skin.

  “Oh, but you can.” He cupped his hands along her jaw and lowered his head. “You can.” His lips brushed hers, once, twice.

  The heat crawling from him through her hands up her arms was joined by the burn in her lips where his mouth touched hers. He lifted his head to look into her eyes.

  His gaze was as much a caress as his lips had been and her stomach dropped away at the intensity in it.

  “Josceline,” he murmured. “May I kiss you again?” He didn’t pull her close but held her jaw cupped in his hands. His eyes roved over her face as if the answer was imprinted there.

  She shook her head, a jerky little movement not convincing in the slightest.

  Now. Push away his hands. Run. Now.

  Yet a part of her didn’t want to run. A part of her watched in fascination as he lowered his face over hers. His eyes were closed. How would he find her mouth with his eyes closed? Came the absurd thought. It must be the done thing, though. Her eye lids fluttered shut and she waited, focusing on the warmth of his hands against her face.

  When finally his lips touched, she could scarce breathe. His firm mouth softly brushed hers and she had the oddest sensation her feet had left the ground and she floated in mid air, anchored by his lips.

  Josceline tightened her hands against his waist and could feel him shudder. His lips parted and his tongue played against her lips, teasing them. She opened her mouth to gasp and his tongue darted inside, flicking against hers, challenging. A whimper escaped her throat.

  He must have heard her for he pulled away his mouth. “Josceline,’ he whispered. “You are so very, very beautiful.”

  His voice broke the spell and her feet returned to earth with a bump. Her knees were weak, and her chin sagged into his hands.

  He stepped back, a pleased smile playing on his lips. “It would seem now I am the tutor and you the neophyte. Fair play, I would say.”

  She gaped at him, certain that the kiss had been a dream. No, her stomach churned and moisture pooled between her legs. She knew she should be outraged, appalled, screaming vile epithets at him and battering her fists against his chest.

  Instead, she stood motionless trying to make sense of it.

  She had enjoyed it.

  She wanted more.

  How very improper of her. Apparently she was as degenerate as her father, making her her father’s daughter after all. The notion appalled her.

  “If you will excuse me, I shall return to my room.” Bitterness tinged her voice and she avoided his gaze.

  “Of course.” He inclined his head, as polite as if they had just finished a dance lesson.

  Josceline risked a quick glance at his face. She did not inspect his features closely because she didn’t want to see the censure she was certain filled his eyes.

  Her instinct told her to flee and flee she did. His chuckle chased her as she pelted across the library. Left behind were her taper and the mess of quills and upended drawer but it mattered naught. Escape was a must.

  With hands outstretched against the darkness, she raced up the stairs and down the hall to the sanctuary of her room. She heaved shut the door behind her and leaned against it, heart pounding and feet aching with cold.

  Hadn’t she told herself he lacked in the social graces? The kiss in the library proved just that.

  The midnight visit to the library to write Elizabeth’s letter had not gone as foreseen. Sleep wasn’t going to come any easier after all. If anything, it had now become impossible.

  Drat the man.

  * * *

  Christopher hadn’t meant to kiss her.

  He had heard Josceline creep down the hall and curiosity had nudged him to follow her to the library. At first he thought she meant to find a book but when she headed straight for his desk, he realized she searched for something.

  Was she suspicious of him and his background? But no, the locked drawer containing his personal papers didn’t interest her.

  He’d had a hard time stifling his laughter when she had emptied the contents of the quill drawer over herself.

  Actually, he had meant to admonish her against going through his desk, no matter her excuse. However, the appealing sight of her in her cloak with the lace of her night wrapper peeking out about the throat had snared his attention and when she turned luminous eyes to his, all good intentions had been tossed willy-nilly to the winds. Manners be damned, he wanted to kiss the source of his frustrations.

  He’d enjoyed every second of it for the reality very much trumped the fantasy. Heady stuff, her lips, pliant and tasting somewhat of honey and peppermint.

  A rueful thought crossed his mind: The kiss had not eradicated her hold over him at all. In fact it had strengthened it, leaving him wanting more. As if he’d opened a box of bonbons and eaten the first one and now had to peel back crumpled tissue paper to find the second one.

  Rightly or wrongly, he couldn’t wait to kiss her again. Soon.

  Chapter Eight

  Late the next morning and in the dismal confines of Bristol’s workhouse, St. Peter’s Hospital, Josceline found herself staring at a string of boys dutifully lined up by the mistress. An assortment of faces peered back at Josceline, some sullen, some hopeful, some bewildered, yet all etched with the unmistakable lines of hunger. She lowered her head, unsure how she could choose one when all were desperate.

  The building itself sat beside the river Avon and the unmistakable odor of rotting fish, rotting garbage, and tar sifted through the workhouse making it difficult to concentrate on her task.

  That and the realization Christopher stood a scant few feet behind her. She’d tried all morning not to think about last night but her traitorous lips tingled with the remembrance of it. Her very body tingled with the remembrance of it. Was it the man or the kiss disturbing her so? How could she make sense of it for of course she, a proper lady, would not, could not allow him to kiss her again.

  To say her wits were addled was putting it mildly.

  “Well, dearie, which will it be?” The gnarled woman with the broken front tooth leered at her. The woman’s grubby dress hung shapeless about her only notched in at the waist by her equally grubby apron.

  “I, ah, that is to say, I -.” Josceline’s voice trailed away. The task proved to be more difficult than anticipated and her heart twisted at the dreadful condition of the children. At least it took her mind off the kiss.

  �
�Ye said ye were wanting a boy. Mrs. Wilkinson always aims to please.” The woman tucked a lock of stringy hair beneath her tattered mob cap before pointing to the shortest. “That be Tom. He’s only been here a month or two.”

  “I see.” Josceline took a reluctant step towards the boy. “Hello, Tom, how old are you?”

  Tom looked up at her with dull eyes, his face a mass of bruises, some fading to yellow, others still an angry purple. His too-large shirt and breeches hung from his skeletal frame and chilblains riddled his bare feet. Josceline’s stomach heaved at the sight of his swollen, reddened feet and she had to look away to hide her tears.

  “I reckon he’s four or five. His ma took to the drink, she did.”

  “We were looking for someone a bit older. Someone who could be trained in the stables.” Christopher moved up to stand beside Josceline.

  He must have sensed Josceline’s distress, for he dropped a supportive hand on her shoulder. The familiarity of the gesture gave her comfort and she tightened her lips and looked again at the ragged lot before her.

  “Well, mebbe ye’d be happier with Philip.” Mrs. Wilkinson pointed a black-nailed finger towards the lad standing to Tom’s right. “He’s Tom’s older brother. Ye could have ‘em both for the same price. It be difficult keeping enough food in the place to feed any of ‘em.” She turned calculating eyes towards Christopher.

  “I have no need for two boys,” Christopher replied firmly. “One is all we need.”

  “They both be hard workers.” The woman’s tone was wheedling and her gaze darted to Josceline. “What do ye say, milady? Two lovely little boys?” She shuffled over to the two and pulled them forward.

  The younger one started to cry, large drops sliding through the grime of his cheeks. His brother grabbed his hand. “Don’t worry, Tommy, I won’t let nothin’ happen to ya.” The lad turned pleading eyes towards Christopher. “Please, sir, I’m the only thing ‘e has.”

  If anything, Philip’s clothing, held together with a knotted rope about his waist, was more tattered and grimy than that of his brother. However, he stood tall and faced them unafraid.

  “No,” Christopher interjected. “I stand firm. One boy is sufficient.”

  His voice shook slightly and Josceline wondered at it. She herself was afraid to speak for fear of bursting into tears at the pathetic sight.

  “Stop yer sniveling.” Mrs. Wilkinson slapped the little one’s cheeks.

  Tom continued to cry, shoulders heaving with silent sobs. Philip pulled him close and wrapped both arms about him. The two stood together with heads bowed as if together they were a stalwart force.

  Revulsion at the woman’s callous manner filled Josceline and she made a sudden decision.

  “Agreed,” she said briskly. “We shall take them both. They are brothers, Mr. Sharrington, we shan’t split them. Surely you can find another spot for the second one?”

  She avoided looking at any of the other boys. Yes, poverty existed here, in London, everywhere else in the world as far as she knew, but to stare it in the face was horrible.

  An incredulous Christopher tapped her arm. “May I remind you we only need one?” he asked, voice strangled.

  “I do not care, Mr. Sharrington. Let us take these two and be done with it.” She looked back at Christopher beseechingly.

  The second Josceline’s eyes hit his, Christopher knew he was lost. The anguish in her face seared his heart and he now regretted bringing her along. Aye, he had witnessed much in his life but the genteel Lady Josceline would have been shielded of life’s ugly realities.

  He sighed. “Yes. We shall take the brothers.”

  What in blazes had he just agreed to? Brothers? When he supposedly only had one son? Plus the way they looked now, they would never clean up properly. The sham was sure to fail.

  However, the grateful look Josceline flashed him made the whole mad attempt worthwhile.

  He would do his best not to disappoint her.

  * * *

  Feeling somewhat like Mother Goose, Christopher shepherded Josceline, Philip and Tom to the carriage. The boys hopped inside immediately to escape the damp cobblestones but Josceline hesitated a moment to wipe tears from her cheeks before climbing in.

  He waited outside while she laid a rug over the boys, tucking it securely beneath their bare feet. She settled herself beside the two and then he swung himself onto the bench to face them all. Three pairs of eyes inspected him, two blue pairs wide-eyed and astonished, and the third a moist green.

  Damnation, he had no idea what in blazes to do next.

  A diversion. He needed to provide a diversion to avoid feeling like a butterfly pinned to a board.

  He rapped on the roof. “To the harbor if you will. I want to see the ships.”

  He scowled at them, immediately feeling the cad when the two boys shrank from him. Josceline, however, seemed to have regained her equilibrium.

  “What a lovely suggestion, Mr. Sharrington. I am sure Tom and Philip should enjoy that immensely.” She smiled down at the two although her lips quivered.

  The sight reassured him – he wasn’t the only one ill at ease. Placing his hands on his knees, he leaned forward to take a closer look at the two boys.

  They gazed back at him solemnly, the expressions on their faces reminding him of new recruits on his former frigate “HMS Sophia Dorothea”. That’s it - he snapped his fingers mentally. He would consider them both as new sailors. And the first thing they would need would be uniforms.

  “Shoes,” Josceline said absently as if she read his thoughts. “Socks. Pantaloons. Shirts. Jackets. Mufflers.” She looked at him. “Perhaps after visiting the harbor, we could find a rag shop or haberdashery.”

  “Aye.” He inclined his head. “And a dining room or coffee house or some such. I wager the lads are hungry.”

  “Yes sir,” Philip piped up, apparently emboldened by the thought of food. “We’re hungry.” A wide-eyed Tom stared at Philip, mouth an “o” at his brother’s daring.

  A wry grin crossed Christopher’s mouth. He well remembered himself as a growing lad battling constant hunger. “Forget the harbor. Let’s find somewhere to eat, shall we?”

  Josceline gave him a startled look, patently surprised at his suggestion.

  He shrugged. “Men who are well fed obey orders. I should imagine the same principal applies to boys.”

  “How thoughtful of you, Mr. Sharrington.”

  Mr. Sharrington. Must she continue to call him that? He would much rather she called him Christopher. Needless to say he couldn’t ask that of her, but the thought enticed him.

  * * *

  With the help of a fish monger, the coachman managed to find the Greyhound Inn several streets over in Broadmead. They ate in a private room in the back, a hearty dish of stewed eels and potatoes which Josceline thoroughly enjoyed. Dessert came, a lovely lemon sweet, and the boys devoured it so quickly, it was as if they had inhaled it. She thought to reprove them for their lack of manners but relented at their blissful expressions. Tomorrow, perhaps, but not today. Doubtless their young lives so far had been dreary.

  “I’ve asked the proprietor for the nearest haberdashery. We’ll find one on Broad Street.” Christopher laid aside his napkin and stood up. “I’ll call the carriage.”

  Bristol was a harbor town, its streets cluttered with wagons piled high with lumber, bales of cotton and barrels of rum, along with fine carriages and farmer’s carts. It made for slow going but the window shades were up and she made a game of spotting sailors with Tom and Philip. At length they turned onto Broad Street and pulled up in front of the shop. Christopher stepped out of the carriage and turned to face Josceline.

  “Perhaps it would be best for you to wait here,” he said. “I shall take the lads and put them in the charge of the haberdasher.”

  However, as soon as the three stepped inside the shop, Christopher could see a battle loomed with the proprietor for the man was none too pleased to see the boys on his premises as evi
denced by his lowered eyebrows and jutting jaw.

  “Excuse me, sir, those nippers are not welcome here.” With a disdainful sniff, the man tried to usher them out of his shop.

  “Come now, where’s the harm?” A surprised Christopher stopped dead in his tracks. It hadn’t occurred to him that it might prove difficult to replace the boy’s clothing.

  “The harm is to my other customers.” The man held a scented pomade to his nose and pointed. “They, ah, smell.”

  “Your establishment appears to be vacant.” Annoyed, Christopher swept an arm to encompass the room with its shelves of folded shirts, hats, and bolts of fabric.

  “I do not deal with riff raff here, my good sir. Please take the children and leave.”

  Riff raff. And the man had included him, Christopher, in that statement. His hackles rose and he took a step towards the proprietor, who stood his ground and glared at Christopher through narrowed eyes.

  Lud, but he was in no mood to find another shop. And he was in no mood to argue. A tidy sum should quiet the tailor’s fears and he pulled out a sack of coins and tossed them onto the counter with a hearty ‘clink’.

  “I believe you will find more than ample to outfit the two. Make it quick and I shall double the remuneration.” Out and out bribery but he had had enough of Bristol and its busyness. Time to venture home to the peace of Midland House.

  At the sight of the bulging sack, greed replaced distaste on the man’s face.

  “Of course, my good sir, of course.” With an obsequious bow, he backed away and signaled to an assistant. “You heard the gentleman, clothe these two. And shoes, if the gentleman agrees, we’ll send to the cobbler for shoes.”

  Christopher nodded. “I have another matter to attend to. I shall return in half an hour.” He stalked out. Already the boys were a bother although in fairness to them, it was the shopkeeper who was the bother.

  He ducked into the adjacent shop.