Sally, beside Simon in the doorway, gave a hysterical little laugh.
“Throw that abominable excuse for a stocking into the fire,” the dowager said, but her eyes were narrowed upon James. “It is a delightful surprise to see you so soon, James. Mary or Pompeia, whatever you wish to call her, has told us all about your whirlwind romance. Now we should like to hear it from the knight errant’s point of view.”
Unbelievable was the only word for it. Fairy tales weren’t supposed to come true.
James sobered himself. The tension racketing through the room, and the despair on Pompeia’s lovely face, told him this was no fairy tale. What had happened to that fresh, sensual girl in the four years since he’d seen her last?
He certainly hadn’t changed. One look, and he was smitten with the same wild urges that had gripped him years ago. He would do anything for this woman.
Had done, actually, but he’d been a young fool then, brimming with heroic notions and principles of behaviour which, quite rightly under ordinary circumstances, didn’t include debauching a virgin. In Pompeia’s case, that had proved to be a mistake.
He wanted her as much as ever, but he was older now, too old to rush in regardless of the consequences. He needed to find out what had happened in the intervening years and why she was here in his house. Yet even as he cautioned himself, he knew one thing for certain: if fate was indeed offering him a second chance with Pompeia Grant, he was damned well going to take it.
“You shall hear all about it,” he told his grandmother, “once I’ve bathed and changed. And now, if you’ll excuse us, Pompeia and I need a few moments alone.”
In the passageway, Pompeia tried to tug her hand from his. She whispered, “I’m so sorry, Sir James.”
“Not here.” He pulled her toward the staircase, adding in a low, terse voice, “We need to speak privately, and my brother’s man is in my bedchamber. Where have they put you?”
“In the blue guest room,” Pompeia said, “next door to your grandmother.” He released her, and she gathered her skirts and preceded him up the stairs in mingled relief and shame.
He’s watching our derriere, the Wanton said.
Pompeia slapped it down, banishing her gratitude for its earlier assistance. Sir James didn’t look the least bit charmed anymore. It was typically kind of him, she thought, to deal with her perfidy in private. She’d forgotten that aspect of his character, remembering only his white-faced rejection of her in the past.
How could she have agreed to pretend to be his wife?
He ushered her into the blue bedchamber and closed the door behind them. She hovered uncertainly in the middle of the room, clasping her hands tightly before her. This was no different from an irate employer, she told herself. She had held her head high through all those accusations and dismissals; she could do it again now.
No, she couldn’t. For once, she was entirely in the wrong. What was worse, she cared what Sir James thought of her, but it was too late to do anything about that. Saving Sally’s chance of getting the vouchers was all that mattered.
“Miss Grant, don’t be frightened. I mean you no harm.” Perhaps not, but his voice was impatient, and rightly so.
“I’m not afraid, Sir James,” she said. “I am ashamed.” She went to the clothes press and flung it open. Perhaps if she kept busy, this wouldn’t be quite so bad. “It is I who have done you harm, although I didn’t mean to.”
She removed her pitiful pile of garments from the clothes press, laid them on the bed, and reached underneath it to pull out her valise. “Fortunately, it will not be difficult to lay the blame for everything on me. You need merely say I am an adventuress who took advantage of your family’s generosity.” Rapidly, she stowed patched nightgowns and stockings into the valise. “No blame will fall upon Sally, and she will still get the vouchers and go to Almack’s.”
“Sally can go to the devil. What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Preparing to leave, of course.” It was embarrassing to fold her shifts in front of him, although the Wanton Within, needless to say, detected titillation in his considering gaze. “I must hurry, as it’s a long walk to the King’s Arms.”
There was a brief silence. “You can’t walk, what, nine or ten miles to the inn!”
“Indeed I can. I walked here, and I can walk back.” She unearthed her two ugly, brown, stuff gowns, the ones she wore as a governess, from the bottom of the clothes press.
“You walked here?” Exasperation suffused his voice. “Miss Grant, I don’t know what brought you here, but I can’t just let you walk away. You could encounter any kind of danger, and even if you arrived safely, I doubt they would give an unaccompanied woman a room.”
She clutched the gowns to her chest. “I shan’t ask them to, as I cannot afford to stay there. I only have enough for the stagecoach fare.”
“Enough to go where?”
“To my aunt’s house in Berkshire,” she said wearily. She laid the gowns on the bed and spread the first one for folding.
“You live there?” In that case, his tone clearly implied, what was she doing here impersonating his non-existent wife?
“Between positions as a governess.” Why must he ask all these questions? She didn’t want him to know all the sordid details of her miserable life. Why couldn’t he just let her go? “I shall be safe enough outdoors if I remain out of sight.” That sounded absurd even to herself.
“Nonsense,” he said. “I cannot possibly let you go. You are in my house and therefore my responsibility.”
She rounded on him. “I perpetrated a fraud! I pretended to be your wife. You have no obligation to me whatsoever, Sir James. Please, just let me leave.”
“Can you not understand,” he said, “that I wish to protect you?”
She knew better than to believe that. Years of bitter experience had taught her what sort of protection men usually meant to offer her, but perhaps he was still one of that rare species, a true gentleman. He’d proven to be one all those years ago, when he’d visited friends near the village where she lived. He’d shown as much interest and admiration as the other men, flirting and courting her, often with that deliciously wicked look in his eye. That was when she’d discovered the existence of the Wanton inside her, who set up an insistent clamour every time Sir James came near: want him want him want him.
But when she’d stumbled against him in the doorway to the stables, he hadn’t tried to take advantage. When he’d caught one of her brother’s friends pawing her, he’d let out that bellow of rage, broken the man’s nose and escorted her safely home.
And when she had shamelessly offered to reward him with a kiss the following day, he had gone stark white and flatly refused. “You are most kind,” he had said stiffly, “but you are not for me.” She’d hidden her mortification with a childish toss of the head, and he’d driven away to London and never come back.
Unlike his friend Mr. Belfort, who had returned several months later. Mr. Belfort had not only recognized her secret yearnings, but made it clear precisely what she should do about them. With him, of course, but he was an attractive, sensual man—not unlike James’s brother, Simon, although fair rather than redheaded. Her parents were scheming to marry her to a boring baron, and meanwhile her awakened desires still clawed at her. So she’d given in. She couldn’t fault Mr. Belfort’s sexual techniques—he had lived up to his promise of introducing her to the pleasures of the flesh—but then all hell had broken loose. Belfort had boasted of his conquest to a friend of her brother’s, who’d told her brother, who’d in turn told her parents. Which in itself was bad enough, but far, far worse was that she’d blithely confessed to the worst sin of all—that she had enjoyed herself.
You’d enjoy yourself even more with this one, the Wanton said, frankly appreciative of Sir James’s broad shoulders and lean hips, speculating on his attributes under the travel-stained buckskins. Pompeia dragged her gaze away, hurriedly folding a gown and placing it in the valise. She was about t
o fold the other when she remembered that the fashionable muslin she was wearing belonged to the younger Lady Carling. She mustn’t take it with her, but she couldn’t…disrobe…with Sir James right there in the room.
The Wanton Within disagreed, providing Pompeia with several tantalizing images to back up this point of view. Angrily, Pompeia quashed it. She intended to leave Carling Manor with at least a few shreds of self-respect. Eyes firmly on the valise, she said, “If you would kindly leave the room for a minute or two to let me change out of this gown, which belongs to your mother, I should be greatly in your debt. I promise I shall not attempt to steal anything.”
In an instant he was next to her. She stumbled away and would have fallen, but he steadied her with strong hands. “I don’t suspect you of stealing.” He gripped her shoulders. “Look at me, please. Tell me how you came to be here.”
Then he released her and stepped back, just as he had almost four years ago.
The exasperation drained from his face, replaced by such concern that shame washed over her at her lustful yearnings. She lowered her eyes, but that meant they rested on his mouth, and the Wanton got ideas about kissing it. But if she looked lower, she was confronted by a solid wall of masculine chest, and…
He wasn’t an attractive youth on the brink of adulthood anymore. He was a full-grown, red-blooded, virile man.
How could she be thinking such things here and now? What was wrong with her?
Well. She’d been told often enough. She was a born wanton, unsuited to be any man’s wife, and her lascivious imaginings only proved it was true, but the truth didn’t matter. She couldn’t afford to be herself, and she wasn’t about to start now. She took a deep, calming breath.
His grey eyes darkened.
Oh, perfect. He was staring at her breasts. Not that this surprised her—every man did that—but she’d grown accustomed to ignoring the titillation of the more attractive men’s glances, until she was alone in her chamber where no one would know about her secret thoughts.
James’s glance penetrated all the way to her core, flung open the door behind which the true Pompeia dwelt, and set her secret desires terrifyingly free.
Exactly as he’d done the day they’d first met.
She felt a blush crawl up her throat. He moved closer and leaned toward her, that wicked smile dawning on his face.
The door opened softly behind them, preventing James just in time from kissing a woman he had only a few seconds earlier sworn to protect.
And wherever this led, he would protect her.
Sally came in, tears tracking down her cheeks. “Pompeia, I’m so sorry!”
“As you should be,” James said before Pompeia could respond. Sally didn’t deserve one iota of the sympathy Pompeia was plainly ready to offer. “This is a private conversation. Go away!”
Sally sobbed. “But, James, it’s all my fault! Please don’t be unkind to Pompeia.” Her eyes widened at the valise and the ugly gown laid out on the bed. “Oh, please don’t make her leave.”
“He’s not being the least unkind,” Pompeia said. “Nevertheless, I have no choice but to go.”
Sally burst into fresh tears.
“Compose yourself, Sally.” James stalked over, took his sister by the arm and propelled her toward the door. “You have made a mess of things, and as usual, it is left to me to tidy it all up again. No harm will come to your friend, I assure you. Now get out.”
He shut the door behind his errant sister and leaned on it, taking a moment to follow his own advice and regain his composure.
It wasn’t easy to do, alone in a bedchamber with the most stunning woman he’d ever met. The sensual pull of a blossoming young girl had become the siren call of a woman. She wasn’t classically beautiful, but something about her got under his skin and stirred his blood. Apparently, he’d stirred hers, too, back then, for she had wanted to kiss him, and it had nearly destroyed him to deny her. A few seconds ago, he’d been sure his desire was not only reciprocated still, but as powerful as his. Now he saw only dismay. Did she fear he would take advantage of her?
He certainly wanted to. Had wanted her from the first moment they’d met. Back when he believed in fairy tales, he had thought it love at first sight and meant to be, but she’d been promised to some other man.
In spite of that, she’d offered James a kiss. He might have been a young fool then, but no matter how alluring she was, he couldn’t afford to become an even bigger fool now. No respectable employer would summarily show a governess the door, making her walk miles to a coach stop, unless she was being dismissed for good reason, and even then…
He didn’t like the way his thoughts were headed, but they had no dampening effect on his libido. He gave thanks for his old riding breeches, which weren’t tight and revealing like Simon’s yellow pantaloons.
“Come,” he said. “Sit with me on the sofa, and we shall talk.”
She obeyed, folding her hands, and waited for him to speak. He had to find out more about her before deciding what to do. He certainly couldn’t let her go anywhere tonight.
He seated himself next to her, not as close as he might have liked, and laid an arm along the back of the sofa. His fingers itched to touch her, but he restrained himself. “When we last met, you dwelt at your parents’ house. They seemed prosperous enough, and yet now I find you apparently penniless and alone.”
“My parents died, leaving me in my brother’s care,” she said, a faint bitterness in her voice. “I chose to find work rather than remain with him.”
What sort of brother would let his sister go penniless into the world? James thought back, remembering the loose fish whose nose he had broken—a close friend of that same brother’s, as he recalled. James didn’t like the sound of this at all. “Why?”
“He invited his mistress to live there. I didn’t dislike her, but it…it was most improper.” Pompeia clasped and unclasped her hands. “There’s not much more to say. I was dismissed from a position not far from here, but since the stagecoach had already left, I walked here to beg a night’s lodging from Sally. We were pupils together at a seminary in Bath.” She stilled her hands, not looking at him, but rather directly ahead.
He studied her profile, the small, straight nose, the lightly flushed cheek swept by long dark lashes which shielded the most seductively sleepy eyes he had ever seen.
She turned those bedroom eyes on him and he almost died of lust. Her gaze widened. He clenched the fist that lay so close to her shoulder. He must control himself.
Hastily, she turned away. “I was wrong to lend myself to the deception Sally cooked up, but I never dreamt you would suddenly return, and I felt myself greatly obliged to her for putting me up for the night.”
“Why? Anyone with common decency would shelter you.”
She shrugged. That shrug told him far too much.
“Your employer should have driven you to the stagecoach the next day.” He began to be seriously annoyed, but did his best not to show it. He ran his mind over the genteel families within reach of the King’s Arms. “Where were you employed?”
“In Selham.” She compressed her lips tightly together. He thought about kissing her and coaxing them open again.
He reined in his libido. “Who was your employer? Why were you dismissed?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Does Sally know?” Alarm flushed her face, for he followed that with, “Good. I’ll get it out of her, then. I cannot ignore a slight to a lady.”
“You must!” she cried. “It is none of your business.”
Why didn’t she want to say? Perhaps because the answer was all too damning: she’d slept with the man of the house or made a play for his son. But surely she wouldn’t have told Sally that. On the other hand… Fury swept over him. If some low, cozening cur had taken advantage of his power over her… “Are you expecting a child, Miss Grant?”
She sprang up. “How dare you!” she cried, but immediately flapped a dismi
ssive hand. “Why am I surprised?” Her cheeks were bright, her voice trembling. “It’s what everyone assumes.”
He had risen immediately and now said, “I beg your pardon if I offended you. Believe me, I only asked out of concern.” Ruefully, he added, “But you are surely aware, Miss Grant, of how very alluring you are. Of how difficult it is for a man to resist your charms.”
She nodded. Swallowed visibly. Flushed more brightly. “It is the bane of my existence.”
“It need not be,” James said huskily, “with the right man.”
Those bedroom eyes widened. Her tongue flicked out and licked her lower lip.
Damn it all, he had to kiss her.
The door opened, and his mother drifted in.
Pompeia sighed with disappointment. James had been close to kissing her. She was sure of it. No, more likely she was just a lust-driven fool, but why must Clarabelle disturb them now?
“James, how could you?” said Clarabelle, trailing her silk Norwich shawl. “Sally is weeping her heart out, while poor Simon is trying to allay the old lady’s suspicions.” She closed the door behind her. “Grandmama will be leaving for Tunbridge Wells on Wednesday to visit some of her fusty old friends. Surely you can be a good sport for just a few days.”
“It’s not a matter of being a good sport, Mama,” James protested indignantly. “It’s a matter of telling lies and risking unacceptable consequences.”
“Pshaw! What risk is there in a two-day charade? We have it all planned, and I can’t permit you to spoil everything now.” She wandered toward the sofa. “Come, Pompeia, let’s sit together and decide exactly what to tell the old lady.”
“Lady Carling,” Pompeia began, “I wish I could help, but—”
The Wanton Governess Page 2
