The Reluctant Governess

by Maggie Robinson

  Her pulse quickened as her hair cascaded in a tumble. She groaned, and Nick was spurred to delve deeper. Darker. This was no kiss of innocence any longer, no education, for Miss Lawrence was as apt a pupil as he’d ever met and was about to surpass his wildest lesson. Perhaps he’d gone without a woman too long if he was about to be hoisted on his own petard by this inexperienced virgin.

  And she was a virgin; of that Nick had no doubt. He didn’t deal in virgins. He had some shred of sense, though some might not think so.

  What in hell was he doing? He had to stop before it all became too predictable. Ravishing the governess. That was worthy of some penny dreadful plot, and Nick was no villain waiting to be turned into a hero by the love of a good woman. Love didn’t exist—or if it did, it was fleeting. Look at his parents—a love match that ended in disaster.

  Eliza was trembling beneath his hands, warm, breathless. With a final sweep of his tongue into the corner of her mouth, he pulled back with some regret.

  And she punched him in the stomach. Hard. He was knocked back into the headboard. Good God, he could have used her last night against Phil Cross. With a bit of training she could be a lady fighter.

  “What was that for?” Nick asked, checking to see if his lumps were expanding. All he needed now was to vomit again and the day would be complete.

  “How dare you!”

  She was all the way back on her chair now, flushed, her golden hair tangled.

  “You seemed to like it well enough,” Nick said, casting around the pillows for his ice bag. It was probably all melted by now.

  “I did not!”

  “Oh, certainly you did,” Nick said dismissively. “Don’t lie to me or yourself. You bloomed just like a rose, one of those surprising white ones that unfurls to pink. I can’t remember the name. Sunny’s mother Barbara kept roses in her garden. It was a veritable Eden. An artist’s paradise.” He’d done some of his best work there.

  “Do not speak to me of horticulture or your mistress!”

  “I don’t really want to speak to you of anything. Kissing is much more fun.”

  “You—you libertine!”

  “Oh, come. This is not a West End melodrama with you as the wronged woman.” He shrugged, and heard ominous cracking in his neck. “We kissed, that’s all. You apologized in your fashion. I accepted. Case closed. Run along now. I’ll try not to sleep until midnight. After that, I can make no promises.”

  “I don’t care if you fall asleep and lapse into an irreversible coma!” Her eyes had turned the color of the Mediterranean. Interesting. Eye colors were always changing in the bad novels he read—perhaps it was possible after all.

  “You know you don’t mean such a vicious thing. Was that your first kiss? Well done. Except for the aftermath, of course.” He smiled. She was so very angry, much more stimulating to him than her usual state. Perhaps Nick had an unaccountable yen for his mother’s temper, though he devoutly hoped Miss Lawrence—Eliza—wouldn’t touch the ginger jars. He was sure they were worth something.

  There was no point of thinking of her as Miss Lawrence anymore. She was Eliza to him now, Lizzie if she’d let him be so familiar.

  He had a feeling she wouldn’t like it at all.

  “I told Mrs. Daughtry that I would remain at my post. I know my duty, which is more than you do. Interfering with your staff is not gentlemanly,” Eliza said acidly.

  “Rest assured Sue and Mrs. Quinn hold no allure for me,” Nick replied. “You, on the other hand, are beginning to grow on me. I don’t understand it. You are not my t—”

  The alarm clock whizzed by his ear and bounced harmlessly against a pillow. Stricken, Eliza examined her guilty hand as if she’d never seen it before.

  “Such passion. Who would suspect?” He picked up the clock and returned it to the table. “I’d like to sketch you now, just as you are. Wild. Unprincipled. You look very fetching.”

  She opened her mouth, but snapped it shut. Nick was pleased to see her lips were puffy and very pink. Her eyes blazed in what could only be called contempt. Gods, she was beautiful.

  “Cat got your tongue? Lucky devil. Sweet and pink. All right, you don’t have to speak to me,” he said hurriedly when he caught the martial expression on her face. So she didn’t like compliments. He reached for his charcoal pencil and pad, and kept himself busy for the next quarter of an hour. Eliza refused to meet his eye, which gave her a rather mystical countenance as she stared off into a corner pretending he didn’t exist.

  He didn’t need her cooperation—he could probably draw her with his eyes closed. Hell, he could still taste and feel her—the tea, the butter, the indignation.

  She had tried to tame her hair after their little encounter, but the hairpins were somewhere in the sheets, a place she was avoiding like the plague. She had braided it over a shoulder, but in Nick’s sketch it was wavy and loose, just as he’d left it. It was the color of corn silk mixed with a darker gilt, not too common in an adult. Eliza was very fair, even to her eyebrows and the tips of her lashes, but somehow she didn’t have that rabbity appearance that some blondes possessed. Her eyes were bright blue and blinkless. She’d beat him in a staring contest if he was foolish enough to challenge her.

  Nick decided her brown dress was nothing to brag about and eliminated it entirely from the image. He had a good imagination, and had good eyes as well. Her breasts were on the small side but generous enough to satisfy a discerning man, of which he certainly was one. She didn’t have that pouter pigeon look that was so inexplicably fashionable lately—some women looked as if they were about to topple over. Nay, she was trim, not too fleshy, not too scrawny. Just right, really. Nick grinned to himself as he altered the fairy tale to his liking. She was his Goldilocks.

  As she sat Sphinx-like, he decided she’d have medium-sized nipples to go along with her general medium-ness. In a few strokes he had succeeded in bringing them to delicious, perfect peaks. Thinking about his lips upon them made him shift under the bedcovers. Eliza wouldn’t notice, would she? Hell, she wasn’t even looking at him. What could be so fascinating about that corner?

  And then he glanced up at her again and noticed one silver tear sliding down her cheek. She was chewing on a lip to keep it steady, her adorable chin thrust out.

  Damn.

  “I say, you aren’t crying, are you? It was only a kiss!”

  She turned to him, eyes filling. “It might have been ‘only a kiss’ to you, but as you suspected, it was my first. And what a waste it was to have given it to a man like you. I’ll never get my innocence back.”

  “I haven’t taken your innocence,” Nick said, exasperated. “Believe me, you’d know it if I had, and like it well enough, to boot. I have a reputation, you know.”

  “Exactly!” Eliza cried, balling her fists. Nick inched back on the bed and thrust his pad under the blanket.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’m not sporting horns—I stopped kissing you.” They had been very faint, but Nick had heard those warning bells. He didn’t take advantage of unwilling girls.

  Though she hadn’t been unwilling. Just unwise.

  “And that makes it worse, don’t you see? What on earth came over me? I don’t even like you!”

  “Thanks very much.” He didn’t really like her, either, but was too much of a gentleman to say so. But he did like beautiful things, and her looks were growing on him, as he’d so inadvisably said earlier. If only she wasn’t such a prunes and prisms miss. Priggishness was no virtue in his book.

  “Just look upon it as a harmless experiment,” Nick suggested, tamping down his annoyance. “And if it makes you feel better, tell yourself I was simply off my onion and didn’t know what I was doing when I hauled you into the bed. That’s it, I was just delirious in my fevered brain. Mistook you for someone else. One of my many, many mistresses. You were so startled it took you a while—a long while—t
o pull yourself together and put me in my place.”

  “But I didn’t put you in your place!”

  “Aye, you did. A bed’s a favorite place of mine.” He gave her a cocky grin and hoped she wouldn’t punch him again.

  “Are you never serious?”

  Lord, she looked so miserable. It was only a kiss! Nick had been kissing since he was in short pants, and was inducted into the art by a housemaid who had made it her mission to bed all of the Raeburn brothers. Not at the same time, of course, and she was getting a little long in the tooth by the time Nick was ready to be seduced. Alec was seven years older than he, Evan four, but Nick had not minded her age or his lack of precedence.

  He shook his head of the memory and was rewarded by a vicious throb. “Look, it meant nothing to either of us. Don’t go ordering any hair shirts just yet. In a day or two you’ll never see me again and you can go back to your boring old life.”

  For the second time, the alarm clock flew through the air. This time, he forgot to duck.

  Chapter 9

  What had come over her? There was no rational explanation for the kissing or the throwing. Eliza didn’t have a temper, had never shouted in her life, not even when Jonathan Hurst dumped his moth collection on her while she was sleeping. After she’d shaken the dead bugs out of her hair and eyes, she had told him calmly to go back to bed. Jon was so disappointed at her lack of reaction that he had not troubled himself to repeat his mischief.

  Which was not to say he stopped being naughty. Oh no. But at least Eliza was no longer his victim.

  She positioned the sticking plaster against one bristled, bloody cheek. Mr. Raeburn needed a shave, but she didn’t trust herself with a razor.

  He looked up at her, eyes twinkling. “You are determined to ruin my looks, aren’t you? If you can’t have me, you’ll make sure no one else wants me.”

  “Be quiet. It’s just a scratch.” It was a bit more than that, to Eliza’s horror. Likely he would have a scar and it was all her fault.

  “I could get lockjaw. Then where will you be? There will be no one to kiss you,” he teased.

  He was impossible. “Will you be still, sir! The bandage won’t stick if you keep moving your face. And I won’t be kissing you again. You can rely on that.”

  “Who says I even want to kiss you again? You have assaulted me. Perhaps I’ll have better luck with the next governess. Some sweet, docile woman who won’t throw alarm clocks when vexed.”

  She was vexed, all right. Eliza wished she had found some strong stinging ointment she could have used to torment him with. He was so—he was so—

  She couldn’t think what he was, only that she was not herself while she was around him.

  When would midnight come? The clock was unhelpful, its coils and gears scattered on the floor once it had bounced off Mr. Raeburn’s cheek and landed on the hardwood. If its trajectory had been a few inches shorter, it might have hit the Oriental carpet with less damage. At least the glass didn’t shatter, but she’d better sweep up the pieces before Mr. Raeburn got out of bed and cut his foot. Then he’d have even more reason to blame her.

  She bent over, hoping against hope he was not staring at her backside. But then, Nicholas Raeburn was probably a professional backside-starer.

  She dropped the bits of metal into her pocket and sat down in the chair. “I shall of course buy you a new clock.”

  Mr. Raeburn rubbed his stubbled chin. “I don’t know if that’s possible. It was a priceless antique.”

  “Rubbish. My mother has one just like it,” Eliza lied. What if it was irreplaceable? Eliza had some savings, but not enough for anything deemed to be “priceless.”

  “Tell me about your mother.”

  Eliza gaped at him. “Why?”

  “Well, I was just thinking about mothers,” Mr. Raeburn said. “Mine was a bit of a termagant. She loved us, but her temper was unreliable. Like yours.”

  “I do not have a bad temper!” Oh dear. It certainly sounded as if she did. Eliza didn’t need him to raise that damned eyebrow to tell her she was behaving badly. “Not usually, that is. You seem to bring out the worst in me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. You are very compelling when you are angry. Colorful. Crimson cheeks, snapping blue eyes, etcetera. I long to paint you.”

  Eliza put a hand to her warm cheek. She must look like she’d been boiled in oil. “I am not a model, Mr. Raeburn.”

  “You could be, though, now that I truly see you. Yesterday I was mistaken in thinking you wouldn’t suit.”

  “Should I be grateful for your altered opinion?”

  “Not grateful. Vindicated, I should think. You know you’re a very pretty girl.”

  She did, for all the good it had done her. Eliza was not vain, but her snapping blue eyes worked as well as Mr. Raeburn’s twinkling chocolate brown ones. “I’m not comfortable with this conversation.”

  “Then talk about your mother,” Mr. Raeburn said, smiling. The edge of the bandage flapped up, and she refrained from reaching forward to smooth it back in place.

  “My mother is a widow and in uncertain health. My father died unexpectedly three years ago, and since then I’ve done my best to help support us.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was a principal in an accounting firm. His partner bought out his share, but not at full value. Our finances were tight. So I took a secretarial training course, then worked for Templeton and Hurst for a year before Mr. Hurst drafted me to be his children’s governess. I had to live in, and my mother managed, but I worried. I’m worried now. The position at the Evensong Agency is perfect for me—I can even go home for lunch. Dr. Samuelson says she’s stronger than I think, but I’ve watched her struggle. She has rheumatism, you know, and the least little movement causes her dreadful pain some days. Stairs are out of the question—we gave up the lease on our house and live in a ground-floor flat now.”

  “Do you favor her in looks?”

  Eliza nodded. Her father had always told her she was almost as pretty as her mother, which hadn’t offended her at all. Her parents loved each other, a rarity according to Mr. Raeburn.

  “So you’ve sacrificed yourself to take care of her.”

  “It hasn’t been any sacrifice,” Eliza replied. “Not really. She took care of me while she was able. It’s my turn now.”

  “Very admirable. Have you no plans for your own happiness?”

  Eliza’s throat dried. “Wh-what do you mean?”

  “Well, are you going to slave for my bossy sister-in-law for the rest of your life, or do you wish for a life of your own? A husband. A house. Children.”

  “Why do you care? I would think you’d find all of those things boring.” This time she was determined not to throw anything no matter what he said to her. He could call her boring and worse all night.

  Well, not all night. At midnight, like Cinderella, she would disappear into her room knowing she had obeyed the doctor’s and Mrs. Daughtry’s edicts to the best of her ability. Whether Nicholas Raeburn woke up tomorrow morning meant nothing to her.

  “Oh really? Just where are we sitting, Miss Lawrence? My house. And why are you here? For my daughter. I may not be conventional per your standards, but I’m not so different from most men. I want my comforts and my friends and offspring surrounding me.”

  “I notice you’ve left out a wife,” Eliza said.

  “I have no need of one, at least not right now. Perhaps when I’m a doddering old fool I can get a sweet young thing to ease me into the realm of Hades. But isn’t marriage what all girls dream of? Society expects it.”

  Eliza bit a lip. “Perhaps. But I have no wish to be some man’s unpaid housekeeper and broodmare.”

  Mr. Raeburn startled against his pillow. “My, my. You’re not aiming high enough if you marry a man who can’t afford to keep you in style. You deserve a housek
eeper and a parlor maid at the very least. What about your Mr. Hurst?”

  “He’s not my Mr. Hurst!” Eliza knew she was blushing again. How on earth did this wretched man know she’d had a tendre for her previous employer? It had been entirely unrequited—Richard Hurst was too busy to notice much of anything unrelated to the law.

  Except, of course, for Penny. His daughter’s asthma was of great concern to him. Eliza hoped the girl’s health was improving. It had been harrowing to sit up night after night with her over a bowl of steaming water, praying that the child would come to no harm.

  “If you must know,” Eliza said, trying to change the subject, “I very much admire your ‘bossy sister-in-law.’ I should love to own my own business someday.”

  Mr. Raeburn’s mouth dropped open in a very satisfactory manner. “Really? What kind of business?”

  Here Eliza was stumped. She hadn’t let herself think that far ahead. “Something to do with numbers. Organizing things. I’ve been told I’m very practical.”

  “Are you now?” Mr. Raeburn shut his eyes for a minute, then opened them. “I’d like to introduce you to Tubby. Sir Thomas Featherstone, that is.”

  “Is he in need of a secretary? I’m sure the Evensong Agency could find one for him.”

  “Not a secretary per se. He has a bee in his bonnet about organizing an artists’ cooperative. Not just artists, but writers, too. Playwrights. Musicians. The odd poet. A gallery where our work can be exhibited, a clearinghouse for models and inexpensive supplies, a venue for performances and lectures, a space to write in peace, studios with heat and good lighting. Kind of an all-purpose association for creative people and their patrons. He has more money than he knows what to do with, but no head at all for business. He does like a pretty face, though. With a little effort you might be Lady Featherstone and manage his fortune. Kill two birds with one stone.”