He sounded sincere, but Eliza was mortified. She struggled up. “Be quiet!”
“Don’t be ashamed. This is what women—what you—are meant for. A man’s pleasure and your own. Did I not satisfy you? I could swear I did.”
Satisfy was too weak a word. Her body was useless to her, her brain scattered, her nerves jangled. What was she supposed to do, thank him? She couldn’t, for then she would admit to her wantonness. Her complicity. Her desire to do this all over again no matter the cost.
She could not meet his searching brown eyes, looking instead at his twinkling earring. The diamond was the size of her pinkie fingernail. “This has been . . . a mistake.” She unfolded her skirts. She had been inspected thoroughly enough.
“I can’t agree.” What was Nicholas doing? Shucking his jacket and waistcoat, tossing them to the floor with the rest of his cast-off belongings. His tanned chest was now framed by his wrinkled white shirt and she stopped herself from touching him again with difficulty.
“Don’t shrivel up for me, Eliza. You were magnificent. Alive. In touch with your womanhood, meant to be kissed in all your secret places. You cannot tell me otherwise.”
Well, she could try to tell him otherwise, but her words would have a hollow ring.
“I have to go. Sunny will miss me.”
Nick shook his head. “I know my daughter. She sleeps like the dead. After all, she actually slept right through poor Maria’s last moments and never knew a thing. Does Sunny still kick? When she first came to me two years ago, I was black and blue for weeks.”
“You—you slept with her?”
“Don’t make it sound prurient. She was inconsolable to leave her mama. Even Maria couldn’t get her to stop crying. For some reason, I could.”
Of course he could. Nicholas Raeburn had a way with females, even if they were three years old.
“You said ‘leave,’ not ‘lose.’”
The muscle in his jaw leaped. “Barbara was dying. She didn’t want Sunny to see. The end was . . . not kind to her. I took Sunny away so her mother could protect her from the pain of it. Maria wanted to stay, but Barbara insisted she go, too, for Sunny’s sake. It was not a happy time. Why are we speaking of it now?”
Eliza didn’t know. They’d gone from bliss to tragedy, but every word out of Nicholas’s mouth made her like him a little more. He was every bit “Naughty Nicky,” yet there was a side of him the press would never see.
It was pointless for her to be swept up in his heroism. She would leave as soon as the new governess was engaged, and let that woman moon over her employer. Eliza was returning to her practical, prudent self. She was no longer the woman split apart by Nicholas Raeburn’s talented tongue. Now if only she could figure a way to pull her drawers back up and leave the room with some dignity.
“You need to put another bed in Sunny’s room. Your future governess deserves space of her own.”
“Noted.”
He sounded annoyed, but Eliza forged ahead. “And you also need to engage some day servants. Mrs. Quinn is overworked.”
“I’ve already thought about that, Miss Lawrence.”
Miss Lawrence. That was better, wasn’t it? They were getting back to firmer footing. Eliza was no longer a mindless imbecile, even if there was a faint ringing in her ears and her heart still thudded.
Chapter 19
What had he expected? Eliza was all business, snapping her thighs shut and talking about his servant problem. Where was the girl who moaned and writhed beneath him? Not here. Apart from her rippling golden hair, she had covered her legs and folded her hands on her lap, looking like she was ready to take dictation.
Nick wasn’t sure where things went wrong. He didn’t expect to receive his own satisfaction, but sure she should be softer, trembling, grateful for his introduction to orgasm. He doubted she’d ever touched herself from the wonder in her cries. But somehow the conversation had turned to Barbara and death and responsibility, souring what was between them.
Well, really, nothing was between them. She’d be gone in a few hours and he’d forget about trying to defrost her.
Feeling irked, Nick tore his shirt off and threw it on the floor with the rest of his clothes. He’d have to wait until Eliza left to shed his pants—his erection was painful, despite her sudden primness.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting ready for bed. It’s been a long day, and it’s not as if you haven’t seen me in undress before.” He flexed his bicep, causing the snake to jump. It had been a favorite party trick, but he doubted Eliza even noticed.
“I’ll—I’ll leave, then.”
“Suit yourself.” Nick knew he sounded churlish, but it couldn’t be helped. Any thought he’d harbored of kissing her anywhere else had evaporated. He still didn’t know the color or size of her nipples, but that would give him artistic license when he painted her.
Eliza was attempting to stand, and Nick bit back a laugh—her drawers had fallen to her ankles. She surprised him by deftly stepping out of them and folding them over one arm.
“You’ve left a mess for poor Mrs. Quinn,” she said, bending over to bundle up his discarded clothing. “You really must—”
“I know, I know. Arrange it when you go back to the Evensong Agency.”
“I shall.”
She was spending an inordinate amount of time fussing with his clothes and she organized them on a chair. Nick wanted her to leave. His need to masturbate was excruciating.
Who would he picture as he did the deed? One hardly needed to ask. He could still taste Eliza on his tongue, remembered her sighs and gasps and exquisite responsiveness.
“Good night, Mr. Raeburn,” Eliza said from the doorway.
“Good night.” The words came out as a growl, as Nick felt bearish indeed.
As soon as he heard the click of the door, he unbuttoned his trousers with impatient fingers and turned out the lights. Throwing himself into his endeavor with some desperation, it took him no time at all to reach satisfaction, if satisfaction it could be called. He would much rather have buried himself into Eliza’s wet core and watched her come apart again, but beggars could not be choosers.
Nick was not ordinarily a beggar when it came to women. Eliza Lawrence’s rejection unsettled him, and it would be a good thing when she left him in peace. Let her deny her nature as long as she wished, delude herself. Nick knew her better than she did herself.
With another growl, he punched the pillow down and tried to sleep. The scent of lemons tickled his nose, and he pitched it to the floor. He would pick up the offending pillow tomorrow so as not to inconvenience Mrs. Quinn any more than he was doing already.
Sleep was elusive, even though Nick was exhausted from the idiocy of his recent days. Why shouldn’t he begin Eliza’s portrait tonight? There were enough electric lamps in the studio. Oil lamps and candles, too. He stumbled across the carpet to his jacket and reached into the pocket for his little notebook.
The minx. No wonder she’d been so long dealing with his cast-off clothes. Well, let her steal his sketches. He had a perfectly good memory, and Eliza was unforgettable anyhow.
Nick pulled on a paint-spattered pair of loose linen pants and climbed the stairs in the dark. His vision appeared totally restored, and the faint headache could be worked around. Dinner had not disagreed with him, so he must be cured. He felt rather . . . potent.
His lip curled. Nick was far from being Naughty Nicky tonight. Instead he’d turned into a weak domestic creature, plagued by his servant problem, with Eliza Lawrence heading the list. Thank the gods the turpentine trumped the smell of lemons and her sexual arousal and he could concentrate.
Setting a large stretched canvas on an easel, Nick picked up an oil pencil. In a few fluid strokes, he captured the curve of her breasts and hips as she lay recumbent on a chaise. He might paint out her face in the future,
but tonight her head was thrown back in ecstasy, her teeth biting into a swollen lower lip, her lashes casting shadows on her cheeks—just the way he’d seen her less than an hour ago. This Eliza was not defending her virtue, but inviting ravishment.
Some devil in him placed her hand between her thighs. Now that she knew what could be done, Nick had no doubt she’d be experimenting at home in her mother’s flat. True, she’d have to restrain her cries of delight, but Eliza was a restraining sort of girl. She was burying her sensual nature behind the barriers of desks and ledgers and filing cabinets.
Poor girl, even if she was a thief. Nick felt sorry for her with her rules and regulations. Her punctuality and conformity. He supposed this evening was the most spontaneous thing she’d ever done, never to be repeated.
Damn it.
Nick squeezed some tubes, hoping to get Eliza’s fresh color just right, but was displeased with the results. She was very fair, yet not so white that she resembled marble. There were peony and rose blossoms under her translucent skin. Maybe he should wait until sunrise to mix his paint, when the room was flooded with light if the London weather cooperated.
But if it didn’t, that would suit him almost as well. The newspaper vultures would not want to subject themselves to rain on his doorstep, and his potential governess would not be accosted with his infamy. Nick would have to dress conservatively tomorrow, behave in a sober, responsible manner. Face Eliza as if nothing untoward had happened.
That might be a touch difficult.
Abandoning the unmatchable beauty of her flesh, he set to filling in the background—lush blue velvet drapes to match her eyes, twisted gold fringe to echo the curl of her waist-length hair. The pillow behind one shoulder he faceted with tiny mirrors, the better to add gleam to the background. Nick roughed in jewel-like patterns of carpet and wallpaper, but the true gem would be Eliza, surrounded by color, as yet undefined.
Nick stepped back and squinted at this hour’s work. Not bad for a man with blue balls again. Eliza didn’t even have to be in the same room with him to cast her spell.
Would she be amused or repelled at his condition? She really was an innocent, and had given her first kiss to him, a kiss long overdue for a young woman of twenty-four. Nick knew he wasn’t especially worthy, but he’d tried to take care of her in the best way he knew.
Eliza hadn’t thanked him—in fact had filched his notebook and left. What would she do with it? Tuck it in her underwear drawer as a souvenir of her stay on Lindsey Street? Burn it? He hoped not. He’d captured something of her in the brief lines and squiggles.
Maybe he could steal the notebook back before Eliza packed. He’d have to wait until she went downstairs to breakfast with Sunny. That would teach her to try to trick a trickster.
Nick gazed up at the skylight. Clouds scudded across the night sky, obscuring the few stars that dared to breach the smog of a London night. If he were at Raeburn Court, the stars would be impossible to count.
One didn’t go to Scotland just to count stars in a clear sky, because after a while, that would become supremely boring. But Sunny might benefit from being with his family and seeing all the wild beauty the Highlands had to offer. All the fresh, clean air.
All the snow, he reminded himself. Impassable roads. Train tracks covered for miles. What would he do for models? Borrow sheep?
Nick couldn’t see his sister-in-law holding still long enough to become one of his subjects. She was a bit of a whirling dervish, always inserting herself into trouble according to Alec. The servants as Nick remembered them were a dour lot, full of piety and resistant to modern conveniences. Alec had refurbished the house but Nick suspected the old place was still . . . old.
He had a month to decide what to do. Alec and Mary wouldn’t be back until mid-November, planning to spend time with one of Mary’s former clients in New York and travel through New England to look at leaves, of all things. Nick could almost admire that. Eliza had been dismissive of the leaf issue earlier. Perhaps if she saw the distinctive foliage of the New World, she might change her tune.
Eliza Lawrence was going nowhere but back to her job on Mount Street. She would live her quiet life and never let the secret Eliza out to play, which was a pity.
Nick stuck his brushes in a jar of turpentine and wiped his hands on a rag. He’d done all he could tonight, and was too tired to stay up for the dawn. He padded down the staircase barefoot, avoiding the loose step before the landing. If he stayed on Lindsey Street, he’d have to get someone in to repair it or risk waking the new governess with its squeak. He’d spent many a night painting, though so far the muse hadn’t moved him to do so here. Of course he’d been busy and sick since his return. When things got back to normal—
Hell. What was normal in Nick’s world? He didn’t even know anymore. Eliza had knocked him sideways. Would she permit him to court her once she was no longer his employee?
Court? By the gods, he was exhausted. Witless. Nick Raeburn didn’t court girls; they more or less fell at his feet as if they’d tripped on his loose stair tread. Dropped from heaven. He had no interest in behaving himself long enough to impress someone’s invalid mother.
Everything was quiet. Now all he had to do was fall asleep and stop himself from dreaming of a most unsuitable woman.
Chapter 20
One. One.
Exactly one woman had turned up punctually in the chilly morning drizzle, brandishing an umbrella and wearing a sludge-brown hat that would be revolting even if it weren’t wet.
Nicholas hadn’t even liked Eliza’s unobjectionable hat when it was dry. What would he think of this one?
Eliza led Miss Scully into the morning room, where a tea tray set for half a dozen lay on a table. The woman was in her forties, and had the pale, pinched look of someone who didn’t get outside much. There was also an unfortunate mole, with a whiskery hair sprouting. Did she not own a mirror and a pair of tweezers? Nicholas would take one look at her and that would be that.
Eliza was not leaving Lindsey Street today.
Her throat felt thick, and she closed her eyes to will back the tears of frustration. What good would it do to cry? Her best bet would be to telephone Oliver as soon as the interview was over and beg and plead for someone, anyone else.
Perhaps Miss Scully would surprise her.
Not bloody likely.
She poured a cup of tea for them both. The governess candidate gave Eliza a quelling look, as if Eliza might have dropped in poison instead of sugar. “You are the young woman who was in all the papers with the master of the house?”
“No,” Eliza lied. “I am here representing the Evensong Agency.”
Miss Scully took a sip of tea, her pinkie finger extending to absurd lengths. “Ah. I am accustomed to dealing directly with Mrs. Evensong.” Her lips pruned. “Mr. Palmer is a bit immature to have so much responsibility. You are as well.”
“Mrs. Evensong and her niece Lady Raeburn trust us implicitly.” Eliza swallowed her own tea, wishing it was indeed poisoned. “Mr. Palmer explained the nature of the household? Mr. Raeburn is a . . . is an internationally renowned artist, and Domenica is his only child.”
Where was Nicholas anyway? Eliza had slipped a note under his door reminding him of the appointment early this morning, then settled Sunny in the kitchen with Mrs. Quinn and Sue. She had not seen him after last night’s . . . debacle. It could be thought of as nothing else.
Eliza could not blame her wanton behavior on the wine at dinner; she’d had very little of it. If a few kisses could go to her head—and the rest of her—it was a good thing she was leaving.
But, oh dear, she probably wasn’t.
Optimistic earlier, Eliza had opened the front door herself, noting the happy absence of reporters in the misting rain. And there stood Miss Scully, dasher of all optimism.
The woman was speaking, her vowels careful. “Yes. And what
he didn’t tell me, the gutter press did. I won’t let the temporary notoriety influence me—half the time there’s no truth to what gets printed. I’ll make my mind up about the job once I meet Mr. Raeburn. I am an excellent judge of character.”
Eliza didn’t bother to let herself feel relief. While Miss Scully might not be scandalized yet, Nick was unlikely to warm up to this drab creature.
“How do you feel about leaves, Miss Scully?” Eliza asked, somewhat desperate.
The woman looked startled. “Leaves?”
“Yes. As in nature studies. Collecting. Chlorophyll.” She was babbling.
“Some areas of science are not harmful to the young female mind. Botany is a suitable subject, I suppose. One can always supervise one’s gardeners when one is the mistress of one’s own home. Flower arranging is a specialty of mine, as you must have read in my résumé. Is there a greenhouse on the premises? One might plant a seed, note its progress, and record it in a journal.”
“The female mind?”
“You must agree that females should be educated differently than males. We are delicate, like the flowers that interest us both. Women need not trouble themselves over worldly pursuits. Politics. Our place is in the home, raising a future generation of leaders.”
“How will these women know how to train leaders if they are unaware of current events?”
“That’s what public schools are for, Miss Lawrence, once our charges have surpassed us. Dear me, you are not one of those suffragists, are you? Does Mrs. Evensong know?”
“I believe Mrs. Evensong shares my opinion,” Eliza replied. “After all, she runs a successful business. Why should she take second place to a man?”
Miss Scully sniffed. “She is an exception. A woman of her advanced years is entitled to some eccentricity.”
This conversation could not be any worse unless Miss Scully admitted to devil worship. Actually, Nicholas Raeburn might have some sympathy for that. Eliza swallowed the rest of her tea with bleak certainty that she’d be stuck here awhile yet.
The Reluctant Governess Page 15
