by Anne Gracie
“But we haven’t been out for ages!” Rose said. “Not to anything. Not even the Pump Room.”
“All we’ve done for the last two weeks is knit and sew and talk and do puzzles and fold paper firelighters. Aunt Dottie hasn’t let us go anywhere,” Lily added.
He was not unmoved by their plight—two weeks inside would make anyone restless. But he’d already made arrangements to go out. Galbraith clearly wanted a break from his courtship, and after weeks of girls and aunts and drama, Cal was in desperate need of some uncomplicated male companionship himself.
“Another time,” he told them firmly. “No, no arguments. Thank you for bringing me the sandwiches and coffee, Rose. Good-bye.”
* * *
York House had provided another fine dinner, living up to its reputation as the finest hotel in Bath. The wines served with dinner had been excellent and now, in the same private parlor as before, the two men were making inroads into a very fine bottle of cognac—Galbraith’s inroads being rather heavier than Cal’s.
A fire crackled merrily in the grate. Cal had recounted the tale of the debacle of his nephew George, and now talk had turned to Galbraith’s prospective bride.
“Quiet girl—doesn’t say much. Doesn’t smile much, either, and when she does, she doesn’t show her teeth. Odd that. Thought for a while there she mightn’t have teeth, or that they were rotten or something but no, she bit into a biscuit and they’re white and even enough.” He sipped his cognac and added thoughtfully, “Haven’t actually heard her laugh, yet. Very serious girl.”
“You’re really going to marry her?” Cal asked, a little disturbed by the dispassionate description.
“Grandfather’s coming to Bath. Head of family, needs his signature on the settlements. Been making the journey in easy stages—did I mention he’s not been well?”
Cal nodded. “He’s not actually on his deathbed, then? So you don’t have to marry this girl if you don’t fancy her.”
“No reason not to marry her,” Galbraith said. “She’s pleasant enough and pretty enough, agrees with everything I say—”
“Yes, but it doesn’t sound as if you like her much, so why go ahead with it? Your grandfather dotes on you, so—”
“Can’t let the old man breathe his last thinking I’ve let him down. Again.”
“What do you mean? You distinguished yourself—”
Galbraith cut him off with a curt gesture. “I just need to give him this one thing.”
“Does it have to be this girl? Don’t you know anyone else?”
“I run with a pretty rackety crowd these days—don’t know any respectable females. This girl is the daughter of one of his oldest friends.” He drained his glass and refilled it. “She’s very virtuous. Practically a saint. Itching to straighten me out and lead me down the path of righteousness,” he said with a cynical grin.
“Good God.”
Galbraith gave a careless shrug. “If it lets the old man die happy . . .”
“But will she make you happy?”
“All marriage is a gamble,” Galbraith said indifferently and set down his glass. “Now, real reason I asked you here tonight, want you to be my best man at the wedding.”
Cal shook his head. “I’d be honored to, but I’ll be back on the Continent in a couple of weeks.”
“What about next week? Still here then?”
“Probably, but—next week? You’re not going to get married—?”
“No date set yet, but it’ll be soon. Need to get the knot tied while the old man’s still alive and kicking. Do my best to get an heir on the way before he gives up the ghost.” He patted his pocket. “Got a special license.”
“Good God.”
“Don’t look so appalled. Marriage. Comes to us all in the end.” Galbraith lifted his glass. “So a toast, old friend, to my finally becoming a tenant for life.”
It was as dismal a wedding toast as Cal had ever heard. “A tenant for life,” he echoed.
* * *
Cal left Galbraith staring into the fire. It was a cool, clear night and he walked home from York House in a thoughtful state of mind. He didn’t envy his friend one little bit.
Marriage. Comes to us all in the end.
True enough. Cal would have to marry and beget an heir too, one day.
But not yet. Not for a long time yet. When he was at least thirty-five or more.
He let himself into Aunt Dottie’s house with the front door key and found a small candle lantern burning softly, waiting for him to light his way upstairs. As he passed the girls’ bedchamber he heard a whine and a scratch at the door. The dog, wanting to relieve itself, no doubt.
Cal opened the door, holding it wide to let the dog pass. He glanced inside and stiffened. The bed nearest the door was unoccupied. He leaned inside the room and held the lantern higher.
Every bed empty, damn them.
He took the dog outside for the call of nature, returned him to the bedchamber, then settled down in the kitchen to wait.
He was angry and disappointed—with himself as much as anyone. He’d imagined he’d been making progress with the girls, but clearly they were determined to go their own way, no matter what. So they were disappointed with his refusal to escort them to the night fair. Life was full of disappointments.
An hour later, he heard the sound of soft laughter and the key turning in the kitchen door. The door opened and two young men swaggered in, complete to a shade: coat, hat, breeches, boots and each carrying a cane. They were followed by Lily, wrapped warmly in a cloak.
Cal rose from his seat at the table. “Make sure you bolt the blasted door, or I’ll have a reason to sack that butler my aunt is so fond of.”
The two “young men” jumped, then turned to face him with expressions of varying defiance. Georgiana looked wary, Rose was trying to appear unconcerned but looked a little shamefaced and Lily looked frankly upset. “It’s not Logan’s fault—” she began, but Cal cut her off with a sharp gesture.
“I know damned well whose fault it is.” He turned the lantern up, the better to see their faces. “Well? What do you have to say for yourselves?” He waited. “Word of a Rutherford, you said when you promised me not to go out unescorted at night.”
“Promises made under duress don’t count,” Rose said. “Besides, you promised to take us somewhere exciting when you returned, and you didn’t. In any case, we did have an escort. George escorted us—and we both dressed like men, so nobody could tell—”
He smashed his fist on the table, making them all jump. “George is not any kind of escort and you know it, and if you think you look like a man you’re very much mistaken.” He glanced at George. “I should have burned those damned breeches.”
“You can’t, they belong to me!” she flashed.
“I’m the head of your family and your legal guardian. I can do whatever the hell I want!”
“There’s no need to swear at us,” Rose muttered. “I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss. There were no consequences. Nobody noticed us and nothing happened, so don’t say such things. You’re frightening Lily.” Rose put her arm around her sister’s shoulders and squeezed, but Cal was wise to her tricks this time.
“Don’t you dare try those crocodile tears on me again,” he snapped.
Lily stopped on a hiccup, her big gray eyes still swimming with unshed tears. He looked away. Even though he knew she could produce them at will, her tears still had the power to stir him up inside.
“I’m sorry, Cal,” she said, sounding truly penitent. She added in a hesitant tone, “I brought you something from the fair.” From her reticule she pulled a toffee apple on a stick and held it out to him.
Cal made no move to take it. Lily put it on the table in front of him.
There was a long silence. “I ought to beat you all!” he said eventually.
“I’ve had men in the army flogged insensible,” he informed her coldly. “A good beating might wake you little hellions up to the consequences of your actions.”
“You just try it and I—I’ll run away,” George said. “You know I can.”
“Don’t worry, George,” Lily said softly. “Of course Cal won’t beat us.”
“How do you know I won’t?” Cal growled. Did she think a toffee apple could change his mind?
Lily gave him a tremulous smile. “Because you gave me piggyback rides when I was seven.”
“What?” The logic of that escaped him completely.
“Yes, and because the first time he caught us coming in at night, he was absolutely furious, but the minute Lily started crying, he fell completely apart, didn’t he, Lil?” Rose said. “He went from being all cold and mean and nasty to being all worried and gruff. It was really rather sweet.”
Cal stared at her, dumbfounded. Sweet? Rather sweet? Ye gods! “Oh, just go.” He shoved the lantern—still burning, but not for much longer—across the table toward them. “Get up to bed—and don’t wake your aunt. I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Not another word, Rose,” he said as she opened her mouth to argue. “One word out of any of you and you’ll all be on bread and water for a week. Stale bread and no butter! Now go!”
They went.
But he heard Lily say, “He doesn’t mean that, either, George.”
“He does. He’s threatened to starve me, twice.” George sounded aggrieved.
“Yes, but did he actually do it?” Lily asked. “No, of course not. Cal’s our big brother and even though he tries to hide it, he loves us and takes care of us. All of us.”
* * *
The girls took the lantern with them, leaving Cal in the kitchen, in the dark. In more ways than one.
He loves us and takes care of us. All of us.
Where would she get such an idea? He’d never even mentioned the word love to any of the girls, so it didn’t make sense.
Nor did that nonsense about giving them piggyback rides when they were little. It was just a piggyback ride, not a declaration of love. A lot of piggyback rides, now that he came to think of it. The girls had always demanded it, on the few occasions he was home. It was just something he did.
Was that why they disobeyed him so easily? Because they imagined he loved them and so would forgive them anything? Aunt Dottie too?
Females. Imagining everything revolved around love.
It was his duty, as a brother, an uncle and now head of the family, to look after the girls. If there was one thing Cal understood, it was responsibility. He’d had it drummed into him all his life.
But love? He was a stranger to the emotion. He couldn’t even remember his mother; she’d died when he was a toddler. As a young boy he’d spent hours staring at her portrait, trying to remember her, wondering what she’d thought of him, what she’d been like, but all he had were servants’ tales. He’d never talked about her to Henry or his father. It wasn’t that his father had forbidden it, as such; it was just . . . not done.
As for his father, he’d felt a deep regard for him, but he’d been a distant, exacting and cold-natured parent, more concerned with obedience than love.
Had Cal loved him? He didn’t know.
He thought of his friend Galbraith, who openly admitted he loved his grandfather—enough to marry a woman he didn’t particularly care for, just to ease the old man’s passing from this world.
Would Cal sacrifice himself for his father that way? He considered the possibility and decided he might. But it would be duty, rather than love.
Would he sacrifice himself for the girls and Aunt Dottie? He’d lay down his life for them if they were in any kind of danger, of course, but then he was used to risking his life for others. It was a soldier’s life. King and country, or his family—it wasn’t much different. One did what one had to.
But love? He’d had liaisons with women over the years, but the strongest he’d ever felt was fondness. They’d been practical arrangements from the start, and he’d always taken good care of them. None of them had loved him. If they had, they’d never mentioned it.
He’d always been glad of that. He wouldn’t know what to do with a lovelorn mistress. Several of his friends had been entangled in affairs of the heart—unrequited love on one side or the other. It was messy. Undignified.
Cal probably took after his father and Henry. Naturally coldhearted and not particularly lovable.
The only person who’d ever loved him was Aunt Dottie, and Aunt Dottie loved everyone. He was fond of the women of his family—though possibly not Aunt Agatha. Could one be fond of a dragon?
But he had to do something about the girls. It was clear they would continue on their own merry way, flouting his rules whenever it suited them, secure in the illusion of his love and forgiveness. His father would have had them beaten for such disobedience, but Cal couldn’t bring himself to do that.
He needed someone who they would know didn’t love them, someone they respected who could control them.
Someone like that long-legged, cool-voiced teacher.
Chapter Ten
Whether they give or refuse, it delights women just the same to have been asked.
—OVID, AMORES
“I’ll triple your salary.”
One of Miss Emmaline Westwood’s finely arched brows rose in a look of mild interest. “Triple?” She smoothed the lace gloves enclosing her long, slender fingers, cool as new-made butter.
Dammit, she should be more impressed than that. It was an extremely generous offer. He’d come first thing in the morning, hoping to have it all organized before he spoke to the girls. They hadn’t come down to breakfast. No surprise there.
But the teacher wasn’t responding as he’d planned. She’d appeared today without that ugly cap, her brown hair drawn back into a smooth coil at the back. Tiny curls escaped her discipline, clustering around her nape and ears, but did she fiddle with her hair, like most women of his experience? Not a bit.
She sat facing him, her countenance as bland as milk, receiving his offer as if barely interested. Of course, that could be a bargaining tactic.
“Yes, triple. Because there are now three girls—my orphaned niece, who is roughly the same age as my sisters.” Which made for three times the trouble, though he wasn’t going to admit that.
“And for triple my current salary—whatever that is; you haven’t even asked what I earn yet—you want me to take them to London—”
“Along with my aunt, Lady Dorothea Rutherford.”
She inclined her head. “Along with your elderly aunt. And you want me to chaperone the girls—”
“Guide and control them.”
“Help prepare them for their come-out, take them shopping, supervise their wardrobe, organize a ball at your London home, accompany them to various ton occasions—”
He made an impatient gesture. “Yes, yes, all of that. The usual nonsense.”
She gave him a level, teacherly look that made him aware he was interrupting. Her gaze remained steady as she finished, “So that you can leave them and return to your ‘important government business.’”
He frowned at the hint of skepticism in her voice. “It is important government business.”
She gave a perfunctory half smile. “Of course it is. And you want to be able to leave the girls behind with a clear conscience.”
“Ye— No, I’m thinking of what is best for the girls.”
Her brow rose again, an arch linking skepticism and inquiry. ”To hire a stranger to look after them?”
“You’re not a stranger to them. Only to Georgiana.”
“I’m a stranger to you. You know nothing about me.”
That headmistress had indic
ated she’d been educated here as a girl, which meant she must be well enough born, though obviously her family had fallen on hard times since then.
“Your position here vouches for your character. As for the rest, you seem well enough educated and quite ladylike.”
“Merci du compliment.” Irony frosted her voice. Or maybe she was just demonstrating the range of her education.
That luscious mouth had thinned to a firm line. She seemed to be waiting for him to explain further, so he obliged. “I know you’re good at handling girls of that age, that you’ve held a responsible position in this seminary for some years and that my half sisters respect you. That seems to me sufficient for such a position. As to the requirements of the job, naturally as well as your wage, I’ll pay all your additional expenses: clothes, shoes, shawls, fans”—he gestured vaguely—“whatever is required.”
“I see.”
“And there will be a bonus each time one of the girls marries.” Dammit, he was starting to sound desperate.
A faint pucker marred her smooth forehead. “A bonus? To see them married?”
He nodded. “And an extra bonus if you get them all fired off in one year.”
The fine green-gray eyes glittered. The lace-clad fingers curled into fists and for a moment Cal though she was going to—what?—hit him? Nonsense. She blinked and the flash was gone, as if he’d imagined it.
“But once this desirable outcome is achieved, I’d be unemployed.”
“Yes, but in the meantime you’ll have earned yourself a handsome sum. As well, you’ll have made a lot of useful connections in the ton. I’m sure you’d have no trouble finding another position.”
“As a chaperone or governess?”
He shrugged. “Who knows what opportunities you’d find?” She could even land herself a husband. Once she was properly dressed, with those eyes and that mouth . . .
There was a short silence, then she folded her hands and said, “Thank you for your offer, Lord Ashendon. However, Miss Mallard has informed me that she intends to retire at the end of term. She has offered me the position of headmistress in her place. It is not as well paid as your offer, but . . .”
