by Amy Lake
“Miss Phillips is Alice and Peter’s new governess.”
She was rather young, he realized, with shock. Perhaps nineteen or twenty years of age. Hunger had added several years to her appearance.
Wide green eyes regarded him steadily. “Lord Quentin and I have already met,” Miss Phillips said. “In fact, I last saw him at this very place.”
Charles was briefly perplexed by this remark. Then–
“Of course.” He smiled at the governess. “The snowball fight. Between Miss Phillips and the children. Quite a charming sight, although I believe Peter was besting you.”
It might have been a peace offering, but the intended recipient did not waver. “You didn’t find it charming at the time, as I recall,” she told him.
“Well, perhaps–”
“Although I suppose it was an improvement over our previous encounter.”
There was a moment’s silence. Lady Detweiler, eyebrows lifted, was looking at Lord Quentin with something approaching a smirk.
“Indeed,” Lady Pamela said, waiting for Miss Phillips to explain.
“Yes. He threw me off his horse and stole my baggage.” Flashing a wide, innocent smile, Helène Phillips turned and walked away, calling for the children.
“Alice! Peter! Time to go in!”
“Oh, no, Miss Phillips!” came the expected reply. “A few more minutes!” But the governess was ready for them.
“Hot chocolate!” she called. With squeals of delight, the two small figures ran after her, and they proceeded in single file back to the house, two bouncing children following their energetic, green-eyed teacher.
Silence reigned for a moment, punctuated only by occasional stomps and snorts from Alcibiades.
“Well, Lord Quentin,” Amanda finally said. “You certainly seem to have a way with the young ladies.”
* * * *
Helène raised a spoonful of soup to her mouth and chanced a surreptitious glance at Lord Quentin. How could she have forgotten how handsome the man was? It was appalling, her heart seemed to want to go thump every time he looked her way.
Which was fairly often. Helène felt the breath catch in her throat as Charles Quentin’s eyes once again met hers. His lazy smile startled her, and she looked back down at her soup in confusion.
Drat the man. And what had she been thinking, to be so rude to him that afternoon? But he had stood there, staring, and then had the nerve to mention the snowball fight, as if–
As if what? asked a little voice. He was charming about the snowball fight.
Charming! Ha! Lord Quentin’s charm was exactly the problem, thought Helène. To be so... so agreeable, after he had threatened to have her dismissed!
“Charles, dear, pray tell me what you are finding of such interest at that end of the table,” said Lady Sinclair. She was staring at Helène with a small frown.
The governess bit back a grimace. Lady Sinclair had the eyes of a hawk, and Helène didn’t much care for the feeling of being watched. The woman had never been uncivil to Helène–at least not after that first day–but she had clearly been displeased by Lady Pam’s insistence that the governess dine en famille. Even a well-dressed governess.
Lady Sinclair seemed to like me better when I wore near rags, thought Helène. Could she be jealous?
What an absurd thought.
“In my day,” the elderly Lady Harkins informed the group, “the governess ate alone in her rooms. Such new-fangled notions, marchioness. I confess I am quite shocked.”
“I quite agree, my dear Beatrice,” said Celia. Her voice dropped to a stage whisper. “But it’s Lady Pamela, you know. Such kindness toward the unfortunate.”
Lady Pamela was engrossed in a conversation with Sir Clarence and missed this comment, but, even from her position as the least exalted guest at table, Helène could sense Amanda Detweiler’s ears perk up. Skirmishes between Celia and Lady Detweiler seemed to be a frequent occurrence at dinner. Helène was secretly amused by this–as, she suspected, were a number of the other guests–but she worried that any defense of “the unfortunate governess” might backfire to her own harm.
The marchioness could not dismiss Lady Detweiler. She could certainly dismiss Helène.
“Did you say unfortunate, Celia?” Amanda’s voice dripped honey. “To be working as your governess, I assume?”
There were suppressed male chuckles. Helène blushed, and Lady Sinclair glared at Lady Detweiler.
“And what would you know about governesses, Lady Detweiler?” she asked. “Not having any children of your own, of course.”
“I know very little, thank goodness.”
“Ah– Well.”
According to Lady Pam, Celia was forever needling Amanda with small barbs about her unmarried state, and never seemed to catch on that the exercise was futile. Lady Detweiler had enjoyed a number of discrete liaisons with well-placed gentlemen over the years, but she had no interest whatsoever in marriage. Her feelings on children–les petits horreurs–were even more unequivocal.
“Perhaps Miss Phillips could explain her method of instructing the children in French,” broke in Lady Pamela, smoothly. “It’s really quite intriguing.”
“French?” said Celia, startled. “The girl doesn’t know any French!”
Helène bit her lip. Stay seated, she told herself. Stay seated and take another spoonful of soup. Remember the soup? It’s quite delicious.
“Well, she ought to!” an indignant Lady Harkins was saying. “In my day a governess was required–”
“In your day, Lady Harkins–”
“Celia–”
Several people began talking at once, with Lady Sinclair’s complaints still audible.
“Jonathan, I demand to be told–”
Helène never knew how Charles Quentin managed to make his voice heard over the general babble of voices. But suddenly all was quiet, and everyone–good heavens, everyone was looking at her.
“Mademoiselle,” said Lord Quentin, “C’est vrai, vous avez une méthode unique d’enseignement?” The words were spoken coolly, his eyebrows raised in question, and Helène received the impression that he was expecting her to–what? Flee from the room? Break down in tears?
He’s testing me, she realized. What a bothersome man! They aren’t his children, after all. What does he care whether I speak French or not?
“Ce n’est pas dire grand-chose,” she told him. “It is nothing so very wonderful. Alice and Peter are very bright, as well. We merely attempt to learn the language naturally, as would a young French child–”
“Et les tout-petits? And the little ones? They are happy with this?”
“Mais oui. Vraiment, en point, c’est tout.”
Lord Quentin asked a few more questions, and the governess unconsciously followed his lead in slipping from English into a rapid, idiomatic French. Had she been watching her employer, Helène might have thought to worry, for the marchioness was weak in languages, and could no longer follow the conversation. Lady Sinclair grew quietly furious.
* * * *
Lord Charles Quentin finished another glass of brandy and stretched his legs out in front of the library fire with a contented sigh. Whatever Jonathan’s failings might be, second-rate brandy wasn’t one of them.
“Going t’ bed now, old man,” said his host, his words slurred. The marquess had matched him glass for glass, but Jonathan never had the head for liquor that Charles did. He was quite drunk, and Lord Quentin could imagine the headache his friend would suffer from on the morrow.
“I’ll be off soon, myself,” Charles assured him.
The marquess made his unsteady way to the door. Lord Quentin decided to wait a bit longer before retiring to his rooms, and poured himself another glass of brandy. The fire crackled with heat, the library was rich with the familiar smells of book leather and vellum... Perhaps his eyes closed for a moment. He was upstairs, preparing for bed. An auburn-haired beauty was lying on top of the coverlet, completely undressed. He was immed
iately aroused and she reached for him, smiling–
Charles eyes popped open and he sat up with a start. Why was he dreaming about the governess, for pity’s sake? He had enough trouble as it was with the lady of the house.
He sat back in his chair.
Miss Phillips was attractive. Still thin, of course. ’Twas little more than six weeks since she had arrived at Luton Court, and she’d been half-starved then. Still, she had cleaned up nicely. That gown tonight had hinted at rather delectable breasts, and a narrow waist...
And that wide mouth with the ripe-red lips. It would be no hardship to take her to his bed, thought Charles. No hardship at all. Lord Quentin found his thoughts threatening to warm to this topic, and he shook his head to clear it. Celia. He should be making plans to avoid Celia, even though he knew that resisting her for one night wouldn’t solve anything. The lady was persistent.
Still... Charles was honest enough to admit that his present situation was not altogether the marchioness’s fault. Her husband seemed intent on ignoring her, and she must have sensed that Lord Quentin was tempted, that the memories of their previous encounters sometimes came too vividly to mind.
As his thoughts continued to wander down various unsettling pathways, the image of Helène Phillips arose once more before him. He envisaged her walking into the library, her auburn hair falling in long curls past her waist. She was wearing a lilac blue silk wrapper over a cambric nightgown, the candle in her hand illuminating a dark fall of eyelashes with golden light. She was smoothly curved, luscious–
He heard a soft cry of surprise, and looked up. Miss Phillips was standing there with eyes wide, evidently quite real.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I beg your pardon, Lord Quentin,” Miss Phillips said, backing away from him toward the door. “I had no idea–I didn’t know–”
She looked delightfully vulnerable in the silk wrapper. Almost unconsciously he rose and advanced toward her and she backed away more quickly, never taking her eyes from his face. Then her heel caught in the long hem of her robe. She swayed, fighting to keep her balance, and tumbled to the floor in a jumble of white cambric and lilac blue silk.
“Good heavens.” Charles had caught a quick, tantalizing flash of ankle as the girl fell. He stepped over to where she sat and reached down to–
“I’m quite able to get to my feet unaided, thank you.” The girl’s tart comment stopped Lord Quentin. She got one hand underneath her and scooted away from him, derrière to the Aubusson carpet, until she had backed herself into a sofa. Then she clambered onto the cushions, clutching her wrapper with one hand.
Charles studied her, amusement warring with chagrin. The girl was frightened. She was en déshabillé, true, but that would hardly explain the degree of anxiety he saw in her eyes.
The silly chit had no reason to be afraid of him! Lord Quentin was highly annoyed. This is a piece of missish nonsense, he decided. How dare she look at him as if he were about to spring at her and rip off her clothing? He had no reputation as a cad, and he was certainly not one of those gentlemen who bedded low-caste girls against their will.
“I was just returning this... ” The governess trailed off, obviously trying to keep her voice from trembling. She glanced at the library shelves, and he realized that she had a book in her hands.
Ah. It isn’t fear, Charles decided. It’s guilt. Something about that book is making her nervous. An idea struck Lord Quentin, probably not the most sensible idea he could have conjured up, but one that was a complement to his own recent thoughts. Perhaps it was a book of... indecorous nature. Of course! No doubt Jonathan had a few such volumes, and she had been curious.
He must give the girl a lecture, Charles decided. She had no business with that sort of thing, assuming she even understood what she was looking at, and if anyone was to discover the book in Miss Phillips’s possession it might prove embarrassing to the marquess.
“May I see?” He held out his hand for the volume she was clutching, and, after a moment’s hesitation, the governess gave it to him.
He looked at the title and blinked in surprise. The Letters of Pliny the Younger. In Latin. Charles thought back to the first time he had seen Helène Phillips–half starved, dressed nearly in rags. It was most unaccountable. Lord Quentin frowned.
“How is it that you read Latin?”
“My aunt... my aunt taught me.”
“Your aunt!”
The disbelief in his voice brought a spark to Miss Phillips’s eyes. “It is no offense for a governess to read a classical language.”
“No, but–” Sitting down beside her on the sofa, Lord Quentin tried a different tack. “I imagine Lord Sinclair would approve. Surely you are not forbidden the library?”
“No,” she replied, blushing. “At least, I don’t believe so. But I was unsure if the marchioness... ” She hesitated.
Charles nodded. “Unsure if Lady Sinclair would be... mmm–”
“... comfortable with my presence here,” she finished, clearly relieved that he understood.
“Especially when you are reading Latin histories.” His grin was conspiratorial. “The marchioness’s Latin is worse than her French.”
“Oh, surely not–” She stopped herself, and blushed again.
Charles laughed. “ ’Tis true. But there should be no need for you to prowl around the house late at night. The library is a public room. I will ask the marquess–”
The girl flinched as if struck.
“What is it?”
“Ah. Well, you see . . .” Miss Phillips was obviously hesitant to continue. Charles smiled in encouragement.
“As I explained earlier– ”
Earlier?
“–Lord Sinclair has spoken to me only briefly. About the children.” Another blush. “He has not... given me any further details as to my position here, or what is expected of me. Lady Pamela has been most kind, of course, but... but I’ve not wished to be forward in my assumptions.”
As she had explained earlier? Lord Quentin was baffled by her words until he remembered the day of the snowball fight. But that was a month ago! Had Jonathan still not properly interviewed the girl? What idiocy was this?
Come to think of it, Charles reflected, there was something very havey-cavey about the entire arrangement between the Sinclairs and Miss Phillips. For one thing, a marquess did not hire starving young women dressed in rags for a governess. For another, starving young women did not generally speak the king’s English, nor have Latin and French at their disposal.
It was a puzzle. Celia had said that it was Jonathan who had insisted on hiring a new governess, but surely the marchioness must also have had a hand in the decision. Mrs. Tiggs had as much as told him that the previous two governesses had been too pretty and well-bred for Celia’s tastes. Perhaps she had chosen a girl unlikely to inspire jealousy.
How ironic it would be, thought Charles, if that was indeed Lady Sinclair’s reasoning, for the young woman’s appearance was now little short of stunning. Still... Miss Helène Phillips could hardly be quality, no matter how many languages she spoke.
“Please excuse me, Lord Quentin. I must return to my room.” The governess smiled hesitantly, and he found himself strangely reluctant to see her go. A few more minutes could surely do no harm, and he was intrigued by the curves hinted at by the soft draping of her wrapper. Slippered toes peeped out from under the silk hem–
Ah. Well. Charles forced his attention back to the book in hand.
“Are you truly interested in Pliny?” he asked, the first suitable question that came to mind. The governess looked up at him warily, as if trying to judge the sincerity of his interest.
“Not Pliny himself. Elder or younger, that is,” she finally answered. “But in the history of ancient Rome, and all of the Italian peninsula. His description of the eruption of Vesuvius, for example–” Miss Phillips stopped, but her face had come alight with these words, her eyes flashing green fire. The effect was rather delightful, and Char
les wanted to see it again.
“I’ve always found Rome one of the most intriguing cities of the continent,” he told her, forgetting for the moment that the governess could hardly have visited it herself. “Marble columns falling over into dust, the ruins of the Forum filled chock-a-block with people selling everything from cheap trinkets to fish. But I suppose, if you’ve lived with such glories your whole life, they become part of the background– ”
He stopped. Miss Phillips had been staring at him with an expression Charles could hardly interpret. When she spoke it was with a dreamy quality, unselfconscious, almost as if he was no longer there.
“Oh! It would be marvelous to see the Forum!” cried the governess softly. “And the Pantheon and the baths of Caracalla! To stand on the steps of the Curia and imagine Cicero speaking in that very place–” The governess halted abruptly and sighed, and her gaze shifted from his face. When she spoke again her tone was matter-of-fact.
“At any rate, I find it more enjoyable to read contemporary accounts of ancient life than the current scientific books. Although–” she added hastily, as if Charles would be offended at this dismissal of modern scholarship, “I am sure they are of greatest interest to the experts.”
“Dull and dry as bug dust, actually,” said Lord Quentin. “It makes one surprised that anyone wants to visit Rome these days, if they’ve read more than a page of, say, Liddell. Or Scott.”
Miss Phillips was startled into laughter. “Oh, no!” she said, “To think all these years I’ve been feeling guilty that I found him pompous and... and rather long!”
“Interminable,” agreed Charles. “Although usually accurate, one must admit.” They chatted comfortably about Rome for several minutes more, Miss Phillips once again charming in her animation. She was, Lord Quentin discovered, curious, intelligent, and well read. He hadn’t had a more enjoyable conversation in months.
