by Amy Lake
Careful, old man, said the little voice, reminding him that the girl was, after all, only an employee in this house. He could do as he wished, of course, but it was highly inappropriate for Miss Phillips to form an acquaintance with one of the guests.
“How did it happen that you are a governess here?” asked Lord Quentin, and then was surprised when the girl answered. He hadn’t intended to speak aloud.
Miss Phillips took a deep breath. “My aunt . . .” She hesitated. “My father and my aunt arranged the position.” All animation left her face, and the wariness returned.
“Your father?”
“Nathaniel Phillips. He died... not long ago.”
“Ah,” said Lord Quentin. The name rang no bells with him. But then, there was no reason to expect that it would.
“I really must leave–”
Miss Phillips leaned forward to adjust the strap of her slipper. Charles caught a glimpse of décolletage, and all thoughts of Roman ruins or Latin histories flew straight from his head. Although she was still rather slender overall, the girl’s breasts looked to be spectacular. Charles felt the first twinges of desire.
A pretty little nobody with, as far as he could tell, no family interested in her welfare. Lord Quentin had always preferred to take his pleasures among the more mature ladies of the ton, ladies for whom the rules of the game were well understood. Young nobodies weren’t generally his style, and–Pliny the Younger notwithstanding–Miss Helène Phillips was well down the social ladder. But the governess had piqued his interest. Charles wasn’t sure he cared to examine his feelings any more closely than that. She was... interesting, that was all, and an opportunity that he was currently at liberty to explore. A dalliance would certainly make his stay at Luton Court more satisfactory.
The girl shifted on the sofa, as if to rise. “Pray excuse me, my lord. It is quite late, and– ”
Perhaps Miss Phillips could be persuaded to engage in an occasional tumble during the next few weeks. She was only a governess after all, and he was the heir to the Tavelstoke earldom. The girl would probably be delighted to receive his attentions. And it would take his mind from the persistent temptation presented by Celia Sinclair.
“Miss Phillips,” he began. She looked up, and Lord Quentin found himself staring into wide, questioning eyes.
“My lord?”
“Hmm.” He was suddenly unsure of himself. It rankled. “Ah. I trust you’ve found your accommodations satisfactory?”
“My accommodations?”
“Well, yes. And the children? They are advancing well in their studies?”
She looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “They are doing quite well, thank you,” she said finally. “Alice and Peter are delightful.”
“Ah.”
“Now, if you will excuse me–”
Charles took a deep breath. Why was he hesitating? He couldn’t remember what he had planned to do or say. His attention seemed captive to her eyes, to the cascades of auburn hair about her shoulders, the bruised ruby lips–
“My lord!” protested Helène Phillips.
Charles had leaned forward to kiss her. The governess, heedless of the honor being bestowed upon her, was pushing him away. She was no match for his strength, of course. He took her hand.
Long, slender fingers.
A bell of warning sounded, softly, somewhere in the back of Lord Quentin’s mind. He ignored it and concentrated on the fingers, bringing each one to his lips for a taste. Heat flowed through his veins, his groin tightened, and he heard Miss Phillips murmur another protest.
She tried to snatch her hand away; he allowed it, moving his own hand to stroke her hair. He watched her reactions carefully, seeing first confusion in her eyes, and then–
And then his own desire, mirrored there. He was sure of it.
The chit wanted him, thought Charles, exultantly. And no innocent, surely. Well, this would be easy.
* * * *
Lord Quentin was going to kiss her. Helène, although having no previous experience in the matter, was quite sure. The nerve of the man.
Her eyes closed in a moment of confusion, and she found her lips brushed very softly with his. Then Helène’s arms moved around his neck, and she returned the kiss, hearing him groan softly. His hand was moving–good heavens, his hand was moving against the back of her neck and down the silk of her wrapper, stroking softly.
Time slowed, Lord Quentin kissed her again and again, and Helène swam in honey. He had pressed her into the sofa cushions and his movements were becoming... odd. Insistent and disturbing. She heard his voice whispering against her ear.
“Relax. Everyone else has gone to bed.”
Relax?
What was happening? What was she doing? Helène struggled to sit up, to push the man away from her.
“Easy, my sweet–”
“I am not your sweet!”
Crack! Her hand flew forward of its own accord, and she slapped him roundly across the face. Helène gasped and buried her face in her hands, sickeningly aware that her temper had once more gotten the best of her, aware that it was her own fault. She could hardly claim seduction. Not when she had gone to the library of her own accord, dressed only in nightgown and wrapper, and sat right there, on the sofa, letting him make love to her–
At least, that’s what she thought Lord Quentin had been doing. A country girl might have been able to explain things more clearly, but Helène was town born and bred. She had witnessed more than she ought in the back streets of London, but as for details... the details were still obscure to her.
Heavens. Helène finally shook off her paralysis and looked up. Lord Quentin was watching her with hooded eyes. He seemed unperturbed by the slap and his gaze raked over her once again, following the hollow of her neck down to her décolletage. Helène put her hand up to cover... whatever it was that had captured his attention. He crossed his legs and she felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.
“I must ask your forgiveness, mademoiselle,” said Lord Quentin. “Pray do not be alarmed. I was carried away by the brilliance of your eyes–”
Helène, for reasons she could hardly begin to explain, burst out laughing.
“My eyes?” she managed to say.
Lord Quentin looked startled. He had been leaning forward on the sofa, his hand reaching for hers, but now he checked himself. “I fail to see what is so amusing,” he told her.
“Oh! I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “It’s only that I’m not accustomed–”
She stopped, searching for an explanation that wouldn’t make either of them sound foolish. But Lord Quentin abruptly stood up.
“There is no need to elaborate, mademoiselle,” he said. “I will bid you good night.”
Helène saw that he was offended and, for some reason, this struck her as even funnier.
“Oh, my lord,” she said, hiccoughing with the effort not to laugh, “I’m... I’m honored, truly I am.”
“Yes,” said the lord, drily. “I can see that you are.” He turned on his heels and walked out.
* * * *
“What’s wrong, maman? Who is she?”
Lady Pamela sat up in bed with a start. Never one to be troubled by nightmares, she was perplexed by the lingering touch of anxiety, feeling it float slowly away as she came fully awake. Why, after all these years, did she dream about that day in Hyde Park? And why did she associate the woman in the carriage with Helène?
Does Helène Phillips remind you of anyone?
The girl was a riddle. In some ways–the wardrobe she had arrived with, her shyness in company–she seemed less than what a governess ought to be. But in other ways she seemed much more. Her accent, for example, was impeccable, and few members of the ton could match the fluency and ease of her French. Grammar could be obtained from books, but the rest– Where could the chit have learned it?
Lady Pamela slid out of bed and walked to the balcony, tempted, despite the cold, to step out into the
velvet black of the winter’s night. Luton in winter. The stars blazed cold fire, far more magnificent than one ever saw through the smudge of London’s winter air.
Helène had spoken little of her past. Her father had been a carriagemaker, and a reasonably successful one, it seemed, until his illness. Her mother was dead–
Her mother. A shiver went through Pam as a fragment of her dream came to mind once again. That afternoon in Hyde Park... The old marchioness had been an intensely social creature, always happier in London than at Luton Court. An extended promenade through the park was de rigeur for any sunny day, and Pamela enjoyed the rides, especially as her mother knew everyone. But Lady Sinclair had been very angry with her daughter on this occasion.
“Who is she maman? She’s beautiful.”
“Pamela, stop this hen-witted fussing at once! ”
“But maman–”
“I’ve told you before. She is no one.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
A governess with any need to conceal her past is earnestly to be pitied.
Lady Detweiler, for reasons that were initially unclear, arrived at the breakfast table well in advance of eight o’clock that next morning. Pamela and the marquess watched her entrance with a mixture of amusement and alarm. Grumbling loudly, eyes shielded against the soft morning sunlight with a enormous chicken-skin fan, Amanda was the picture of beleaguered misery.
“Heavens. Couldn’t you sleep?”
“Can someone please explain to me,” complained Amanda, making her way immediately to the samovar of coffee, “this fanatic interest in fresh air during the winter. I cannot comprehend it. As if it wasn’t bad enough that it’s cold outside.”
“If you’re trying to tell us that your rooms are not warm enough,” said Jonathan, “ask for an early fire to be laid.”
“Pah. The maids have to rest sometime, I suppose.”
The marquess chuckled and Lady Pamela hid a smile. That was Lady Detweiler all right– all bark and no bite. Pam had never known anyone who grumbled as loudly as Amanda, or who was as genuinely considerate of the servants.
Lady Detweiler grimaced at the sight of Jonathan’s plate, piled high with slices of ham and smoked pork sausage.
“We shall be killing the poor pigs left and right this winter, I see.”
“This is hardly an unreasonable breakfast,” protested Lord Sinclair, who never seemed to catch on to Amanda’s teasing. “You should see what Lord Burgess eats.”
“Lord Burgess,” she told him, “is an ox. I can’t imagine what all this is doing to your digestion. It must be perfectly demoralized by now.”
Lady Pamela snorted.
“Reynolds, pour another cup of coffee for Lady Detweiler if you please,” the marquess instructed the waiting footman.
“Indeed,” said Lady Detweiler. “I shall need it to fortify myself for the contemplation of those sausages.”
Eventually Jonathan left to prepare for a much-anticipated day of grouse hunting, leaving the two women with the breakfast salon to themselves. Lady Pam had been deep in thought for some time, choosing to ignore Lady Detweilers’s good-nature abuse of her brother.
Last night’s dream had continued to nag at her. The woman in the carriage…
“Out with it,” commanded Lady Detweiler.
“Hmm?”
“You are wool-gathering over something. A shocking new scandal? Or is that too much to hope?”
“Amanda, do you remember the story about the Duke of Grentham’s eldest daughter?”
“The Duke of Grentham?” Lady Detweiler sat back in her chair and sipped a third cup of coffee. “Ah, yes. Torrance. He disowned the girl, as I recall. Married a cit.”
“Exactly. What was her name?”
“Hmm.” Amanda pursed her lips. “Something like... Oh, yes. Guenevieve. Quite a shocking choice, in my opinion.”
Lady Detweiler had idiosyncratic notions on the subject of Christian names. Pamela forged ahead. “Did you ever see her?”
“Guenevieve Torrance?” Amanda paused. “The old duke must have banished her a good twenty years ago.”
“At least,” agreed Pamela.
“Well, darling, I may be a tad bit older than you are, but that still makes me in the neighborhood of ten when dear Guenevieve gave up everything for l’amour.”
L’amour. Pamela thought back to the old scandal. She had been very young, of course. If it hadn’t been for that day in Hyde Park–
“What happened to her, d’ you suppose?” mused Lady Detweiler.
“I believe she stayed in London,” said Lady Pamela. “For a few years, anyway.”
“Well, you seem to know a great deal about it.” Amanda blew out a sigh and reached for the pot of marmalade. “I confess myself defeated in this case–simply too long ago. How mortifying. The duke’s chit and that... What was he, anyway?”
“I’m not sure. Some sort of tradesman.”
“Handsome beyond compare, I suppose.”
“Yes,” said Pamela. “I believe he was.”
* * * *
That day passed more slowly than usual for Helène. Lady Pamela did not visit, being required to consult with the staff regarding further holiday preparations. The custom at Luton Court, as with many noble houses, was to hold most of the holiday affairs after the new year, Christmas itself being fairly quiet and reserved for family. As the first week of January drew to its close the pace of household activities increased, along with the general level of noise. Various thumpings and bangings from the rooms below announced that the servants were preparing the largest ballroom for the traditional bal d’hiver. The marchioness had been in full cry for days, directing troops of servants in the placement of ever more decorations and the laying in of vast quantities of food. The Yule tree, which until Boxing Day had stood solitary and undecorated in the middle of the Great Hall, was now festooned with quantities of silver and gold netting, bits of tin cut into the shape of stars–
–and popped corn. The marchioness had the tree strung with ropes of this corn, a newly-fashionable import from the Americas. Showing more interest in the out-of-doors than Helène would have expected, Lady Sinclair had impatiently explained to Alice and Peter that the strands of popped corn would be later thrown out onto the snow for the birds. In the meantime–
“You can eat it!” Peter confided to her.
“Surely not,” said Helène, fingering a small piece of the fluffy white stuff.
“You can! ’Sgood!”
Helène had difficulty keeping Peter away from the tree after this, although he promised her he would only eat the bits of popped corn that “the birds don’t want.”
* * * *
“Miss Phiwips. Miss Phiwips, I’m hungry.”
“You just had breakfast! Miss Phillips, he just ate!”
“Did not!”
“You did too!”
Not unexpectedly, with the ruckus of preparations for the houseparty and ball only a floor away, the children were having difficulty concentrating on their schoolwork. Helène’s mood was little better; she felt fidgety and out-of-sorts. Nothing to do with Lord Quentin, of course–she’d banished any thoughts of that gentleman from her mind. But the morning dragged on, with the children quarreling at the least provocation, and eventually Helène gave in. Alice was allowed to set out her new collection of watercolors–a gift from Lady Pamela–and Peter happily occupied himself with his beloved wooden blocks.
At mid-morning there was a great commotion–horses whinnying, good-natured shouting and so forth–from the front courtyard. The children jumped up and ran to the windows.
“Oh! Father’s going hunting,” said Alice. “Poor birds.”
“Papa never shoots any birds!” crowed Peter. “He misses!”
“I know he always misses, silly,” said Alice, “but one of the other gentlemen may hit something.”
Helène smiled at this bit of innocent chatter. She came over to the window–only to shoo the children away–and happened to catch
a glimpse of the group below.
He was unmistakable among the others, both in the broadness of his shoulders and the way he carried himself. She watched for a moment until, incredibly, he turned around and looked straight up at the nursery windows. He doffed his hat.
“Oh, look!” said Alice, waving madly. “He sees us! Look, there’s Lord Quentin, Peter! Hallo! Hallo!”
“Lor’ Wentin’! Lor’ Wentin’!” contributed Peter.
“Look, Miss Phillips, he sees us!” But Helène, blushing miserably, was already in full retreat. The rest of the day passed without further incident, although later, the governess could scarce remember anything she or the children might have accomplished.
* * * *
Helène plopped down on her bed and sighed, thinking of the evening meal shortly to come. It was ironic, considering that she had been often hungry only months before, that she now anticipated the marquess’s table with something like dread. Five and six courses, night after night! No wonder these people slept until noon. It was exhausting.
Of course, if she didn’t eat dinner with the family and guests she would have no reason to wear one of her beautiful new gowns. Helène opened the wardrobe and hesitated, wondering how long it would be before the marchioness stopped frowning at the sight of her. The nicer the garment, it seemed, the deeper the frown. Lord Quentin, on the other hand . . .
Bother Lady Sinclair. And bother Charles Quentin, what did she care what he thought? Feeling rebellious, Helène selected a rose tabby with lace-trimmed sleeves and a simple beribboned waist. Lady Pamela had insisted the tabby was unexceptionable for a governess, but there was no ignoring the rather low neckline. Tant pis! She would dress as she pleased.
* * * *
Celia stood in the doorway to her husband’s rooms, her eyes showing the red cast of a recent bout of tears.
“Jonathan,” she began, and waited, but Lord Sinclair was reading his newspaper and showed no sign that he had heard her.
“Jonathan. Who is this new governess? I must know.”
Her husband looked up, his expression mildly questioning. “The new governess? Her name is Miss Helène Phillips, as I recall.”
