by Amy Lake
“Is that your mother’s ring?” She had just noticed the band with its sapphire that Helène was twisting on her finger.
“It belonged to my grandmother. My father said that a messenger came to the house one day, about a month after my mother died. He gave a parcel to Aunt Matilde; it was the ring. There was no note... ”
“It’s beautiful.”
“My father didn’t give me the ring until the night before he died. I would have sold it if I’d known. Even though he said it really belongs to the new duke . . .”
The new Duke of Grentham, thought Pamela. Of course. Of course, there must be a new duke–
The governess interrupted her thoughts with a question. “Did you really know my mother?”
“No... ”
* * * *
“What is the matter, maman? Didn’t you see the carriage? Isn’t it beautiful? The lady smiled at me!”
“Don’t talk nonsense, child.”
“She did! She did! And she winked! Who is she, maman? Who is she?” Pamela bounced up and down on the carriage seat, willing her mother to turn around and look. Maman must know them. She knew everybody. Perhaps Pamela could have a ride in that wonderful coach...
“She is no one.”
“But maman!”
The marchioness’s next words were clipped, uttered in an icy tone of voice that her daughter had long since learned to dread.
“She is Guenevieve... Phillips. You are never to speak to her, do you hear me? Never!”
“Helène.”
“Umm?” Helène was staring, unseeing, into the fire.
“This changes everything, you know.”
“Why?”
“Well, your grandfather. The Duke of Grentham.” Pam bit her lower lip, thinking. “Whatever your mother’s sins in the eyes of the ton–”
“My mother was guilty of nothing more than falling in love with a good man!” cried Helène.
“I am not disagreeing with you,” said Lady Pam. “Nevertheless, it will affect your position, your standing in society. Your father was a cit, of course, and you may not be able to marry as you would otherwise–”
“No. Nothing is changed.” Helène found, to her embarrassment, that she could not keep the tears from flowing. “My parents are dead and I am exactly the same person that I was before. I am content to earn my living, and... and to perdition with the ton!”
Lady Pamela blew out her breath, thinking that she had been as guilty as anyone of making certain assumptions about Helène because of her station in life. So easy to dismiss her situation, to fly in like some shining goddess of plenty, bearing lace and silks for the poor governess. It was a lowering thought, to find herself in league with every punched-up dandy and simpering female of the ton. Miss Helène Phillips. Only a governess!
Pamela Sinclair was no hypocrite. She enjoyed the perquisites of wealth, enjoyed the comfortable homes, the beautiful clothes–and if she was diligent in certain activities for the benefit of the poor, well, it was simply her acknowledgment of noblesse oblige. On the other hand, Lady Pam had never countenanced the ton’s easy assumption that an individual outside of their ranks was somehow less than human. She never mistook the circumstances of her birth and breeding for anything other than the sheerest luck.
“But think,” she told Helène, “you might want to marry. A duke’s granddaughter will be forgiven much. You could make a reasonably good match of it.”
“And live among the people who drove my mother to her death?”
Lady Pamela was silent for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” said Helène. “I didn’t mean you, of course.”
“I understand that,” replied Lady Pamela. “But you see, you do mean me. Me and Amanda–and even Alice and Peter, for that matter. I can sympathize with your bitterness. But even if the ton sometimes acts like a pack of sheep–
Helène laughed.
“–it is still made up of individuals. Don’t damn us all. ’Tis an individual you would marry.”
Helène shook her head. “I wouldn’t know where to start. Besides, being a governess isn’t that bad.”
“Here, no. Even Celia has her moments, and annoying as she can be, you’ll never starve at Luton. But all children grow up, and the next position may be much less to your liking.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Not to mention that you have one exceedingly serious fault for a governess.”
“What?” cried Helène, aghast.
“You are very attractive.”
Helène looked up at her in confusion.
“Oh, don’t be naive,” said Lady Pam. “Surely Lord Quentin isn’t the first man to take notice of you, whatever your wardrobe.”
“Lord Quentin!” Helène blushed hotly. Lady Pamela merely raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, Lord Quentin. Don’t tell me you haven’t... well, never mind. I would write you an excellent reference, of course, but I can imagine there are any number of young wives who wouldn’t have you in their house.”
“Wouldn’t have me in the house!” Helène was outraged. “I can assure you that the puffed up gentlemen of the ton hold no interest for me!”
Lady Pamela laughed. “As you say,” she told Helène. “But I won’t hold you to it forever.”
* * * *
Lady Detweiler, of course, was still awake.
“Thank goodness,” she told Pam. “I’d thought you’d retired hours ago. I’m like to die with boredom if you continue to insist on sleeping through the prime of the evening. D’ you suppose James could bring us a bit of brandy?”
“It’s half-past two in the morning.” said Pamela, handing Amanda a decanter.
“Just as I said. Is this Jonathan’s best? Marvelous. Now tell me you are here because you have gossip.”
“Well, as a matter of fact, yes.” She recounted her conversation with Helène. Lady Detweiler was suitably impressed.
“The Duke of Grentham’s granddaughter!”
“Yes,” said Lady Pamela. “ Guenevieve Torrance was her mother.”
“I don’t remember talk of any grandchild.”
“Apparently the old duke cut anyone who dared suggest that he even had daughters,” said Pam. “I don’t think Helène’s birth was much known.”
Amanda burst into peals of laughter. “So our dear Lord Quentin has formed an attachment to a duke’s chit and doesn’t even know it! When will you tell him?”
“I’m not sure I will.”
“Pish-posh. Of course–”
“Do you think he is really developing a tendre for her? They’ve hardly had the chance to speak more than a few words together.”
“Haven’t you been watching him at dinner?”
“Mmm.”
“Well I have. And I would guess,” said Amanda, “that they’ve spoken together more than you might think.”
* * * *
Lady Pamela walked over to her writing desk. She sat down and thought for a few minutes, chin cupped in hands. Should she tell Jonathan what she knew? What was he likely to do? Or Celia?
No. Not yet. Pamela hunted through the desk and managed to find one pen without a broken nib. She took out a sheet of writing paper.
Dear Mr. Witherspoon, wrote Lady Pamela, explaining her present requirements to her man of affairs.
CHAPTER TEN
A governess takes no interest in men.
Helène opened the door quietly and looked out into the hall. Here and there a lone beeswax candle burned in its sconce, but there was no sign of human activity. She mentally reviewed the path she would follow to reach the library, and wondered how likely it was that she would encounter the marchioness or, heaven forbid, Lord Quentin. Surely it would be too great a coincidence to find him there again. It was after midnight, and holiday activities had kept the household busy the entire day. Even the energetic Lord Quentin must be a’bed by now.
Oh, fustian, said a little voice. Why should you care if he... if someone does see you? He admitted himself t
hat you’ve as much right as anyone to borrow one of Lord Sinclair’s books.
She and the little voice had been arguing all evening, and part of her found its logic appealing. There was a part of her, in fact, that thought it might be highly agreeable if she did find Charles Quentin in the library.
Lady Pamela had said that he was interested in her. Helène would have dismissed this idea out of hand if not for the way he had kissed her. As if he wanted to drown in her lips...
Heavens, what nonsense. Blushing, Helène went to the mirror, and decided she was satisfied with what she saw. She was still a trifle thin, but she had filled out during the few weeks at Luton, and her skin was smooth and no longer chapped at the first hint of cold. Helène fussed briefly with her hair, wondering if she dared leave it down for the evening’s excursion. The nightgown–
The nightgown would have to be changed. Helène wasn’t sure what Lady Pamela had been thinking, to ask Madame Gaultier to put together this particular confection. The neckline was nearly indecent, although the cream silk did feel marvelously smooth on her skin. She couldn’t imagine why she even had it on, really. Much too flimsy for a winter’s night.
You’ll have the wrapper on, said the voice. Don’t be a ninnyhammer. Just go.
Helène stood, indecisive, in the middle of the room. She intended only a short trip to the library, hardly a minute’s time, she knew exactly the volumes she wanted–
A soft knock on the door startled her, and she stared at the door for a moment, frowning. Lady Pamela retired at an disgracefully early hour, according to Lady Detweiler, whenever she was at Luton. Alice or Peter? Helène’s heart skipped a beat, wondering if one of the children had been taken ill. Peter had the sniffles that morning, but surely the nanny would have informed her earlier if–
Another knock. Helène opened the door to see... Charles Quentin. He was holding a volume of Tacitus.
“You’ve been avoiding the library, and I should think you’re bored silly by now. May I come in?”
This was an outrageous request, and he surely knew it. If she allowed a man in her rooms –at midnight, yet!–the marchioness wouldn’t be too far wrong to call her a whore.
“No!” she hissed, allowing herself one covetous glance at the Tacitus. “Are you mad? Lord Sinclair will dismiss me!”
“Oh, is that the problem?” he said, flashing her a grin. Helène felt trapped. “Well, I can assure you that neither he or the marchioness will ever find out.”
“No, that isn’t the problem! Go away!”
“Mademoiselle–”
They both heard it at the same time. The sound of footsteps on the staircase at the end of the hall. Celia Sinclair’s voice.
“You planned this!” hissed Helène, furious.
“No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t.” Lord Quentin looked over his shoulder, and she sensed that he was worried. “Don’t be a ninny. Let me in or there really will be a fuss. ”
“Oh, bother it all!”
She stood aside and Lord Quentin nipped in, closing the door very softly behind him. For a long moment he stood silent, staring at her. Helène realized she was still wearing only her nightgown. She was both embarrassed and livid.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked him. “Do you think I can afford to lose my position here?”
“Quiet,” he hissed back at her. “Celia will be gone in a moment, and then I’ll leave.”
“What if someone saw you at my door? What if someone sees you leave? The marchioness–” Helène stopped, realizing that she was about to say something very unflattering about Lady Sinclair.
“The marchioness will have you hung by your toes from the ramparts, yes, I know.” Lord Quentin grinned.
“All very easy for you to laugh at!” Helène was finding it difficult to express the extent of her outrage in a whisper. “You and rest of your precious haut ton. Your idea of a large problem may be a poorly tied cravat, but I can assure you, monseigneur, that losing my position here is no–”
He stepped forward and stopped her tirade with a kiss.
“Mmph!” said Helène, trying to push him away. The kiss was gentle but his hands on her back were...
“Mmm,” said Helène.
Why did this man exert such an effect on her? Helène tried to fix her mind on her predicament–the fact that he had no business being in her room, that she would be ruined, dismissed–but nothing she could think of at that moment made his mouth and his hands feel any less wonderful.
“Shh,” said Lord Quentin. His lips left hers and trailed softly across the line of her jaw to the hollow of her neck. She heard a soft thud and realized that the volume of Tacitus had dropped to the floor. Helène stopped pushing. She began to sag, unresisting, feeling her body sink into a pair of strong arms.
She was hardly aware that Lord Quentin had reached behind her to turn the key of the door lock. He lifted her as if she weighed nothing and carried her to her own bed. Helène felt the soft cotton duvet at her back and then she was floating, aware of nothing more than his hands on her back, his lips trailing across her collarbone. She clutched at the fine wool of his jacket as he shifted his weight onto the bed. A soft sigh escaped her lips.
“Mmm,” said Lord Quentin. He seemed to be in no more prudent or sensible a frame of mind than Helène. She saw his eyes close, and felt his hands moving hotly over her breasts. He murmured words she could not hear.
Her nightgown was little more than a wisp of fabric, and Helène could feel every muscle of Lord Quentin’s chest as he crushed her against him. His hands descended to her lower back, then returned to her breasts.
They lay together on her bed for some uncounted time, and Lord Quentin’s caresses became gradually more insistent. Helène felt herself sinking deeper and deeper into the duvet. A voice inside her said that this was no more than a dalliance for him, lasting perhaps no longer than a night or two, and that she could never be happy with a relationship of that kind.
Or could she? His hands felt better on her body than anything she had imagined. What did it matter, after all? Who was there to care what she did? Lord Quentin was kissing her again, passionately, urgently, and as an experiment Helène touched the tip of her tongue to his lips.
It was as if she had set him on fire. He moaned and shifted fully on top of her, fumbling at the buttons of his breeches.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured into her ear, “I wish–”
The rest of his words were lost in another moan, and the effect would perhaps have been more romantic if she hadn’t immediately heard her father’s voice–
Pretty is as pretty does.
“Lord Quentin,” said Helène, struggling to sit up. “Please.”
“No one will find out,” he gasped, nuzzling at her breasts. “I promise you no one will find out.”
Who was there to care what she did?
She cared.
Charles was no longer thinking clearly. He was no stranger to the boudoir, of course, and the position he now found himself in–entwined with a gorgeous woman on top of a bed–was a position he had been in many times before.
But the beauty on this occasion seemed to be having second thoughts, and Lord Quentin was having difficulty bringing himself under control. Damn the chit, anyway, had she bewitched him? He couldn’t even look at Miss Helène Phillips without becoming aroused. And now...
And now they were in her bedroom, the whole night ahead of them, and his mind was awash with desire. Desire was all he could think about, all he could feel.
He needed her more than he remembered needing any woman before.
“Lord Quentin, please,” said the girl. She pushed weakly at his chest.
He rolled away from her and stretched out on his back, feeling irritable, very irritable. How could the blasted girl ask him to stop now?
Charles had conveniently forgotten that only a few minutes earlier he had essentially forced himself into Helène’s room. At the moment his thoughts were focusing
more on the fact that he was the heir to an earldom and she was merely a governess. She ought to be jumping at the chance to be . . .
To be what? He hadn’t thought much further ahead than the next few minutes. Perhaps that was the real problem. Miss Helène Phillips was an intelligent woman. Too intelligent to engage in a brief affair, especially with Celia on the prowl, perhaps waiting for an excuse to be rid of her.
Charles recovered his equilibrium, and was cheered by a sudden inspiration. Helène Phillips would become his mistress. Of course. They would need to be discrete until he was able to return to London, but certainly she would be delighted at the prospect, and be willing to–
To indulge him. Tonight. Right now, in fact.
He endured an almost painful tightening of his groin at the thought. She would be delighted, overjoyed! And what woman wouldn’t be, to be the mistress of Lord Charles Quentin? No more worries about money, about letters of reference, about Celia Sinclair–it was the perfect solution, for both of them. He would settle Miss Phillips in a fine London townhouse, and spend night after night after night . . .
A small, incoherent sound escaped his lips. Helène was saying something...
“Lord Quentin!”
Charles realized that he had been idly caressing her breasts with his hand. He grinned at Helène and leaned over her so that she was pinned on her back between his arms. Her thick auburn hair spread out in waves over the coverlet and every curve of her body was limned by the thin silk chemise.
“I have an idea,” he began.
“Lord Quentin, I must insist you let me up immediately! I’m terribly sorry that I didn’t say so at once, but– ”
“Mmm,” said Charles. “You look adorable when you are angry.”
It was true. Miss Phillips’s eyes flashed green fire and her mouth formed an ‘O’ of protest. He kissed it. Following a brief tussle–which Charles found almost unbearably stimulating–the girl pushed him away and sprang from the bed.
“Get out!” cried Miss Phillips, when she could finally speak.
“For heavens sake, keep quiet!” warned Charles, wincing and rising to his feet. He hoped that nobody had been passing by in the hallway at that particular moment.
