by Amy Lake
“Do not move,” commanded the marquess.
“I am quite fine,” she told him, coming to her senses. “And yes, I can move my legs–and feel them, too. They are very cold. Now if one of you gentlemen would be so kind–”
She extended her hand. It was at this moment–he couldn’t have explained the impulse, he only knew that the scare had left him angry and shaken–that Lord Quentin lost his temper.
“You harebrained little fool! You could have been killed! What were you about, not keeping a good hand on the boy?”
Helène hesitated. The marquess, who knew what had happened, and who wished to have a word with his wife before discussing the matter with anyone else, sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He shrugged at Helène.
“You’re quite right, my lord,” said Helène. “It was very foolish.”
This stopped the tirade. “Indeed,” muttered Charles, and he stalked away.
* * * *
Lord Sinclair had an extended, private conversation with his son while the rest of the men sawed off the remaining branches and then roped the tree to a team of horses. The head groomsman was in charge of walking the team to the village, dragging the pine behind them through the snow, while the rest of the party prepared for the evening’s ride in a hayrack. Peter had objected loudly and at length to missing this portion of the day’s entertainment. In the end, Helène and Pamela tucked him and Alice snugly into the hay, covered them with a pile of blankets, and watched for the three or four minutes it took before both children were soundly asleep.
The other guests crowded after them into the racks. Lady Sinclair and Lord Quentin sat together, and although it was difficult to see much in the dark–the torches being reserved for the benefit of horses and driver–Helène caught occasional snatches of their conversation. It was more than she wished to hear. The marchioness had, by this time, imbibed a very large quantity of champagne, and she was a giggly, affectionate drunk.
“Tonight,” she thought she heard Lady Sinclair whisper.
But Helène didn’t catch Lord Quentin’s reply.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The governess can expect immediate dismissal for any of the following indiscretions…
Charles paced back and forth in his bedroom, trying to convince himself that his current state of nervous agitation was in no way his own fault. Two wives under one roof–wasn’t that the ancient symbol for disaster? And even if neither of these two women was actually married to him–
Blast and damn. A man wasn’t meant to live like a monk, whatever the monks might think about it. It was unnatural. But the woman he wanted...
The woman he wanted had just turned down his offer to make her his mistress. He could still hardly believe it. A blasted governess! And he was the heir to the Earl of Tavelstoke! She was really too low-born for him in the first place, he didn’t know why he had even considered offering her carte blanche.
No. No, it had been a mistake from the first. He had any number of ladies–baronesses, countesses, the odd duchess–willing to dance to the tunes he played. He’d had no complaints, he could have his pick–
You don’t want your pick of the current crop of bored ton wives, said the little voice. You want Miss Helène Phillips, impoverished cit, currently employed as governess by the Marquess of Luton.
More fool you.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. Lord Quentin stared at the bedroom door, knowing that at any moment Celia Sinclair could waltz right in. She had done her best to tease him in the hayrack, going so far as to attempt to unbutton his trews, whispering outrageous suggestions in his ear at the same time. It had left him feeling unsettled.
“Relax,” Celia had murmured. “I’m only trying to get warm.”
“Celia. Please.”
A certain amount of such carryings-on was expected, of course; in the black of a January night it was difficult for anyone to see whose hands went where. People crammed into the racks for warmth after an afternoon of brandy and mulled wine–it was almost traditional, really, for some bit of scandalous behavior that was forgotten on the morrow. The marquess was nowhere near and the blankets were a camouflage–
“Mmm,” said Celia.
–but he was aware of a certain auburn-haired chit, sitting next to Alice and Peter in the back of the rack.
Aware that she could hear them, if she wished. And Lord Quentin suspected that Miss Phillips was, indeed, listening.
“I believe he’s offered her carte blanche.”
Lady Pamela warmed her feet in front of the bedroom fire. The hayracks had been snug enough, with all those blankets, but it had been a cold night. Her toes still felt numb.
“Has she accepted?” asked Lady Detweiler, who was warming up in her own way, sipping brandy from an enormous snifter.
“I think not.”
“Smart girl. Carte blanche for a duke’s granddaughter? He should marry her.”
“I rather imagine he thinks it’s a generous offer for a governess.”
“All the more reason you should tell him the truth before he makes a bigger fool of himself,” retorted Lady Detweiler. “He must be absolutely smitten. Celia was practically inside his trousers tonight. Why else would he put her off?”
Lady Pamela sighed. “Well, she is married–”
Amanda snorted.
“–and Jonathan is his best friend. Charles Quentin has rather definite ideas about honorable behavior.”
“I’ve never known a man whose sense of honor trumped his breeches.”
This earned her a snort of laughter from Lady Pamela. “You are,” she told Amanda, “the one truly cynical woman of my acquaintance.”
“Absolument.”
All things considered, thought Pam, it had been a pleasant day, although she felt a chill when she thought about the accident. In her mind’s eye she could still see Peter running toward the fallen tree, Helène trying to catch him. Pamela knew as well as her brother did that Lady Sinclair had had the charge of Peter when he slipped away, and she was furious with Celia for allowing Miss Phillips to take the blame. She had tried to talk to Helène afterwards, but the governess was adamant that–as far as she was concerned–there was nothing to discuss.
“It will all be forgotten in a day or two,” the girl had insisted. “Anything I say now would only antagonize Lady Sinclair.”
There was some truth to that. Lady Pamela decided, for Helène’s sake, not to force the issue. “You may be right,” she told the governess. “I’m not happy with it, but at least Jonathan saw. He knows.”
“I will be content with that.”
But did Lord Quentin know? Helène never asked. Charles had certainly shunned the girl for the remainder of the afternoon, and had not demurred when the marchioness insisted that he accompany her in the hayrack. Fool of a man, decided Lady Pam, forgetting for the moment that she herself had warned him against compromising Helène.
And compromising Lady Sinclair? If Celia continues to be so bold in her current pursuit, thought Pamela, we really will have a scandal. She turned around and looked at Lady Detweiler, frowning.
“Do you think Jonathan cares at all about Celia? They seemed so much in love at first, but I’m no longer quite sure.”
“Hmm.” Amanda considered this. “I think she has a certain vivacity and quickness of spirit that he admires. But your brother tends to be somewhat distant in his affections, and I think it frustrates Celia that he does not fawn over her as if they were both seventeen.”
“And so she flirts openly with Lord Quentin, hoping to draw the marquess’s jealousy–”
“–only to find that Charles has his eyes on a French-speaking governess.”
Lady Pamela laughed. “Yes, well, much as I think Celia behaves abominably at times, I do feel a bit sorry for her.”
“Sorry–!”
“Indeed. Jonathan may seem the docile, oblivious husband, but I can witness to his fundamental stubbornness. We used to have contests when we were child
ren to see who could keep a piece of fresh horseradish in our mouth the longest–”
“How revolting,” said Lady Detweiler.
“–or who could climb out the nursery window and come closest to the edge of the roof. You know, that sort of thing. Now I’m a reasonably obstinate individual myself–”
“I hadn’t noticed,” was the dry reply.
“–but Jonathan always won. In trying to make him jealous, Celia may have found that she’s bitten off more than she can chew.”
“Which would explain the tooth marks on Charles Quentin.”
* * * *
The lord in question spent a restless night dreaming confusedly of an auburn-haired marchioness with green eyes. The dream had been very vivid, and he awoke feeling rather out of sorts with the world and in serious need of female companionship.
He lay in bed thinking that this was all Helène Phillips’s fault. Well, to the devil with her, he’d given her the opportunity of a lifetime and if she didn’t care for his offer, there was always Celia Sinclair. Or . . .
Charles briefly considered the other female houseguests. Lady Pamela was out of the question, Amanda Detweiler too sharp tongued, the viscountess too young and in love with her husband, Lady Harkins... Lady Harkins was unimaginable. Charles shook his head irritably, knowing that it didn’t matter how many other women graced the marquess’s table. He only wanted the one.
This would not do. He had never been at the beck and call of a female and he wasn’t going to start now. If Miss Helène Phillips thought she could play amorous games with him, set him to running after her, she would be surprised. From now on, Charles told himself, he would treat her with the coolness befitting her station. Ignore her, certainly–she’d had her chance. It was over.
He dressed on his own and managed a quick breakfast before visiting the stables, only to find, as if his own thoughts had conjured her up, the stubborn, unappreciative Miss Phillips there before him. Lady Pamela was giving her a riding lesson in one of the smaller paddocks.
An unusual occupation for a January morning, to be sure. But the paddock was sheltered from the wind, and the two women seemed happy enough, so fully occupied with their mounts that they had not noticed him. Charles at once forgot his resolution of not an hour previous and found a spot where he could watch them without being easily seen.
“Steady now,” Lady Pamela was saying. “Take a tighter grip on the reins. There–good.”
Helène Phillips was no rider. Charles found himself holding his breath as she maneuvered the mare along the paddock fence, wobbling slightly but seemingly unafraid.
“Lean forward slightly.” Another admonition from Lady Pam. “No–stay over the withers.”
Miss Phillips leaned forward and, despite her unsteady seat, stroked the mare’s neck. Charles found his eyes wandering to the cut of her riding habit, which fit snugly over pleasing curves. What was a governess doing with such an outfit? he wondered, not knowing that the habit was another gift from Lady Pam. And, come to think of it, why was Pamela teaching the girl to ride at all? It wasn’t a skill her profession demanded. The Sinclair children would be taught to ride by... by the grooms, probably. Someone with experience.
Jonathan’s sister happened to glance his way. She said something to Miss Phillips that Lord Quentin could not catch, and the girl shook her head vigorously. Charles told himself that he had no reason to think they were talking about him. Still, it rankled. He watched the lesson a bit longer and then slipped away to saddle Alcibiades.
You’re doing a fine job of ignoring the chit. Charles didn’t bother to answer the little voice. He was thinking that Miss Phillips was progressing quickly as a horsewoman, and that it would be no time at all before she might accompany him on an early morning ride. This was an energizing prospect. Lord Quentin mounted Alcibiades and headed off, urging the stallion into a gallop the moment they were out of sight of the stables. The image of the wine-red fabric of Miss Phillips’ riding habit as it clung tightly to her form was imprinted on his mind, and Charles found himself imagining what it would be like to take it off, button by tiny button.
Sooner, rather than later, he would prefer.
His thoughts turned to the traditional methods of wooing a mistress. Christmas was only weeks past; perhaps it was not too late for a gift. A nice piece of jewelry might be exactly the way to warm the heart of the stubborn Miss Phillips. But nothing too flashy. A pearl necklace, or a fine locket watch. ’Twould be no more than the work of a few days to ride into London and visit the appropriate shops. He imagined fastening a necklace around Helène’s smooth neck, imagined her lying on the bed beneath him wearing only pearls...
Charles shifted in the saddle. The little voice reminded him that Miss Phillips did not seem the type of woman to be swayed by gifts. But what nonsense! he told himself. If gifts would not do she simply must be made to see reason. There was no comparison between a life as his cher amie and her current position as a governess, ever at Lady Sinclair’s beck-and-call.
Or even worse, he realized, feeling a sudden, cold pricking at his heart. On some other estate. Some household where she would be fair game for any randy lord-of-the-manor that happened along, unable to voice a protest for fear of being dismissed. At the thought of those randy lords Lord Quentin’s expression hardened. He knew more than a few, and more than one young buck who considered governesses a particular delicacy.
“Much better than a scullery maid, my good man,” he remembered Lewisham saying, “and bother all the rules. Who would believe the chit, anyway?”
He would draw Terence Lewisham’s cork, thought Charles, the very next time he saw that odious, brass-faced scoundrel.
* * * *
After the St. Raymond’s Day tree cutting, Helène made a real effort to avoid the notice of Lady Sinclair, whose frown deepened each time she saw the governess. Helène assumed–correctly, as it happened–that Celia knew Lord Quentin had made her an... offer.
Why does she care? wondered Helène. She couldn’t possibly think that I would accept. Besides, if the scene in the hayrack was any indication, the marchioness might well be Lord Quentin’s lover already. Her ladyship didn’t seem to allow minor considerations of propriety to stand in the way of pleasure. Helène would have thought that other members of the party–the marquess, at least, or even Lady Harkins–might have objected to Celia’s behavior, but this did not appear to have occurred.
Can he truly be fond of her?
Helène remembered the flicker of disgust she had seen on Lord Quentin’s face when the marchioness had embraced him those many weeks ago. It had seemed so real, but perhaps her ladyship improved on closer acquaintance. It must be so, thought Helène, shivering in a sudden chill. She couldn’t help but notice that Lord Quentin was now avoiding her. He had barely spoken to her on the occasions she happened to see him walking past the nursery. This had happened several mornings in a row. Disturbing to the children, Helène decided, and she made it a point to close the door.
On another occasion, Lord Quentin chanced to be outside on the same afternoon Alice and Peter built a snow fort on the front lawn. He had watched the children for some time, but without exchanging more than a handful of words with Helène.
Not to mention that he was often attached to Lady Sinclair’s side these days, the marchioness laughing and smiling her delight.
I don’t care if she is his lover, Helène told herself, but the declaration failed to convince.
He offered you carte blanche. He would never have said that to a lady, it was an insult.
All true, thought Helène. So why did she feel so empty? She was warm, well-dressed and fed, and spent her days teaching two wonderful children. How could she even imagine that any man was worth all that?
Worth her reputation. Worth her integrity.
Worth everything, came the reply, and Helène was not quite sure if it was meant as yea or nay.
She really should go to bed. The hallway clock had barely chimed eight, b
ut fatigue was claiming her earlier and earlier. The pace of activity at Luton had, if anything, increased since St. Raymond’s Day, with the formal bal d’hiver–the centerpiece of the winter holidays at Luton–being held in little more than a week. More guests arrived by the day, and Helène had needed to keep a particularly close eye on Peter. This afternoon Lady Sinclair had caught him sneaking popped corn from the tree and there had been a row, which had ended with both children in tears.
“Miss Phillips, your duties are in the nursery,” Celia had said, “with the children. I should not need to worry about them being always underfoot.”
“But we aren’t–!”
“Yes, my lady,” Helène broke in, quashing Alice’s protest.
Under the circumstances, staying in her own rooms as much as possible was probably the safest choice. Helène had never much liked confinement, however, and if she escaped the marchioness’s notice she would escape Lord Quentin’s notice as well. She needed to see him, to show him... what?
That I don’t care, decided Helène. If he leaves Luton Court without seeing me again, he’ll never know how much I don’t care.
With those thoughts in mind, and telling herself that the family and guests were still at dinner, Helène made the short trek downstairs. More mistletoe, she noted, once safely behind the library doors. It seemed that Christmas trimmings remained for some time at Luton Court. Sprigs of the funny, grey-green leaves, embellished with tiny velvet bows, still hung from every conceivable place in the house, and a few not-so-conceivable ones. Helène had been kissed once by the Viscount Dreybridge–who blushed mightily and gave her a quick peck on the cheek–and twice by young Lord Cantingham, a recent addition to the party’s numbers. But not Lord Quentin . . .
At the thought of that particular lord, Helène found herself blushing at nothing in particular.
Drat the man. She refused to behave like a moon-struck girl, and it was hardly likely that Charles Quentin would ever seek her out again, mistletoe or no.
“Good evening, Miss Phillips. Bored with Tacitus already?”
