His Tempting Governess
Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 2
Cerise DeLand
Copyright © 2019 by Cerise DeLand
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Wilma Jo-Ann Power writing as Cerise Deland/W. J. Power Publisher
www.cerisedeland.com
Images: Period Images
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9916581-8-3
Created with Vellum
Contents
Begin laughing!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Epilogue
Travels with Cerise
His Naughty Maid,
Who is Cerise DeLand?
Also by Cerise DeLand
Begin laughing!
If you love witty historical romance, starring endearing heroes and sassy heroines featuring (gasp!) servants, this upstairs, downstairs comedy is for you!
A bemused earl. A governess disguised. A forbidden love and a terrible wrong that must be made right!
At No.18, Baldwin Summers, the Earl of Cartwell, deals with innumerable problems. At thirty-six, he’s changed. He’s no longer known as ‘Win’, famous hero of Waterloo, but hailed as his profligate brother’s heir. He’s pensioned off his two mistresses and very tired of gambling. Yes, too, his mother presses him to marry—but he’d rather remove his spleen with a pickle fork than wed any young peagoose.
Suddenly he contends with another matter. He’s had thrust upon him guardianship of his friend’s eight-year-old daughter. Though she tickles him with her wit…and her exotic pets, the child needs a firm hand. With no idea how to mold her into a socially acceptable creature, he hires a governess.
However, that woman presents his most pressing problem. She enchants his ward. But she’s beguiling him as well. And it’s a wonder because she is so very...odd. She must be in disguise because she is quite educated, defeats him every time at chess—and dances. In his upstairs hall. Alone.
He cannot ignore her. He cannot control her. Worse, he cannot quell his mad desire to kiss her.
She is a joy, a temptation and a mystery. With a problem.
Stubborn, she refuses to allow him to help.
He won at Waterloo. But can we win the woman he loves?
* * *
Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent series:
Her Beguiling Butler, Book #1
His Tempting Governess, Book #2
His Naughty Maid, Book #3
Though this book is part of a series, it can easily be read as a stand-alone.
Chapter 1
May 1820
No. 18, Dudley Crescent
London, England
Cartwell blew out an impatient breath as his town coach rounded the entrance to the crescent. With a frown at his watch, he stuck it back in his waistcoat pocket. But he knew that his candidate would not leave because he was late to her interview.
Most likely, she needed the job.
Just as I need a woman for it—and immediately, too.
“At least this choice is easier than selecting one for that other position.” He crossed his arms. Finding a wife was a tougher task. One he did not relish. In fact, candidates for the position of his countess became fewer and fewer as he became acquainted with each.
“Nor am I relishing the idea of marriage to someone who knows only the earl, Colonel Lord Cartwell,” he muttered to himself. Not that truer man, Colonel Baldwin Summers. Win. Simply Win.
His coachman slowed to a stop in front of his townhouse.
Cartwell winced at the possible outcomes of this afternoon’s event. First, and most likely, he’d be deserted in his own drawing room within minutes. Eleven to be precise. He knew the limit because he’d checked his watch. After each interview. Second, less probable, he’d have his ears boxed. That, he’d not had the displeasure of since he’d ridden his father’s prize mare bareback one fine dawn twenty-five years ago. Third, least probable of all, he’d welcome the newest inhabitant to Number 18 with a polite smile, gratitude and foreboding in his heart. Heaven knew, he’d had too many encounters with unacceptable women these past few days. Why should this one be any different?
He sighed. How he longed to cease his endless quest for the perfect female. Correction, two perfect females.
If indeed such perfection existed.
The footman opened the carriage door.
Cartwell stepped out and jaunted up the steps to the entry to his home. As he gained the porch, his butler pulled open the door.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” Shrewsbury said. The old fellow deflected his rheumy gaze to the Turkish carpet. Indeed he swayed at the gust of spring breeze that blew through the door and ruffled the remaining ten white strands of hair on his noble pate.
Cartwell took pains to smile at his servant. Not that Shrew would see that. His eyesight worsened daily. It didn’t do to have a butler who was blind. Hell. It was long past time to retire the gent. If Shrew would agree to go. How old was the man? Seventy? He was much too fragile to keep fully employed. Especially with their three new residents snapping at his heels.
Correction. Snapping at everyone’s heels.
“Thank you, Shrewsbury.” Cartwell handed over his cane, gloves and hat and allowed the servant to take his coat. “Might I hope our latest applicant has arrived on time for her interview?”
“She has, my lord. I led her into the drawing room as you instructed.”
“Very good. I will see her now.” Cartwell shot his cuffs, smoothed the points of his waistcoat and prepared himself for the ordeal of entering the front room. “No need to announce me, Shrewsbury. I wish to do this quickly. And afterward, you should rest. Read the broadsheets. Have tea.”
“Yes, my lord, I understand. But as to the interview, shall I do as I have done with the others?”
Cartwell hated like the devil to precipitate such a chaotic scene in his house. Again. But it would be so. He could predict it like the world would turn. Or night would come. Blast it. “Sadly, yes, Shrewsbury. Do send them in after ten minutes.”
The butler nodded. “If they’ll come.”
“Yes, well.” Cartwell tipped his head this way and that in consideration. “Do what you can. The promise of chocolate worked well.”
“Bribe them, you mean?”
“Yes, Shrewsbury. We do as we must. Even Bonaparte knew the value of a good bribe.”
The craggy old butler scowled, his bushy brows dipping low into his eyes. “As you wish, my lord.”
Cartwell inhaled, girding himself for battle. Ready, are we? Time is now or never.
He strode to the drawing room door then hesitated. “Shrewsbury, remind me again of this one’s name.”
“Swanson, my lord. Isabelle.”
Ah, yes. Her refe
rence came through the wife of a fellow officer and friend who’d served with him on the Continent and in Paris after Bonaparte’s final defeat. Cartwell had every reason to trust Blessington’s wife. He’d met her only twice, but she seemed level-headed plus she and his friend had two children. She must know what he needed in a governess.
Pausing before the parlor doors, Cartwell hoped to God he would regret nothing about hiring anyone for his charge. He thrust open the doors and glanced about the room in search of his visitor.
He’d seen so many applicants these past two weeks and all of them, surprisingly, had looked alike. Grey hair. Tall. Nearly as tall as he, most of them. Alarming to meet a woman eye-to-eye when one is six feet-two inches. And all were formidable. One looked far healthier than the blacksmith near the Tower. They all dressed plainly, too, in browns or yes, grey. Was there a rule that all potential governesses dressed only in drab hues?
Certainly, all were stalwart. Ramrod straight. As if someone had poured them into their clothes when they’d been molten metal. And then they’d cooled. To ice. Blocks of it. Their torsos, their hair, their mouths.
He had shuddered at the look of each one. Gad. How many had there been here on his carpet?
Five? No, six. Not counting the one who had taken one minute to observe the menagerie before her and promptly cried. Shrieked, actually, until he and Shrew had taken her arm and assisted her swiftly to the front door.
But to look at this one was even more shocking.
Because she was not like them, not one of them. Not at all.
Thank the divine maker.
Well, to be precise, he should thank his maker after he spoke to this vision in pink.
Pink.
Why pink? Most women wore black or mauve, all still in mourning for old King George who had died in January. Even he still wore a black armband.
But this woman wore glorious pink. Dotted with embroidered purple butterflies.
He didn’t care. He could only take her in. She stood by the mantel. Inches shorter than he or any of the other candidates who’d appeared before him in this room. She was petite and lithe, bent over his chessboard, his white knight in her right hand. That took him aback, not simply because she had taken the liberty of moving one of his game pieces, but most notably because she did not stand in that signature posture, same as her predecessors, which he’d call poker-up-the-arse.
“Miss Swanson?”
“Oh! My lord!” She whirled and he wasn’t certain if she addressed him or appealed to her god.
He, on the other hand, smiled. Not what he was wont to do with the other women who had aspired to his staff opening.
She plunked the knight to the deal table and curtsied. “Lord Cartwell.”
He nodded. He’d assumed his brother’s title so recently, he wasn’t used to this new formality.
She offered another curtsey, graceful and more composed. “Good afternoon, sir.”
Well, it certainly was now for him.
He smiled, careful to subdue his grin. Wouldn’t do to be forward.
She was a beauty, a refreshing change from the dour females who had appeared before him. She wore the pink gown like a princess, complementing her ivory complexion and dark elegant brows. Her lashes fluttered. Nervous again?
But why?
Ah, the Army had trained him so well to appear imposing, frightful actually.
As if she remembered some injunction, she stiffened and regarded him with what he’d come to know as ‘the governess’ glassy-eyed stare’. But her attempt at a frozen demeanor was minimal, insignificant compared to the rest of her.
The beautiful rest of her. A jaunty little straw hat of purple straw capped ink black hair that she’d drawn back into a severe knot at her nape. Her heart-shaped face was pulled too damn tightly into that coif, making her a wizened mess. Still she was all the more striking for her flawless skin and her large almond-shaped eyes of emerald green. High cheekbones. An elegant full mouth the color of his Grandmother Buck’s blush roses. A long neck that drifted to a full bosom, tiny waist, full skirts. Shoes. Embroidered silk shoes. Dancing shoes. Unscuffed. And new?
Odd, that. Was she not in need of a position?
He motioned to the white knight. “You had an idea how best to move him?”
She glanced at the chessboard and frowned. “I did, my lord. Forgive me.”
He put up a hand. “No need to apologize. I debated how to use him. What would you do?”
“I—I’d place him to the left of the black bishop to block the black knight.”
“I see.” He took a few steps closer to her and caught a whiff of rosemary fragrance. Fresh and clean. No cloying French scents for her.
She bit her lower lip. “In two moves, he would protect his white queen. I thought…I’m sorry to have disrupted your play, sir. I hope you and your opponent will forgive me. I can be…” She looked forlorn. “Impetuous.”
“A characteristic not usually associated with governesses.”
“No, my lord. That’s true.” Her shoulders sagged. She threw him a wan smile. “But I have other qualities to recommend me.”
I would wager that’s so. “I want to hear them.”
“Really, sir?” She widened her eyes.
“If, for handling my knight, you thought I’d show you the door—”
“I did.”
“You were wrong.”
She clasped her hands together. “I’m grateful.”
“And I am in need of a governess, Miss Swanson. I’ve had others here on my carpet and I’ve been amused by none of them. Instructed by none, either.”
“Instructed, sir?” She was flummoxed. “You want a governess to teach you lessons?”
Well, that sounded vaguely…hmm…risqué. Having just pensioned off two boring mistresses, he needed no lessons in those arts.
”No, Miss Swanson. I think we have gone far afield from our intended conversation.“ He stopped before her, clasping his hands behind his back. This close he noted how delicate her cheeks, how plush her lips. How appealing. And exciting. Oh, that would not do. She would live here, close. So close.
He cleared his throat. “Miss Swanson, please do sit.”
“Thank you.” She sank to the chair as delicately as if she were a guest at a ball. “I am honored to be invited for an interview.”
She clasped her hands together in her lap and he noted that they shook.
He would never frighten her. She was so slight of frame, so refined that it would be a sin for any man to alarm this stunning creature. A protective streak, borne of years in the army and diplomatic corps, told him she was a young woman who’d been tenderly reared and educated. And did her fear come from being poorly treated by others? “Would you care for tea?”
“Oh, no, my lord. Thank you. No tea for me.”
“As you wish.” He shook himself to attention. One did not offer tea to a person interviewing for a position as a servant. ”Well, then. You come to me recommended by Lord Blessington and his wife as well as the vicar in Crawley.”
“I am grateful for their kind words.”
“Know them well, do you?”
“Lord Blessington’s wife and I have known each other since we were children.”
That Lady Blessington had not told him. “I see.”
“We had many years instruction in piano from the same tutor.”
So Miss Swanson could play the piano. Noteworthy. “And the vicar?”
“I know him less well, my lord. He is new to his position and…others…nearby…recommended me to him.”
He smiled at her. She returned the expression and he sucked in air at the glory of seeing joy on her face. Damn, he must stop his enchantment with her looks. He needed severity during such an interview. He paced instead, hands behind his back. She was not here to decorate his house or his life. Here to work, and he’d best be about deciding if she were fit for the job. “I understand you are not a novice at teaching children.”
“Yes
.” She blushed on an admission that had her biting her lower lip. Her lovely lower lip. “I’ve taught the parish orphans. Occasionally.”
Was it his imagination that she appeared wounded, unsure of herself? He didn’t wish to frighten her. He could. His mother often told him to give over. Years in the army training men to kill could make one appear an ogre.
She shifted, appearing more uneasy.
He inhaled. Not his task to feel protective toward her, nor to find her attractive. But she looked young, fresh from the schoolroom herself. The governess he needed to hire for his charge had to be a veritable dragon. “Forgive me, Miss Swanson. If I may be so bold to ask, how old are you?”
She did not flinch at the personal question. “Twenty-four, my lord. My twenty-fifth birthday is next month.”
“Still, you are young.” Yet older than most who would take a position as a governess.
Her dark green gaze locked on his. “I am of age, my lord. “
“What were the ages of your charges?”
“Four and five years old. Two were seven.”
“Did the older ones challenge your authority?”
“No,” she declared with a finality that gratified him, “they did not.”
“Why not?”
Her delicate chin came up and those astonishing green eyes clashed with his. “One does not allow for informality.”
Her tone was as sharp as his razor. It sliced. Memories of other such tones from his own governess resurrected. She had learned somewhere, somehow how to intimidate. Useful, he knew, for one in her position. Even if her tone was abrasive. “How, Miss Swanson, does one not allow for it?”
His Tempting Governess: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 2 Page 1
