His Tempting Governess: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 2

by DeLand, Cerise

  “Kringle!” Izzy was right behind him and grabbed for his ruff.

  But he slipped from her grasp and took off after Lady Osgood.

  The woman yelped and ran like a bat from hell. Pulling Rose along, she careened toward the opposite gate and the street.

  “No, no, Kringle!” Izzy broke into a trot. Behind the dog, the lady and her child, into the street.

  Horses clomped along the cobbles.

  The dog caught a mouthful of Lady Osgood’s skirts.

  Her daughter yelled.

  The woman stumbled. Face down upon the street.

  “Whoa! Halt there!” a man roared.

  Horses whinnied.

  Men bellowed.

  Izzy raced to help up Lady Osgood.

  “Up! Miss,” Daphne screamed, “get up!”

  Izzy lifted her head, her hands out to the woman splayed face down before her.

  A black hackney careened toward them.

  With a huge shove, Izzy rolled the lady away. Then she pushed herself up with both arms.

  I cannot die today.

  She began to rise, run, but—

  * * *

  “Is she well?” Daphne tugged at Win’s arm as they hurried along.

  “I don’t know yet, my dear.” He raced across the park to the opposite side of the gate.

  The precious burden in his arms had fainted.

  Good thing. Whatever her injuries she could take time to learn them. Time enough until he examined her and got tincture of morphine for her pain. When a man fainted from shock of his impairments, to get him drugged soon after consciousness was always a good tactic. One could do more damage to oneself writhing in pain.

  “Run ahead, Daphne. Get Shrew!”

  His ward rushed ahead. Though Miss Swanson was a petite creature, he—curse it all— with his gimpy leg did not go forth with the vigor of a whole man. He would reward Daphne for her speed to pound on the front door.

  He hobbled along, up the curb, up his steps…whereupon Shrew yanked open the door and howled in horror.

  “In here, my lord. Here, here.” The butler pointed to the night watchman’s inglenook chair and Win sank to it.

  He settled her in his arms with tender care. Her cheeks were scratched. Her pristine complexion marred by filthy, bloody scrapes. In the days since he’d hired her, he’d not been so close to her loveliness and never had he imagined he’d view it in these hideous circumstances.

  “Get me linens,” he told his man. “Fresh water. Juice of a lemon. My medical kit. Set another pot of water to boil. Hurry.”

  And off Shrew scurried.

  Daphne stood before him, tears streaming down her cheeks. The dog stood at her side, the monkey too. All quiet, contrite. “She tried to save that lady.”

  “Is that what it was?” he murmured as he settled Isabelle Swanson more securely into his embrace. He’d heard only the shouts of his coachman and the chaos of women and children in the street. When his man had finally stopped his town coach, Win had jumped from the cab into the street to see Miss Swanson sprawled there.

  And his heart had leaped from his chest.

  He curled her close, her lithe body limp against his own.

  Swanson’s black lashes fluttered. Hope pierced his frozen mind.

  He untied the green silk ribbon of her straw bonnet and lifted it away. Her pins came with it and as they fell, the black river of her hair flowed over his arm. He undid the button at her throat. The prim printed cotton gave way to the hollow where he wished he might kiss her awake, aware, whole.

  She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes and fighting for recognition. She tried for words but found none.

  “Don’t move. You are safe. I have you.”

  “Daphne?” Swanson croaked, her gaze roaming until she found her charge.

  “Yes, Miss.” The little girl fought valiantly to smile.

  “You are well?”

  “She is,” Win offered. “Lady Osgood, too.”

  “You saved her, Miss,” Daphne said with pride.

  Swanson closed her eyes, her head lolling on his arm. “Thank heavens.”

  But then she winced and curled against him in pain. “Sorry, sir.”

  “No apologies, Miss Swanson.” He stroked her head, her hair thick satin beneath his fingers.

  She raised a hand to touch her cheek and pulled back at her touch.

  He set his teeth when he saw how her palm was red and raw with blood.

  “I—I fainted?”

  “You did.” He rejoiced that she could move one arm. No broken bones in that one. Nor did she cry out in pain from other broken limbs.

  Her lovely mouth quivered. Her brilliant emerald eyes searched his. “What happened, sir?”

  “From what I gather, you had some conversation in the park with the illustrious Lady Osgood and it did not go well.” He caught Daphne’s eye.

  His ward bit her lower lip. “The lady does not like animals, my lord.”

  The lady does not like humans, my dear. “So she ran from all of you?”

  “Well, sir.” Daphne shifted her mouth from one side to the other in contemplation of what to reveal to him. “Kringle ran after her.”

  “That is not well done, Daphne. Look what’s happened.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Our Miss Swanson is hurt. And her injuries could have been much worse. We will speak of this later.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Win liked Daphne’s repentance. A good sign of integrity. So he smiled at her as his butler approached with a small bowl of water and his old leather campaign kit. Under his arm, he had tucked white linens. “Here is Shrewsbury, Miss Swanson, with items for your care.”

  That had her pushing at his chest. “Oh, no, sir. I must not.”

  He stiffened his arm around her. “You will not move, Miss Swanson, until I have seen to your welfare.”

  “This is not seemly.”

  “Nothing about it is seemly, Miss Swanson. From the dog chasing a neighbor. To everyone racing into the street. I quite agree. Now, Shrewsbury, do set down that bowl. Squeeze the lemon in the water. Here, Daphne, make yourself useful, my dear. Dip this in the cool water and squeeze out the excess. Yes, like that. Now hand me the linen. Yes. Very good.”

  He dabbed at Miss Swanson’s poor abused cheeks. She wiggled and winced, but she did not run.

  Brave.

  As well as caring and lovely.

  * * *

  “You are very good at this,” she told him as she endured his ministrations.

  He met her gaze with a hint of a smile, but returned to his work. Daubing her cheeks with his lemon water, he was not only dedicated but tender.

  But remaining here on his lap, no less, was very unladylike. She wished to squirm but to do so would make matters much worse. She was already much too warm. Her legs over his, much too intimately. Her breasts crushed against his chest, much too enticingly. His arm around her back, much too daringly. As if he embraced her like a lover. At that sweet possibility, she pressed her thighs together.

  “Ouch!” The fresh application of lemon water to her cheek made her recoil.

  “My apologies, my dear.” He went on, daubing at her cheeks, unaware, it seemed, of his endearment.

  She flinched. “Really, sir. I must stand up. I’m fine.”

  He set her to her feet to the marble floor and changed places with her. “No. I shall rise and you will sit. There is more to do.”

  Whereupon he led her to take up his prior seat in the night watchman’s chair. Then he knelt before her like a suitor. Her Ivanhoe.

  Tempted to kiss his marvelous lips in thanks, she trained her gaze to the semi-dome far above the entry. She allowed him to go on administering to her, caring for her as no man had since her papa had tended a scraped knee.

  “Almost finished with removing the dirt of the street. Now,” he said as he twisted open the lid of a glass pot from his worn brown kit, “my liniment. Meant to soothe your skin.”


  “What’s in it?” She flinched at the cool salve but welcomed its calming effect upon her cheeks.

  “A mix. Oil from lamb’s wool and a dropper of laudanum.”

  “Ah. Which is what?”

  “A tincture of opium. Quiets the skin. Improves the chances of quick recovery.”

  “You’ve used it often?” She wondered if he’d had it with him in the wars.

  “I have,” he said as he twisted the top back on the pot. “One must be prepared for all sorts of injuries in the field. Used this in greater amounts on my wounded. This cream is but a small remedy.”

  “I’m grateful for your help. To save me from the carriage.”

  “My dear Miss Swanson. That is my coachman whom you must thank for his quick wits. I came to your assistance after the fact.”

  “I will thank him. Today.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “But—”

  “Shrew will convey your thanks for you now.”

  Shrew? She recalled how Daphne had called the man that. She fought a giggle, but her cheeks hurt. She carefully said, “I need to say my thanks, sir.”

  “I will do it myself, then. Will that satisfy you?”

  Stubborn man. “Yes. Until tomorrow. Thank you.”

  “Splendid.” Lord Cartwell gave her a broad grin that lit his handsome face to angelic heights. “He will be delighted, I’m sure.” He extended his hand to help her up. “Now then, I suggest you go for a nap.”

  “Oh, but it’s time for Daphne and I to—”

  “No, it isn’t. Daphne and I must have a discussion about training her animals.”

  She understood she mustn’t interfere with his right to instruct his ward according to his wishes. And she trusted that in his discretion, he would not be harsh but pointed. She dipped a curtsey. “As you wish. I want to help in that regard.”

  “Excellent. And Miss Swanson?”

  “Yes?”

  “I expect to see you no sooner than breakfast tomorrow looking well rested and as lively as your usual self.”

  Chapter 5

  Cartwell glanced down the long table of his hosts, Lord and Lady Blessington, and marveled at the feminine pulchritude on display. Plump cheeks, shining hair, voracious smiles and an abundance of bosoms graced the party. The girls cooed at the right moments, preened at any given chance and showed their eagerness to catch Win Summers in their snare.

  Not one could match the beauty of face and form nor the courage he admired in his charming governess. Nor could any one of them deter him from wondering how she was this evening. Did she recover from her dramatic rescue of Lady Osgood this afternoon? Did she sleep? He’d wished he could have wrapped her up in his arms and whisked her to his rooms where he would have continued to nurse her and coddle her.

  Alas. Propriety had demanded he keep his distance.

  He drained the wine in his goblet.

  Blessington, at the other far end of the table, caught his move and struggled with a grin. While Bless and his wife, Katherine, had decreed this dinner party their effort to bring Win out in society, what Win wished to do was ask Kat about Isabella Swanson. Kat had recommended her with only brief summary and Win hoped to learn more about his intriguing employee. So far this evening, he’d had no opportunity to ask her discreetly. And in the meantime, their party had its desired effect. They showed him a bevy of suitable debutantes from which to choose a bride. Among this guest list of thirty were arrayed for him no fewer than eight darlings of wealth and breeding.

  A footman bent over his shoulder, offering with one elegant extension of his arm, the second course.

  The sweet child to his right leaned slightly his way. “Lady Blessington tells me you have a new young ward. Eighteen, is she?”

  Gossip had a way of exaggerating many facts. Or more like it, this young woman sought to bring him out to play. “I do indeed have a young girl who has come to me. The daughter of one of my friends who sadly passed away. She is eight years old.”

  “Oh, how sad for her to lose her father,” Lady Dora Penrose said. “How does she fare with you?”

  “As well as you might expect what with a new home and missing her parents.” He disliked these conversations in which he was prodded and poked about his ward. The child deserved her privacy and perspective to recover from her sorrows.

  “I’m sure she appreciates your largesse to take her to your care.”

  “I give her time.”

  And though he attempted to devote himself to his baked flounder, she persisted. “I understand you engage carpenters and plasterers to remodel your country home.”

  His mother had been busy telling others how he prepared for a new bride. “I do. My father and brother did let the place to wrack and ruin. I seek to correct their failures.”

  She nodded, appreciation in the curve of her lips. “Noble of you.”

  Necessary. “The roof leaks. The tower stairs are open to the rain and four head of cattle have found their way up the steps only to fall to their deaths.”

  Lady Dora paused, a hand to the swell of her well-rounded décolletage. “You’re joking?”

  “Not at all.” He leveled a rueful glance at her.

  She giggled. “Oh, I am sorry!”

  “Don’t be. I have to find the humor in the fact. Glad you do too. But you must know, that is not all.” He might as well regale her with the horrors of his house. “We have mice in the parlor.”

  “No!”

  “And the ballroom requires a new coat of paint. But we will wait to fix that since we have no use for it for at least another year.” In deference to the death of King George the Third in January, the royal court had declared mourning and no one gave lavish entertainments. Until Prinny ended official mourning for his father with his coronation, the ton could expect only dinner parties such as this one. Win wished Miss Swanson were beside him talking, but then governesses as a rule were not invited to such functions.

  “Yes, sad, isn’t it?” Lady Dora said, pushing her fish around her plate instead of eating it. “I do so wish our new king would break a new mold and declare us all able to enjoy ourselves.”

  I’ve been rather pleased by it. No reason to rush to judgment on a wife. He chastised himself for being a real stick about his need to choose. “What do you like to do in the interim, Lady Dora?”

  “Walk in Papa’s gardens. Go to Maiden Lane for an ice and then to my dressmakers.”

  Flowers. Food and fashion. Of course, what else? He was going to go home and drink brandy. Heavily. Or better, find my governess awake and offer her a glass. Or best of all, invite her to the hall and dance with her.

  Blessington fluttered one eye. Win lowered one of his. Their old signal of mutual boredom had saved them from embarrassing moments when their commanders had given long orations and scant orders. In social situations these past five years since the end of the wars, the two old friends had relieved themselves of endless moments of utter tedium. Better than drinking oneself to death to forget the horrors of the field.

  A footman appeared to refill his wine glass. Win relished a large swallow. Might he look at his pocket watch? Must be getting to ten o’clock or later. His house would most likely be quiet. His ward asleep. These past few nights, Daphne had not awakened at all. He hoped she was fast asleep tonight, despite the excitement of this morning’s near accident.

  And what about the fascinating Miss Swanson?

  He could not suppress a smile. Miss Isabelle Swanson had enjoyed a nap, so said Shrew. Then later in the afternoon, she’d taken the child well in hand to discuss the incident in the park. The monkey would need more taming to subdue his constant talk and infernal jumping. Meanwhile the dog was ordinarily a placid soul. Save for his pursuit of Lady Osgood today, Kringle was less a problem.

  In fact, Win rather liked Kringle. He reminded him of his own pet, one he’d kept in Spain early in the Peninsula campaign. A mongrel who’d adopted Win, Bing was black and bright and eager to please, following at his left heel
like a proper adjutant. Killed by a bomb at Badajoz. Breaking his heart as much as when one of his men died or lost a limb, an eye or his mind.

  He inhaled, chasing the old terrors of blood and filth that usually overcame him only in dead of night.

  “Don’t you agree, my lord?”

  “Agree? I’m sorry. ” He glanced at the lady to his left. “What were you saying?”

  “I wonder, my lord, if you miss your army life?”

  This woman was blonde but no beauty, the daughter of a viscount, older and on the shelf by many standards. Her forwardness to ask such an intimate question of him gave him to believe this was one reason she’d not met with success in the marriage mart.

  “I do, Miss Stewart. I’m struggling to learn the challenges of running an estate.” Particularly one so run down by mismanagement and neglect. “My estate manager is a wise man and we get on. But I’ve had occasion to worry that many of his recommendations come too late to save my crops this year.”

  “Might I suggest you talk with my father? I know it is not often done but he had a similar need when he inherited from his papa. He changed the type of crops they grew in different fields and rotated them more.”

  Win considered her in a new and favorable light. This one had wisdom and forthrightness about her. To add to her kind demeanor, she had a twinkle in her brown eyes and a pleasant voice.

  He could hear his mother now. “Might she not do, Win?”

  He grimaced. His mother, a stickler for protocol, could not yet accept that he, the second son, was now the Earl of Cartwell. And though she called him by his nickname, it was because she was proud of his military achievements—and wished to bask in them herself. But he also understood that to her, the rightful heir was his older brother, Reginald. Reggie. Foolhardy, drunken Reggie who’d lost at cards so often he’d had to sell most of the unentailed land they owned. Even at that, Reggie had left a debt of two thousand pounds that Win had paid off recently with the sale of two coal mines in Yorkshire. Rich veins, too.

  They were old problems. He tore his mind from his mother and brother to the attentive Miss Stewart who sat beside him. She might do, Mother. She just might.