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

by DeLand, Cerise

  “Very well,” he said. “We’ll have both.”

  Now the governess and his ward looked at each other as if to verify what they’d heard.

  “What date?”

  “The thirtieth of June,” she told them.

  “Call it done. Here, here. Stop questioning my sanity.” He poured the steaming liquid into the large pot, closed the lid and stirred the churner spoon through the hole in the top. He poured a rich, dark brew into an earthen cup and set it before Daphne. “Drink this. And go to bed, both of you.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Daphne between slurps.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the governess with a grin warm enough to light the kitchen.

  Minutes later, after they’d left, he made his way out of his kitchen with silly satisfaction in his heart.

  For a man who never liked surprises, who had in fact always planned against them, he was shocked to admit that he was not so much surprised at himself as jolly well pleased. And drawn to the tenderness in the smile of his tempting governess.

  * * *

  Izzy fell back against her bedroom door, her eyes closed. The terrors of the night had been chased by his attentions.

  When he’d come into the library, she’d intend to escape unnoticed. Quietly, quickly, she wanted to drift from his presence. He might have no issue with her using his library, but she most definitely should not go there in her nightclothes. Not appearing before him again at a time and in a place where she should not be. Not knowing he could appear. Yet she’d gone. And like a genie conjured from her wish, there he was.

  His invitation to her to sit and drink with him was unusual and risqué. She should never have accepted.

  But he was alluring. And she liked brandy.

  She put her fingertips to her lips. She liked brandy and books, but to use that as an excuse to sit and speak to one’s employer about personal issues was not done.

  Never done.

  He was too charming. An unusual man not only to care so well for a child who was not his own, but also one who made hot chocolate for her by his own hand, rather than awaken his cook in the middle of the night.

  She must applaud how kind he was—and forget how handsome. She’d come here to earn a salary, not to find her employer tempting. The last time she’d thought a man interesting, he had toyed with her affections and disgraced her when he cancelled their engagement. She would not succumb to the sweet idea of romance. She had no time. No assets to recommend her, either.

  The Earl of Cartwell was her employer.

  Not her suitor.

  Definitely not her Rob Roy.

  And he never could be.

  Chapter 6

  “Do get your pelisse, Daphne, and come down to meet me in the foyer.” Izzy wished to escape the house and the possibility she might face Lord Cartwell. After last night’s intimacies over Daphne’s sleepwalking, Izzy needed to gain distance from the magnetic allure of her employer.

  Her little ward gazed up with soulful brown eyes. “But I must take Kringle and Pan to Hyde Park with us.”

  “We must investigate first. We don’t want to create a stir.” Not like we’ve done with Lady Osgood from Number Thirty-two.

  “If someone else has their dog with them—”

  Izzy shook her head. “Dogs are usually left at country homes and rarely do they enjoy the benefit Kringle does of sleeping in your room with you. So as I said—”

  “And Pan should come too.”

  “I am sorry to say, no. Pan is more likely to be seen as a creature meant to spark the attention of the Bow Street Runners.”

  “But he’s not a thief.”

  “No. But he’s more likely viewed as an amusing partner of one. If he came, he’d make all the ladies scream.”

  Daphne rolled her eyes. “And make all the children laugh.”

  “And we cannot have that. Pan would be captured as an animal fit for the zoological society. We must wait until the groomsmen have finished the two leads for Pan and Kringle. We will train them to walk beside us always. Then we may test them in the Crescent park. Now get your wrap and meet me downstairs.”

  Izzy turned her back on the child and marched to her room to comb her hair and get her pelisse. The day was not sunny and the wind was brisk, so she needed her coat. She also needed a rest from Daphne’s incessant harping on the rights of her two animals.

  The constant debate had given her a headache. Last night’s incident with Daphne’s nightmare made her testy. She welcomed the trip to the park.

  There she’d sit on a bench and absorb the sunshine, what there was of it. There, she’d empty her mind of the vision of Lord Cartwell making cocoa in the warm kitchen, his face glistening in the firelight as he spoke of how he ate there and liked it. His golden hair, unruly in that hour of the night, dipping over his brow in a rakish air. His eyes, blue as Ming china, dancing as he asked Daphne and her what type cake they’d like him to order for her birthday. He was so solicitous. She hadn’t expected that. Not the cooking, not the inquiry, not the ease with which she welcomed such concern for her. No man had in so long. Not since her grandfather began to lose his mind.

  Poor Grandpapa. She picked up her once stylish Leghorn hat and plopped it over her hair. Tying the huge emerald ribbons under her chin, she tried to smile in the mirror. She mustn’t think of him. How she missed him as he once had been. How she was so very angry with him. At how he’d failed her.

  She mustn’t cry. That wouldn’t do. Not when she worked to change the horrid mess her grandfather had left for her. She would remedy what had been done to her. If she could.

  She grabbed up her worn leather gloves, hurried from her room and shut the door. Taking the stairs at a clip, she did not look up at the cavalier earl nor his wife. Shrew stood at the bottom of the stairs and she dare not engage in banter with the portraits lest Shrew think her noodle-headed.

  Indeed the butler stood in the middle of the green marbled floor staring up at her. “Hart has pulled round the town coach, Miss Swanson.”

  “Thank you, Shrewsbury. Has Miss Daphne come down yet?”

  “She’s in the coach, Miss, waiting for you.” The elderly man’s face bore a mischievous edge.

  “Oh, please don’t tell me, Shrewsbury, she brought her entourage with her.”

  He bit back his grin. “No, Miss. She left them here for us to play with.”

  “Oh, you are devilish, Shrewsbury.”

  “No, Miss. Not I.”

  She feigned a withering look.

  He laughed out loud and pulled open the front door. “Enjoy your afternoon, Miss. Oh, and here is a letter for you from the recent post.”

  “Thank you.” Her name had been inscribed in finite lettering so there was only one person this could be from. Eager to learn if the man accepted her complaint, she pulled on her gloves and hurried down the steps. Inhaling the fresh spring air, she felt her pulse quicken at the idea of opening the letter. Taking the hand of the footman, up she climbed into the coach and got half way in when she stopped. The seat to her left was empty. The seat to her right was filled. With two. Daphne and her guardian.

  “I hope you don’t mind I invited myself,” Lord Cartwell told her as if he’d done the most ordinary thing.

  What could she say? Tell him she welcomed his presence and make a faux pas of the highest order? Imply that she welcomed this chance to pretend they were more than employer and staff?

  “Certainly, my lord, it is your prerogative to join us.” She stuffed her letter into her reticule to be read another time. “It’s a beautiful day to take the air and we welcome your companionship, don’t we, Daphne?”

  After last night calming Daphne, the intimacies of the moment, to rebuild walls of etiquette among them seemed a silly thing to do. For Izzy to be a prig might destroy some of the camaraderie that Daphne felt with Cartwell. And she did not wish to destroy that. She’d hold her tongue. They might continue on as they had as acquaintances who were now…well…what other word was
for it, but friends?

  * * *

  Despite his hope that his attendance would not discomfit her, Miss Swanson appeared nervous as a mouse in a trap. She licked her lower lip and turned away, focusing intently on the window and the sights in the streets.

  How had he misjudged this?

  He thought she might be pleased at his company. She was last night. But then, they had the cover of a frightened child. Today, they had the child but all of them were fully aware of their circumstances. Well, to be precise, Daphne might not know what was apparent. That he wished more time with both of them. That he wished more of the quiet comfort he’d gained from the brief moments he’d shared in his library and in his kitchen with this darling woman.

  He shifted. Crossed his bad leg over the good one and twisted his walking stick in his fingers.

  The carriage rolled onward toward Piccadilly and the silence was punctuated only by Daphne.

  “Thank you for the hot chocolate last night, my lord,” she told him with pure gratitude. “My papa would do that for me.”

  “You are very welcome. I’m glad your papa did that for you. Your father was a fine friend of mine and I know he made a very good pot of hot chocolate. In fact, he often made it for me.”

  “Did he?” she gazed up at him with startled eyes. “When?”

  “He and I joined the army together when we were young.” When both of us decided to make ourselves proud of us since our fathers were not and most likely, would never be. “We learned to be resourceful. And when we were tired, hungry, thirsty, we learned how to cook and how to make a pot of chocolate any time we were fortunate enough to be able to buy it.”

  “He liked the army.”

  “He did. And he was a very good officer. His men loved him.”

  “His leg pained him,” she said with a wee voice.

  “I know it did.” He took opium to kill it. Too much and that’s what did him in.

  “He cried sometimes,” she said in a wee voice.

  Win reached over and took her small hand in his.

  “Look at me, Daphne.” Her pinched little face gave him notice she would sob soon. “He was very hurt. Sometimes we cannot bare the pain we must. That does not make us less honorable. It simply declares we are quite human. Your father was a hero on many battlefields. At Badajoz, Toulouse and many others until the last one at Waterloo. There he helped to send the French Bonaparte to defeat. What wounds your father bore were ones he agreed to take if it meant victory for us. If he cried in pain afterward, we will not count him less than the courageous man he was.”

  He put an arm around the girl and drew her near to him. That way they made their way from the Crescent to Hyde Park. And Miss Swanson saw fit to sit with her tender gaze in his for long minutes, which he welcomed with the return of a warm and grateful smile.

  Miss Swanson and he took a bench watching as Daphne approached a little girl her own age who carried a doll. His governess had remained silent for the remainder of the carriage ride and though she seemed at ease, he knew conversation was the way to smooth any path.

  “I wish to apologize to you, Miss Swanson. I did not come out today to impose myself upon you. Nor do I wish to cause you distress.”

  “Sir, you do not. The day is fine. I’m glad you’ve come to enjoy it.”

  “Do not coat the medicine too thickly, Miss Swanson.” He lifted a brow at her and admired her blush. “I know it is not done for the lord to escort his charge to the park. But as you saw last night, I am not a conformist.”

  She gave him a polite smile. “I’m glad of it, sir. Truly. Last night for your cooking skills and this afternoon for your paternal ones.”

  Here was Miss Swanson not sitting on convention. Here was a woman grateful for honesty.

  “Daphne needed your affirmation of her father’s worth. Clearly, his suffering troubles her.”

  “From what she said today, I would assume so. But I doubt she realizes he was addicted to opium.”

  “Oh, no. His pain was that bad?”

  “Yes. I will never tell her. That knowledge would color her memory of him. I would not have that. He was a wonderful officer, a good leader of men. The surgeon who tended his wounds after Badajoz was not fit to pull teeth. But the one after Waterloo was fit for Bedlam.”

  “Terrible afflictions. His wound and his addiction.”

  “He knew his mind would deteriorate from its use. Made me promise to look after his wife and Daphne if or when he passed away.”

  “I’m certain your agreement to care for them eased his worries.”

  “And then both his wife and he died far younger than expected.”

  She exhaled. “Life has many tragedies.”

  He took in her profile. Sweeping lines defined her forehead, her straight nose, her plush lips and neat little chin. She was a beauty—a very sad beauty. And was she angry too?

  “We know not how many until we begin to count and try to come to terms with them.” What are those in your short life?

  “You think you are slated for one manner, and discover yourself thrown to another. You trust those who foretell the future, and learn they were short-sighted or worse…” She bit her lip.

  “What is worse?”

  She faced him, her eyes on him but more on whatever brought torment to her lovely green eyes. “That they lied to you.”

  He took her hand.

  “Sir—”

  He would not apologize. But he did let her go.

  “Isabelle. May I call you, Isabelle?” When she started to object, he put up a hand. “For use only when we are alone. When Daphne is not near. I understand she must not think we are overrunning our social boundaries. And please consider, I cannot continue to think of you as ‘the governess’ or ‘that woman.’ Those terms do not suit you. Ah. Ah. Let me finish. I do not think such formalities reflect the reality of our relationship. And I will not breach the walls of it otherwise. I promise you. I simply feel more comfortable with you than to address you as Miss Swanson. Or to put you down to simply Swanson.”

  She struggled to smile.

  “Unusual, I know. But what’s in a name, eh? Much of who we are. I appeal to you and ask that you consider that I myself do not think of myself as Cartwell.”

  “No?”

  “Lord Cartwell was my father. Then my brother. Now both deceased. I was never ‘his lordship.’ I was Ensign Summers. Lieutenant, Major, Colonel. Baldwin. Win. Never the man to run the estate.”

  She leaned closer to him. “But now, sir, you do and I have it from your staff you do it very well.”

  He crossed his bad leg over his good and brushed the wool of his buckskin breeches from his thigh to his knee. It eased his pain a bit. “I’m honored they say that.”

  “I’m sure they mean it.”

  Out on the lawn, Daphne played quietly with her friend. He nodded. “The truth is that my brother ran up debts and ignored many of his duties. I have been hard-pressed to correct them. Fortunately, I am—or was—quite good at cards. And I’ve won far too much from far too many. I’ve stopped that in favor of improving my agricultural output and my tenants’ lives. Now I am becoming a different man. And so to you, I wish to be Win. In return, may I call you Isabelle?”

  “My grandfather called me Izzy.”

  He examined her. The exquisite curve of her cheek, the wave of her midnight hair, the flashing verdant gaze. “A funny name. It does not fit.”

  She shook her head, a rueful look upon her face. “I was once Belle. My mother and father used it.”

  “For me then, you are Belle.”

  Pleasure brought pink to her cheeks. “Only in private.”

  “Whenever that may be.” He flashed her a grin. But it died as quickly as it was borne when he saw others approach them. “Ah. We revert to the formalities for the next few minutes.”

  He rose and gave a polite bow to two ladies who strode forward.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Cartwell.” Each lady greeted him in turn. One was y
oung Lady Dora Penrose, who’d sat next to him at Blessingtons’ dinner. The other was her mother, the countess of Danbury, whom he’d also met last night.

  “It is a lovely day,” he assured them.

  “We’re delighted to find you here, my lord,” said Lady Dora with a careful examination of Belle.

  “The day is too glorious to remain inside, don’t you agree?”

  “I do, indeed,” said the countess who had a gracious smile for him and a rapacious look of disapproval for Belle. She wished to know who she was.

  Win could see it was time to introduce her. “May I present my newly appointed governess, Miss Isabelle Swanson?”

  “Ah,” said Lady Dora with a snap of her fan and no other greeting to Belle. “For your ward.”

  “Just so,” he responded. “Lady Danbury. And her daughter Lady Dora Penrose, Miss Swanson.”

  As Belle did her curtsey Daphne appeared at Belle’s side. He introduced his ward who also dipped appropriately.

  “Miss Swanson,” Daphne said, “Please come meet my friend. You, too, my lord, please.”

  Belle bit back a smile.

  So did he. Daphne had come to the rescue of what was an awkward encounter.

  “You will forgive us,” Win gave a small inclination of his head to denote his departure. “Good to see you both again.”

  Win pointed his walking stick in the direction they should go and the three of them turned toward Daphne’s new friend.

  “You can chuckle freely now,” he said, speaking softly so that Daphne might not hear.

  Belle threw him a gaze of pure shock. Then her laughter broke through. “She wished to speak longer with you, my lord.”

  “She had her chance recently and the occasion was not one I’d count among my most amusing encounters.”

  “They’ll speak of you here in the park with your governess.”

  A frown creased his brow, but for only a moment. “Most likely, yes, they will.”

  “We should not come again. That is—forgive me—I did not mean to order you about. But—”