“I understand your intentions, Miss Swanson.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“But I will come to the park as I wish, when I wish.” He inhaled. “Not wise, I know. But then, there is much I must do to conform to the dictates of the ton. The rules, the abundance of them, oppress me. So if I wish to take the sun with my charge and her governess in the afternoon, it is the fresh air I need. Roses for my cheeks, are we right?”
Her eyes sparkled like gem stones. “Yes, sir.”
“If I wish to see the roses in Daphne’s,” he said with a gay smile at his ward as she skipped ahead, “I will not miss the chance. And if I wish to view them blooming in your beautiful cheeks, Belle, I will accompany you each day I wish.”
* * *
Belle—she liked calling herself that again. It was more rightly who she was. Who she had been. Today she had a sign of its validity. The letter in which the lawyer told her the charge against her former estate manager might be valid, affirmed it.
Belle. She tried it on her tongue.
She pushed her book away and sat forward in her chair. Tonight she read in the parlor, not in the library. Not where Win—yes, Win—might easily discover her.
Her three candles burned low and she ought to go up to bed. If Daphne awoke again with her night terrors, she ought to be upstairs at the ready. But Belle had hoped she might read for a bit tonight, especially because Daphne had been so exhausted after her afternoon in the park.
Belle rose at the sound of the chimes of the clock. Ten o’clock.
Tucking her book under her arm, she stood over the chessboard. The same one she’d seen the day of her interview, his lordship had moved his rook and his king, castling them to protect his queen. She reached out, but paused, her fingers mid-air. How she itched to move his pawn? Did he not see the obvious opportunity?
She licked her lips. Dare she move against him?
She really shouldn’t.
But oh, she was tempted to show him how he had missed this.
Oh, why not?
She did it.
Doused her candles with the snuffer.
And hurried away. Picking up her skirts and running up the stairs.
She made her room and shut the door, grinning to herself like a loon. What was she about here? Presuming to move his chess pieces? Going to the park with him?
As if I have a choice.
Nor do I want one. And that spells disaster in itself. I need this position. The money to pay the lawyer.
She sank back against her bedroom door and let her eyes drift closed.
She was playing more than chess here. Enjoying her employer’s company. Inviting his affections. Playing a disastrous game that could ruin her new life. And Win would suffer too. Lady Dora and her mother could spread it about that he went out into the world with his new governess.
Her eyes flew open.
Her name would be cited in those stories.
She pressed a hand to her throat. Might those who sought Miss Isabelle Swanson of Crawley match it to the name of Lord Cartwell’s governess? Might she acquire a lurid reputation? Might she be found, ridiculed publically and cast out by Cartwell before she could prosecute her case?
Whimpering pierced her ears.
A subtle plaintive sound washed over her. She opened her door and there was Daphne standing upon the hall carpet, Kringle and Pan beside her, as she sniffled and snuffled. “I looked for you, Miss Swanson.”
“Oh, Daphne,” Belle crooned as she gathered her up and sat there, on the floor, and rocked her. She brushed her soft fine hair from her brow and swayed with her. “Don’t cry, my dear. I’m here with you.”
The little girl clapped her arms around her and cried. “You won’t leave me, will you?”
She would not lie. For if she could win back her home and her good name, she would leave to administer the estate and not remain as Daphne’s governess. “Oh, my sweet girl. I know how hard it is to lose your mother and your father. No one will ever replace them. But Lord Cartwell loves you and cares for, darling. And I do, too.”
She managed to get up and led Daphne along to march upstairs. But Daphne would not let her go and she took her to the large upholstered chair. There she gathered her close and talked to her of how God provided for children when their parents went away. And how she was fortunate to have her own guardian, a wise man, a prudent man, a caring one.
Her head lolling back against the warm damask, she spoke of her own childhood and how she’s learned to trust her grandfather. “A kind man, wise when he was young. Wise to embrace a forlorn child who was alone and needy of a strong adult to love her.”
And if in his older age, he’d lost that ability to protect her, she had to forgive him. Didn’t she?
“Don’t cry, my dear. Don’t cry.”
* * *
“Good night, Hart,” Cartwell bid his coachman as he climbed down. “Hope I did not tear you away from a winning hand in the Lawrences’ kitchen.”
“No, sir.” The coachman threw him a wicked grin. “I was on a run. A good time for me to trade in my chits.”
“Made a bit of money, did you?”
“Aye, sir. Thank ye. Good night.”
Win took the front steps. When Shrew might have opened the door for him, he didn’t tonight. The old gentleman was getting tired earlier and earlier. He’d most likely gone to bed. He wouldn’t blame him.
Win wanted it himself. His day had been eventful, serene. And while he was not tired, he wished time alone to review the events of the day. His time with Daphne, his time with Belle, had combined to occupy his thoughts well into the evening.
Even during dinner. And afterward during a presentation by a few ladies of their skills at the piano. All were forgettable.
Smiling, he let himself in. The hall sconces still held two lit candles. He doused them with his fingers and propped his cane to one side, and placed his hat and gloves on the vestibule table. He lifted his nose to the air. Did he smell the fragrance of other candles burning? Lit tapers, untended, presented a fire hazard.
Concerned, he walked toward the drawing room. No one in there. Onward to the dining room. No one there either. At the open door to the parlor, he paused. His keen sense of smell told him that the fragrance of good tapers came from this room. Though the room was a study in grays, he could see the chessboard.
At once, he noticed the change in the rook’s position.
He caught back a chuckle.
Belle was at his game again.
He passed his hand over the board as if to touch, to change, to move. But then he drew back.
Tomorrow, he would challenge her to a real game. By god, he hadn’t had a good partner in years. And he needed one. Her.
Warmth spread in his loins. Miss Swanson, Isabelle, Belle, ma belle, was a beauty. A breath of fresh air in his house. In his life. A saving grace he valued each time he looked at her. Each time she smiled so naturally, so freely. Not of society, she was versed in it. Educated and articulate, she could communicate with an eight-year-old orphan who walked the floors at midnight. And she could charm an old wounded soldier who had long since forgotten that he could be enchanted by anything, let alone a petite slip of a girl with raven’s locks and jewel-like eyes.
Tomorrow, he’d challenge her to a proper match. They’d drive to the park. They’d find a toy store to buy a new doll for Daphne. And he’d enjoy the carefree company of his new and compelling governess.
On a pivot, he made for the stairs and climbed up. But as he gained the landing, he slowed his pace. For in the hall, in the broad Rococo chair next to the old Tudor credenza sat the two objects of his new and stirring affections.
Daphne was curled into the warm embrace of Belle. And that lady, her head tilted at an odd angle, was fast asleep, her mouth open, snoring.
He bit back laughter. Even in sleep, she could bring him pleasure.
Dear lord. He was either getting senile or becoming light in the head.
Th
at, he would decide later. For now, he slid his hands under Belle’s and gathered the child into his embrace. Daphne came, drowsy and nestling like a little bird. He strode with her into her bedroom. The linens were thrown back. She must’ve walked again. But in her bed was Pan, the little creature. And upon the carpet, lay Kringle whose only body parts to move were his eyes.
“I see you, boy. Usurped, have you been?”
The dog said nothing but the monkey babbled at him.
Frowning at the monkey, Win placed Daphne in her bed and covered her. In the dim light, he noted the spareness of the nursery. Oh, there were draperies, dull white. Curtains, drabber and older. A dresser, from the last century. A circular table of an odd height, either fit for child or adult, sat between two odd and rickety chairs.
Terrible. Unworthy of Daphne or Belle. With a vow to have the room gutted and refurnished, he left, closing the door behind him.
His more luscious charge sat, unmoving in her chair, appearing uncomfortable as hell. Worn out, was she? Well, he was becoming so too. Thinking of her, wishing to be with her when he had to smile and curry favor from other women, as he had tonight. It was tiring, unsatisfying to play this social game to find a wife.
Devil take it, I can’t find among them anyone who is refreshing.
He strode over to his sleeping, snoring governess and braced to gather her up. Always lighter than he expected, she sighed and snuggled close to him. The sensation of the wealth in his arms shot to his groin. Her unbound breasts pressed to his chest, an alluring femininity. Her derriere curved in his hands and he shifted to hook his arms behind her knees. She was all firm flesh, long limbs, fragrant rosemary and lavender. Her hair tickled his nose. Her face nestled into his frock coat and cravat.
He turned for her room and wished he didn’t have to. Wished he could carry her right into his.
And do what with her?
Everything.
Don’t be silly.
I’m not. I’m being honest.
She wiggled. Her head fell back against his upper arm.
God, she was lovely. What was such a creature doing working for a living? Why had her grandfather not provided for her?
It happened. He knew it. Heard of it often.
He swallowed back his hatred of such injustices and strode to her door. With a twist of his wrist, he opened it and walked through. The entire room held the signature fragrances of her charm. Rosemary, again. Thyme and citron. He was transported to lemon fields in Spain. Days of splendor. Nights of horror as the shells burst overhead and men cried out for their mothers.
But she was far from that. She was light and air, kindness and consideration, sadness in need of joy.
He bent to put her to her bed and found that she hadn’t turned back the counterpane. When she’d responded tonight to Daphne, Belle had not come from her room. Had she been downstairs playing chess with a phantom?
He smiled. Tomorrow you play with a real man.
She made odd little sounds as she allowed him to deposit her in her bed.
And her eyes fell open. Her lips parted. Her breath stopped.
He could not let her go.
Her hand came up, curved around his nape and in her dazed sleep, she beamed at him and drew him close.
Her lips were much too close. Her fragrance much too compelling.
And then he gave into the temptation and put his lips to hers. Her mouth was soft. Her lips were open. His own were ravenous and though he shouldn’t, he kissed her fully once and again.
She sighed his name.
Never had he heard it as a lover’s plea. And in need, he seized her mouth again.
She kissed him back. With heat and heart and the madness of a lover.
He dare not take more from her and tore his lips away. “Goodnight, ma belle. Sleep well.”
Rogue that he was, he left her. Quickly. Before he could not.
Chapter 7
Belle took the stairs down at a jog. Daphne was not in her room, so she must be in the kitchen. Where else would she be? It was ten minutes past nine o’clock and the child usually took breakfast early.
A curl from her hastily done coif bounced into her face and she pushed it back.
Why had she overslept?
“Oh, well you know,” she grumbled at herself and caught sight of the old cavalier Roderick scowling down at her. Was that his expression yesterday?
“You’re late, governess,” his wife Caroline grumbled.
Belle tripped on the carpet. A hand slapped to the banister, she caught herself before she planted her face in the carpet. She stared up and narrowed her eyes at the portrait of the Countess of Cartwell. Surely, the woman had not spoken.
“Stop frightening her, Caro.” Roderick snorted. “It’s ‘Belle’ today, for our earl.”
Belle frowned up at Roderick. Had he moved his mouth? Had Caroline?
Belle ground her teeth. “Two talking portraits. I’m mad.”
“Not if you care for our Win,” Roderick told her.
“Improper of her to kiss him, Roddy.”
That stopped Belle in her tracks. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.
“But you liked it,” Roddy said with a smirk.
Really? How can you know that?
“Oh, right you are, Roddy!” His wife chuckled.
Impossible!
Belle was crazed. Not enough sleep.
What with all tossing and turning after having kissed the lord of the house, no wonder she couldn’t sleep. “Well, I’m as unhappy about it as you both are. I didn’t mean to do that.”
Roddy snorted.
“I know. Improper.” She argued with the portrait. “Could get me dismissed. How stupid could I be?”
“Smart, really,” said Caro.
Belle grimaced. “I’ve never kissed a man so impulsively. Not once. But I did it last night.”
“And loved the feel of him?” Caro asked.
Belle groaned. I’m very mad.
She bounded for the servants stairs at the back of the house. Down in to the warm and welcoming kitchen, she hurried along. People were talking, laughing. The aromas of bread, bacon and butter drifted to her nostrils. Her stomach growled in hunger.
But she halted.
At table sat Daphne…and her guardian.
The child smiled up at her, a streak of strawberry jam around her little mouth. “Good morning, Miss Swanson.”
“A lovely one,” said his lordship as he studied Belle.
Did her body gush in delight? She put a hand to her cheek. A blush crept up her neck to her hairline. She felt the burn. Smile. Converse. “Delightful to see all of you up.”
“We have much to do today,” Daphne said, licking her lips. “His lordship says so. We must get started.”
“Do we?” she asked, the charm of Win’s regard for her wending through her.
“Lord Cartwell says he has a surprise for me.”
Belle could not resist the need to rest her gaze in his. He looked rested, chipper. Isn’t he angry with me? Ready to terminate my employ? She had molested him! “That’s good of you, sir.”
“I welcome the fresh air and charming company. Come, Miss Swanson, and join us.” He nodded toward the chair on his right. That would be the chair of honor, as it were, if they were sitting at his formal dining table upstairs.
Fowler, the young footman, appeared at her elbow and offered her tea.
Cook bustled about and from the stove asked her, “An egg, Miss Swanson?”
Shrewsbury bustled about in back of his lordship, looked over his shoulder and gave her a wink.
It was as if they had all agreed this morning before her arrival to be a happy family.
Belle missed that easy companionship.
Still it all verged on most improper.
She couldn’t ask the cause. Instead she devoted herself to her tea and her egg and toast. His lordship read his morning papers. The household staff bustled to and fro around them, at their morning tasks.
Daphne finished the last of her meal and asked to be excused.
His lordship nodded. “We’ll meet in the foyer at one to go to the park. Do be prompt.”
“I will, sir.” She curtsied and looked at Belle for instruction.
“I’ll come up soon, Daphne. We’ll begin with our French conversation. Take out your copybook and study.” She could hope for a few minutes alone with Lord Cartwell. She had to learn why they were eating informally in the kitchen—and he with them. More importantly, she had to apologize for her outrageous behavior of last night.
“Yes, Miss,” Daphne said and off she went, chipper as a little bird.
“She’s very happy,” Win said to her as he pushed his newspapers toward her and folded his hands upon the table.
“She is.”
“Do you think going to the park might have a negative impact on her sleep-walking?”
Belle considered her tea cup. “I hope so.”
“I’m a firm believer that fresh air, exercise can also induce sound sleep.”
“I agree. She also needs a friend. I’m hoping the little girl she met in the park may be there again and she can create a fond relationship. Friends are often one’s sole comfort,” he said. “Have you friends in London? Perhaps you liked to visit or they to come here?”
Her own governess had never left the house to visit friends. That woman had had an elder sister whom she often saw on Sunday afternoons, but that was the only person. “No, sir. I grew up in the country and all my friends are there.”
“I see. In any case, should you have a need, I put my coachman at your disposal.”
Astonishing. “Thank you, sir. That’s kind of you.”
“A person needs the air of freedom, don’t you think?”
“Indeed.” His charming regard of her worked a happy magic but did not erase her need to apologize. She leaned closer. “I wish to discuss—”
“What?” He arched his perfect blond brows, his handsome mouth—his very delicious mouth—curving in delight. “Last night?”
“No.” She detected the bustling of the scullery maid behind her and pulled back. “We usually eat in the breakfast room.”
His Tempting Governess: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 2 Page 8
