Should he allow his life to be ruled by them?
If he liked her, if he sought her company and found her smallest smile sufficient to raise his belief that this life he’d inherited might have some virtues to commend them, then why should he not pursue her? Discover if she were as thrilling to him as he perceived?
What could he do to learn that?
Whatever those tactics were, he owed it to himself to discover. And she owed it to herself to learn if she might reciprocate and find him alluring enough to kiss him again. In daylight. With her eyes and her heart and her mind open to the possibilities.
His problem was, given his promise to her, he must find a way to lure her to him. And while for nearly two decades, he’d taken many a willing woman to his bed, he’d never seduced a forbidden one. Or an unwilling one.
Damn. Thirty-six years old and in need of instruction in the art of romance. Where was justice in this world?
Chapter 8
The next afternoon, Cartwell dodged the downpour as he left his coach and strode up the steps into his club. This one he’d joined when a young officer and he had decided to remain here among his old colleagues and men in arms, despite his mother’s insistence he leave after his inheritance of the earldom from his brother.
“Good afternoon, Wilfred,” he greeted the former sergeant who wore his Waterloo medal around his neck. He’d fought throughout the long Continental wars, a veteran who’d found this good position to support him and his family.
Cartwell handed over his hat, cape and gloves to the gentleman.
“Keeping your stick, Colonel Lord Cartwell?” the old guy peered at him through narrowed gaze.
“Right you are, Wilfred.”
“Don’t blame you, sir.” He rubbed his thigh. “Mine gives me terrible jimmies in this rain.”
“Might Captain Lord Blessington be here today?” His fellow officer and friend could usually be counted on to be here for peace and quiet on a Wednesday afternoon. Cartwell desperately needed a private conversation with him. The other night at the dinner party had not offered them a chance for a discreet chat.
“‘e is, sir. In the reading room.”
Cartwell nodded and took the stairs up to the oak-lined room. Quiet as a tomb, the room was ablaze with solid warmth from an eight-foot-tall fireplace and generous displays of candles by which to read. Scanning the dozen or more occupants of the sumptuous leather chairs, he greeted those he knew with a smile. Then he spied his friend. A newspaper was spread across his chest and he had his head resting against the upholstered back, sleeping, his mouth open like a contented baby.
Cartwell sat down in the matching chair opposite, picked up his friend’s paper and began to read it himself.
“Stealing my rations?” Blessington sat up, wiping a meaty hand over his tired face.
“Old habits die hard,” Cartwell told him and folded the paper. They shook hands. “You look like your horse ran over you.”
“Ever the one to compliment me.” His friend wrinkled his nose.
“This new baby does not yet sleep through the night?”
“This child is made for the army. He can sleep four hours, then kick and talk for eight. I conclude he is not mine at all.” His friend appraised him with envious eyes. “You, however, look fit for a fiddler.”
Win brushed the nap of his trousers. “I feel well.”
“The leg?”
“I’ve a new treatment. It helps.”
His friend studied him, then looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. “What kind of treatment?”
“Hot compresses.”
“That so?” He sniffed and pushed himself higher in his chair. “How hot?”
“Very.”
“I see.” Blessington glanced around to see who might be near. “Not anyone I know?”
“As a matter of fact.”
Blessington startled. “Oh, no. If we speak of she whom I recently referred to you, then I had no idea she was of that nature. If I had—”
“She isn’t, Bless.” His friend and Win had traded a mistress years ago. Since Cartwell had only recently pensioned off his two, Bless thought along risqué lines whenever they spoke of women. “She’s everything I need for my ward.”
“So you are saying that she’s a good choice?”
Two gentlemen paused nearby to chat and Cartwell had to be delicate. “I am.”
Bless waited, his weary eyes searching his own. “I’m a poor simple man now, Win. You better come out with it because I have three children in my house under the age of four and I am as dazed as a goose on Christmas morning. Tell me what we are talking about.”
“She’s intelligent, educated, speaks French fluently. She’s up from the country. Sussex. And she’s fragile, dark with eyes like the deepest forest. She’s funny and sweet.”
“Ah, so, you like her.”
“An understatement.”
Bless leaned forward, but another pair of club members joined the other two. “What then is your problem?”
“Not mine.”
“I see.” His friend checked the four men who regaled each other as if they were a ladies’ hen party. “She has warts or a gentleman caller or—”
He frowned. “Neither.”
The four gentlemen turned and each hailed Bless and him in a hearty discussion of politics. After the four moved on to the dining room, Bless slid closer toward him. “She’s untrustworthy?”
“No. I find her…delightful. She dances in the hall at night. Beats me at chess. Plays with the monkey and the dog and her approach to Daphne is—”
“Wait! Dancing? Chess? What monkey and dog?”
Cartwell found himself detailing the past days and nights.
“Ha!” Bless slapped his knee and fell back in his chair. “She beat you at chess? You?”
At his outburst, grumbles of discontent rose from the throats of the others in the room.
“Dear god, Win.” Bless blinked at him. “You’re infatuated.”
More than. For the first time in his life, he was captured by a woman. “That’s what I thought.”
“About damned time. You’re getting long in the tooth, my friend.”
“Come now, Bless.”
“You want to marry and get an heir before you’re…ahem…incapable.”
“Thank you for that. I may not walk well, but I am perfectly capable of performing other feats of dexterity.”
“How do you know? You just gave up the two ladies by whom you practiced your…agilities.”
He scolded his friend with a look. “My agility aside, something’s very wrong. Not with me. With her.”
Bless was now alarmed. “Go on.”
“She likes me. As much as I like her. She kissed me the other night and I put her to her bed.”
His friend chuckled. “Slow down. This is better than I thought.”
“No, it isn’t. I’m in a hell of a mess. I like her. Care for her more than any others I’ve met. She excites me in so many ways. But, for pity sakes, Bless, she’s my governess. If I try to persuade her too often to be in my company, she’ll leave me. And I cannot let her do that. Meanwhile, my mother is breathing down my neck to choose a bride. Sending women my way. It’s disconcerting. And I need help.”
“What kind?”
“At risk of losing my principles and snooping into Miss Swanson’s affairs, I need you to ask your wife if she knows anything more about her. I realize your Katherine gave her good recommendations. And so did the local vicar, but I need more details.”
“I’ll ask. But I did not hear my Kat say anything more beside the fact that they had the same instructor.”
“Anything might help. But something disturbs her. She’s too educated, too refined to be of a rank that denotes a need for employment. And she wanted more than the usual wages. I granted them. Easy enough to do. And I have it, so why not pay her what she wants, eh?”
“But?”
Win pointed a finger at him. “But why does she nee
d more?”
“Perhaps…for a child she supports?”
Win shook his head. “I doubt that.”
“A maiden aunt?”
“No. Something else. She gets letters. Then after she receives them, she seems uneasy. Anxious. Something eats at her.”
“And you haven’t asked her what troubles her?”
He winced. “I’ve tried to draw her out.”
“The closer you both become, isn’t it easier for you to ask more personal questions?”
Win shook his head and stared toward the window. The infernal rain matched his mood.
“Win, what else bothers you?”
“I must learn if my governess could care for me as her husband.”
“You are more than infatuated with her. You’ve never had a problem with women before, Win.”
“I’ve never cared so much what the outcome would be.” Win’s mind whirled. “I’m worried. I’m about to host a dinner party. Pleasing my mother, you see. I want to seat my governess at dinner, and my mother will scream. But I will have Miss Swanson at table.”
“I must witness this.”
Win fixed dark eyes on his friend. “You will. I sent an invitation and Katherine accepted for both of you.”
Bless frowned. “I seem to remember now.”
“Still I’m not happy about the guest list. It includes a few ladies whom my mother wishes to encourage me to court. One is so rabid to marry that she may arrive ready to truss me up like a chicken and haul me off to a vicar then and there. Hell, one look at that lady now and she’s practically jumping into my lap.”
Bless chuckled. “Let me guess. Lady Dora Penrose?”
Win arched a brow. “I hate to be critical.”
“Not an issue. Many a man has had to peel said lady away from them.” His friend inhaled. “And so I’d suggest one strategy.”
“Out with it.”
“Isn’t courting a woman you want similar to laying siege to the enemy?”
Win frowned. “I’ve never fought for one. They’ve always come to me.”
“Lack of practice, that’s what that is. But I had to fight to get my Kat and she put up one damned wall after another. I was too old; she was too young. I was a cranky soldier; she was too carefree for me. In the end, I wore her down. Kissed her a lot. Persistence, too, I’d say. So here’s my advice, Win. You’re going to have to do the one thing you’ve always had problems with.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“Become as creative off the battlefield as on.”
Win snorted. “A campaign.”
“Exactly. You occupy your mother with one set of tactics. While you storm the defenses and secure the affections of your governess.”
Win grinned. “So I play more chess?”
“Any game you wish, old man. You won at Waterloo. You can win a woman.”
* * *
“You conjugated your verbs very well, Daphne.” They’d just finished a long conversation in French in the deliciously warm parlor before the roaring fire. On a rainy, cold afternoon, it was the best place to be. “I’m very pleased with your progress. Soon you will speak French so easily, you can order chocolat with flourish!”
The little girl giggled, rose from her chair and picked up her monkey. “May we have a cup now?”
“I think that is for the evenings. A treat to send you off to sleep.”
“But Pan would like a taste of it. He told me, didn’t you?”
The monkey, who’d accommodated them both during the language lesson by being quiet, exclaimed loudly. Obviously in agreement with his mistress.
Belle quelled him with a fake frown. “I’m not certain it would be good for him.”
“Oh, but Kringle likes it.”
“We must be careful of him, too. Animals do not eat, nor should they, exactly as we do.”
“Why not? They must grow tall and strong, as you say I must.”
“But they grew in a different manner in different environs, eating foods we would not consider delicious.”
“Kringle likes beef. We do, too. And Cook’s scrapings from her pots.”
Belle did not know what this monkey ate and must ask Cook what she fed him. “That may be, but let’s not give Kringle any more chocolate, shall we? The footman told Shrewsbury this morning that when he took the animals out to the park for their ablutions, Kringle threw up something odious.”
The little girl tipped her head. “But he does that a lot, Miss.”
“All the more reason to record what he eats and those days when he becomes ill in the park.”
“Oh, let’s do that! I bet you Kringle likes cake just as I do. Then we both could have more!”
Belle laughed but gave her charge a long look of disdain. “Let’s start with his regular scraps. See how he fares. Cake will come later.”
Daphne pouted.
“Run along. I will be up in a few minutes.”
Alone, Belle rose to walk toward the welcoming fireplace and put out her hands. Oh, the flames felt wonderful. Each day here, rain or shine, became more comfortable than the last. Except for this budding attraction to her employer.
He’d been so kind to her, forgiving her the kiss she could not forget. Waving off her apology as if it were acceptable to him for her to put her lips on his. Fine, firm, fabulous lips they were, too. As were his big hands, his long fingers wrapped around her so that she felt secure and safe.
He was even jovial when she won the chess game last night. He didn’t bluster as her grandfather would at a loss. He didn’t engage her immediately to another bout to prove his prowess. He didn’t have to win to be a noble man.
How glorious. How sweet.
She strode to the table where the chessmen stood at attention, in position for another go round. How had she won last night?
She pulled out the chair, swept aside her skirts and put her elbows to the wood. Last night, she’d played a game of pawns, using them to the fullest to feint and draw her opponent into her lair.
She moved one white pawn as she had last night. And then his, as she remembered it. Hers, another pawn. His move of his bishop to take her other pawn. Another. And another. Her move of her white knight to take his black bishop. Then she had him on the defensive and—
The parlor doors opened wide.
She looked up.
Shrewsbury stood in front of two older ladies. One woman in an afternoon dress of dark gray. Another much older woman in deep purple. Mourning for the last king looked good on both of them.
“Oh, pardon me, Miss Swanson. I did not know you were still here or I would have announced our visitors.”
Belle got to her feet. Whoever these ladies were, they merited being shown into the parlor when the lord of the house was not at home. But Belle had an inkling who the two were…and that she should excuse herself quickly.
“Introduce us, Shrewsbury,” the lady in gray told the butler, her sky blue eyes so like Lord Cartwell’s.
“Lady Cartwell, Lady Buchanan, this is our governess for Miss Daphne, Miss Isabelle Swanson.”
The two older ladies advanced into the room. Lady Cartwell—his lordship’s mother it would seem logical to assume from her name, age and blue eyes—never took her gaze from Belle. Noting Belle’s face, she also moved onward to note her figure, her attire and her hands clasped at her waist.
Belle curtsied. “I am delighted to meet you both.”
“Shall I bring you tea, my ladies?” Shrewsbury was quick to fill the void.
“Yes, do,” said Lady Cartwell, her attention firmly locked on Belle.
“And you know what to add to the service,” said Lady Buchanan with a conspiratorial stare at the butler.
“I do, my lady. Never fear.”
“Too cold out there for May not to merit a bit of cheer, eh?” she said to him. But when she turned, she inspected Belle as if she were a bug pinned to a display board.
“You have the right of it, my lady,” Shrewsbury said and backed hi
mself out with a wide-eyed look of warning to Belle.
“How are you getting on, Miss Swanson?” the elder lady asked her as she took a chair close to the fire.
“Quite well. Thank you, my lady.”
“Like it here, do you, Miss Swanson?” Win’s grandmother continued to examine her, head to toe and back up again.
“I do, ma’am. Very much.”
The woman had no response for that, except to note the wave of Belle’s hair and the line of her chin.
Belle refused to blanch. Was she noting family resemblances?
Win’s mother took to the settee, her focus on Belle searing and critical. “What do you think of my son’s charge, Miss Swanson?”
“Miss Daphne is charming, my lady. Bright and eager to learn.”
“Too forward, isn’t she?”
“Children can be, but they learn to temper their assertiveness with polite discourse.”
“You have quite a challenge to do that with her. Her parents coddled her. She has few manners.”
On the contrary, she is quite well behaved for an eight-year-old who has lost both parents.
“Those animals, too,” his mother went on, “are disgraceful. Why Win permits them here, I do not know.”
I do. He wishes Daphne to know continuity and peace.
“What do you say, Miss Swanson?” His mother insisted, her face stern as her tone.
“I say she keeps them in tow easily and they are a comfort to her. Nothing like good friends in this world.”
“Animals, especially those, are not friends. They are nuisances.” His mother sniffed. “Now do tell me why are you here, Miss Swanson.”
The shift in topic surprised her. “I—I am employed, ma’am.”
“No.” The lady inclined her head toward the object in Belle’s hand. “Why do you hold the white knight in your hand?”
“I was recreating a game I’d played last night. Trying to recall what I’d done.”
The woman bristled. “A game?’
“Yes.”
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“With whom?”
Now she was being more than quizzed. She straightened her spine. “His lordship.”
Silence stretched out to a barren minute or more.
His Tempting Governess: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 2 Page 10
