But with him sitting still and silent, Payton had no choice but to wait, her bare hands clasped before her. How should one look in this situation? Contrite? Apologetic? Stern? Downright furious?
When she vexed Marce, contrition worked the quickest to dispel her sister’s anger.
But what did the baron expect?
Payton looked within. Unquestionably, at present, it was fury coursing through her, her skin blazing hot under her soaked, stained gown. She was here for a purpose, and the baron’s children sought to thwart her at every turn. Her employment should be simple: tend the children, tutor them, and put them to bed. After that, she was free to come and go as she pleased during the late-evening and nighttime hours, and receive two pounds per month as her compensation. It wasn’t an excessive amount, but it did allow Payton enough funds to join many card games—with the hope of growing her savings quickly.
But the torment she was forced to undergo daily seemed worth far more than a mere two pounds.
“Miss Samuels…” His voice was deeper than she’d assumed it would be, his eyes more intense. And his presence…it was large, for lack of a more suitable term.
She waited for the baron to continue, but he remained silent, his brow furrowed, creating thin lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. She halted from proclaiming aloud that the action made him appear far older than she’d heard him to be. Heavens, the baron was only four years older than her brother Garrett, yet his shoulders held the weight of a man thrice his age. Perhaps that was his reason for hiding in his study all day, only to depart for his bed.
She knew it was only after the children had found their beds that he left the solitude of his office for his private chambers because she heard his footsteps outside her own quarters as he paused before each of the children’s rooms.
If she’d known about the baron’s ragged and seemingly exhausted demeanor before now, she might have thought twice about accepting a position in his household. There was little doubt there was more beneath the surface than she knew. Likely, a troubled man hiding from a household in shambles. But she hadn’t suspected anything before joining his employ, and it was only after a week at Ashford Hall that she’d questioned the housekeeper about the baron’s aloof nature. She’d been told it was the way of things, and that she should complete her tasks and accept her wages without further question.
She would be lying if she said the mystery behind the man didn’t pique her interest. However, the man sitting behind the desk presently was not hiding some grand secret, he seemed to be wallowing in solitude.
Honestly, it was none of her business what burdened him, nor if anything could be done to alleviate the weight. The other servants at Ashford Hall had been clear about that from her first hour of employment. Meddling in the master’s personal affairs was not done—under any circumstances. Which suited Payton well enough as she would not relish anyone interfering in her business either.
His shoulders straightened, and his vexation returned. She couldn’t help but notice the hardening of his jaw, a distinctly aristocratic jawline that only served to highlight his full lips and large, green eyes.
She pushed those thoughts from her mind. She had every right to be as angry as the baron right now. Payton’s position within the baron’s home had been rather difficult to adjust to. This was not Craven House, her sister was not the master at Ashford Hall, and Payton was nothing more than a paid servant—the lowly hired help, as it were—without even the courtesy of an audience with Lord Ashford before this moment.
“Do you find yourself unqualified to serve as my children’s governess, Miss Samuels?” he asked.
Miss Samuels. Another thing she’d been forced to acclimate to. Anywhere else, she was Miss Payton, or more commonly, simply Payton—no prefix or surname at all. If her brother, Garrett caught her cheating at the gaming tables or swindling her sisters, it was merely Pay. A moniker of familiarity, and also a demand for his coin to be repaid.
Of course, she wasn’t qualified to be a governess, though she’d be damned if she would admit that to Lord Ashford—or her siblings. She needed this position. She would never return to Craven House and live under her sister’s constant watch; though it was not lost on her that the baron’s autocratic behavior was remarkably similar to her sister’s. With one startling difference. When Payton was not caring for the children, she was free to do as she wished, without her sister’s disapproving oversight.
She’d need to be contrite, apologetic, and enthusiastic about improving in her duties if she hoped to remain in the baron’s household and not get banished back to Craven House.
“Lord Ashford.” She kept her stare focused on his impressively organized desk, hoping to portray an outwardly humble appearance…though her temper remained red-hot. She wasn’t sure what to expect from the baron’s study, but organization was not it. “The children and I are still getting acquainted with one another. I can assure you, I am indeed qualified to serve as the Ashford governess. If you need any further confirmation of that, I request you contact my references.”
It was all poppycock. Pure bluster.
Her references entailed directions to Lady Cartwright and the Marchioness of Ridgefeld. The pair of highly regarded ladies also happened to be her elder twin sisters. However, Payton had kept that bit of information to herself as the housekeeper had contacted both women and had not questioned them beyond Payton’s suitability for the post. The position would have never been given to her had the baron known her upbringing and the simple fact that she’d never worked a day in her life outside the few chores she’d been given at Craven House. She was educated, though; her eldest sister, Marce, having hired the finest tutors in all of London. She hadn’t outright lied about her skills, only kept a spot of secrecy about her family name.
The baron’s pensive stare turned critical as he took her in from head to toe.
Did he relish making her look the fool; standing before him drenched as the chilly morning air began to seep through her dress? The fire against the far wall of the study was little more than glowing embers at present and did little to ward off the chill.
“That will be all, Miss Samuels.” He waved his hand in dismissal and turned his attention to his work as he collected a ledger from the corner of his desk. “Please make certain another episode like today does not occur again.”
That was all? He was dismissing her without…without…Payton wasn’t certain what she’d expected when he summoned her to join him in his study for the first time, but this was not it. Perhaps it would have been easier if he had shouted at her, chastised her for her ineptitude, or simply released her from her duties and sent her on her way.
The curt dismissal annoyed her.
“My lord, before I go—”
“What is it?” he mumbled, keeping his stare on the open ledger, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “I have much work to do, as you can see.”
“It is my dress, Lord Ashford,” she prodded, the acidic stench of ammonia had followed her into the study. The dress was not anything special, but one of the few she’d brought with her to Ashford Hall. “My gown is ruined. I am but a simple governess with limited means. How do you expect me to replace it?”
If she were attempting to muster an apology from him, she had seriously underestimated him—and her own skills at playing the contrite, reserved, and meager governess.
“You worry about your frock, whilst I am concerned with my children’s education and future, miss?” In no way could his words be construed as an apology or even an understanding of her position, and for a brief moment, Payton worried she’d pushed him too far. Overplayed her hand, as it were. “Return to your room, change, and give the gown to Mrs. Brown. She will certainly find a way to remove the stains.”
Payton wanted to snort at the absurdity. Was Lord Ashford’s sight failing? There was no amount of scrubbing by the finest laundresses in all of England that could remove the blue pigment.
&
nbsp; “Is that what you would do if you found yourself coated in dye, my lord?” She regretted speaking out of turn, though the man before her was but a stranger—a stranger who seemed unperturbed by his children’s antics. She noted the orderliness of the room once more, and her interest grew. A man that demanded order and routine but did not seem upset by his wayward children. With the question posed, all she could do was hold her shoulders steady and wait for his reply.
“I can assure you, Miss Samuels, I would not continue to stand there dripping the foul liquid all over the expensive rug beneath my feet.” His brow rose as if challenging her to continue down the path she’d chosen.
Very peculiar indeed. He cared about the floors in this room but seemed oblivious to the disarray of his household.
The man was lucky Payton had no intention of being released from her position, or she would show him what it felt like to be doused in frigid water, dyed or not. One day, yes, but today was not that day.
“Is that all?”
She relaxed slightly, allowing her anger to abate. “Yes, my lord.”
“Very good.” His stare drifted to the corner of his desk, and he reached for something, holding it out to her.
Payton leaned over the wooden surface, several droplets landing on a stack of parchment paper, the water and color instantly spreading and soaking into the document. Taking the two pound notes he held out to her, she retreated. The catastrophe of her morning had nearly made her forget that wages were distributed today. She’d expected to collect from Mrs. Brown as the other servants did, not from Lord Ashford. Did the fact that she did place her higher in the household hierarchy, or did it simply mean the baron thought he needed to keep a closer watch on her?
“Do see that the children are abed promptly tonight, and find yours, as well.”
“Tomorrow is my day off, my lord.”
“Yes, Sunday,” he mused quietly. “Find your room, or take your leave until tomorrow evening, whichever you prefer.”
Payton nodded. “I will see the children are in bed and be off, my lord.”
“Very well.” Lowering his head, his light brown hair fell forward, covering his face as he returned to his work. “If you’d be so kind as to close the door on your way out.”
She slipped the notes into her pocket, the wet fabric sticking to her bare hand as she did, and departed the room before her stare stayed on the baron a moment longer. He hadn’t inquired about where she might be headed when she left Ashford Hall, and after a month in the baron’s household, she wondered if he knew her secret.
But there was little chance of that. Moreover, Lord Ashford had more important things occupying his mind than the whereabouts of his children’s governess, made all the more noticeable by his lack of involvement in Payton and the children’s daily activities.
And his disapproval would go from minor irritation to outright anger if he learned that her first time in his home hadn’t been when she became his children’s governess.
Chapter 3
Damon’s mind wandered as he leaned against the wall of the Ashford ballroom, his eyes trained on the servants working diligently at their duties. The preparations were always the same—tables, chairs, linens, and not much else. Refreshments nestled in the corner against the far wall, closest to the terrace doors, while the dais for the musicians was set up in the opposite corner. Unobtrusive and truly not necessary, but the musicians were a welcome distraction Damon was hesitant to do away with. They provided enough noise to keep his conversations to a minimum—the parties were not for his enjoyment, but a penance of sorts.
Not many hours after nightfall, the room would be filled to brimming with several dozen of London’s wealthiest men and women, each plying their hands at cards. Shillings and pounds would flow more freely than the sherry. His guests would partake of his food, wine, and gaming tables until near daybreak before departing into the early morning hours to find their beds.
Some with heavy pockets, and others empty-handed.
Debts were satisfied before anyone took their leave.
One thing Damon knew for certain was that they would return the following week, ready once again to wager their luck.
For him, the nights kept fresh in his mind how quickly life could change—like the mere flip of a card. With luck, a player could be granted a sizeable purse, or a stroke of bad fortune could strip a person of all they held dear.
Damon had found himself in the latter category.
Each week, Damon was prepared for a few brief hours in the company of the peerage, as he relived fate’s cruel hand without the endless condolences and pitying looks of his peers.
“My lord?” His valet, Everett, stood at his elbow, a mask in each hand. “Do you prefer the blue and silver, or the red and gold this eve?”
Every week, Everett asked for his opinion. And every week, he gave the valet the same answer.
“Whichever you prefer.” The domino disguises had been purchased at Mademoiselle Ottum’s shop in Pall Mall, each identical save for their color—at least a dozen resided in his dressing closet. The clock in the hall chimed, echoing seven times before falling silent. At that precise moment, Miss Samuels would be seeing the children fed and put to bed, bringing to mind his chaotic morning. “Not the blue, Everett.”
“Very well, my lord.” With a quick bow, the valet turned to leave.
“One last thing,” Damon called, stopping the servant. “Can you speak with Mrs. Brown regarding the governess’s dress?”
“Of course.”
He listened to his valet’s retreating footsteps as he went in search of the housekeeper.
It vexed him that he cared about Miss Samuels’ gown. If the frock were ruined, Damon would replace it. It was the right thing to do.
She was but a servant, and one he’d easily avoided up until that morning. Despite how beguiling she was with her dark, cascading hair and blue eyes that darkened when she was angry or annoyed. Her reproach after the children had ruined her gown had only drawn his notice—she’d been angry, and rightly so, but she hadn’t stormed away nor threatened to leave his employ as other governesses before her had. Miss Samuels had a stark, resolute streak about her that he envied. As far as first meetings went, Miss Samuels had caught his attention much more rapidly than any governess before her.
Damon shook his head. He shouldn’t be thinking of the woman, not her appearance or her character—at all. She was his governess—his children’s governess—a servant earning a wage. Beyond her aptitude for her duties, Damon should allow Mrs. Brown to manage the woman.
Bloody damnation.
She was insufferable, yet an unavoidable necessity in his home. He needed her. Likely, that was what made her presence so intolerable. She was unlike any woman he’d ever met.
His children’s governess, like Joy and Abram themselves, did not fit into the ideals Damon had for them and his life.
His children should be a delight to him—to his entire household—joyful, attentive, and bright; yet due to Sarah’s absence, nothing was as it had been meant to be. Nothing was as he and Sarah had planned.
His wife—a hollow ache seized his chest—had been a quiet, patient, and reserved woman and mother. She’d never fallen prey to any form of anger or annoyance, nor acted with contrary behavior. Not with their children, their servants, or him. However, Miss Samuels appeared peeved with his children’s mere presence. It did not bode well for the longevity of her employment.
Upon her arrival, he’d been told by Mrs. Brown that the new governess had determined the children were fed and abed too early for her liking, and so, it was seven in the evening now, and they were only just finishing their meal. He knew because the sound of their voices drifted through the house to greet him in the ballroom, much liked the unwanted call of a raven. Damon preferred they complete their school work, take their meal, and see themselves to their chambers for the evening much earlier. Yet, he was willing to admit, if only to himself, that he was the least knowledgeab
le about when children should be fed and put to sleep. That had been Sarah’s role in their family, and without her, he was adrift and overcome with uncertainty.
Perhaps it was best if Mrs. Brown oversaw the governess and her tasks with Damon remaining free to focus on other—more important—matters. Things that he was more familiar with.
Which did not include Miss Samuels’ soaked bodice clinging to her bosom as her chest rose and fell with barely restrained anger. Nor his suggestion that she disrobe and don a fresh, dry gown. For that…that simple musing brought to mind images worse—or better?—than a drenched, stained bosom.
Damon huffed, pushing away from the wall. His sudden movements halted the two footmen, who busily arranged tables as they glanced in his direction before returning to their tasks.
The uptick of his pulse at the thought of Miss Samuels disrobing was a spike of betrayal aimed directly at his heart—or the place where his heart had once been. It was alarming that a man could exist without such a vital part of his being. Despite that, here Damon remained, while his heart was buried with his lost love.
There was actually a day, around the time that Abram was born, when his dearest Sarah had patiently explained how all-encompassing love and matters of the heart were. How could Damon fracture his heart enough to afford a sliver of love for his babe that was to be born? Sarah possessed all of his heart; but indeed, she’d been correct. Damon’s heart had swollen to include Abram, and eventually Joy.
However, including a new child in his heart was nothing close to the devastation of having his heart ripped from his chest when Sarah was gone. As the light and life drained from her, so did she take with her his ability to love. If not his ability than his drive to extend any amount of care that would see himself or his children hurt once more. He hadn’t known love before Sarah, and he feared he was undeserving of love after her.
Four bloody years. It had been the longest—and also the shortest—years of his life. Desire and passion had no place in the world he’d created around himself. Even a sense of contentment hadn’t come to Damon yet. Each morning dawned, and he was secure in waiting for the sun to set once more…bringing him one day closer to a time when the possibility of seeing his wife once again drew near—and he’d be whole again.
The Gambler Wagers Her Baron: Craven House Series, Book Four Page 3
