Before the driver had even pulled the coach to a complete halt, Payton opened the door and threw herself inside.
“Go, go!” she called, slinking to the carriage floor.
“Right away, Miss Payton.” Mr. Curtis’s forehead scrunched in confusion. He’d worked for the women of Craven House since long before Payton was born and knew it was better to act first and question later—at least when it came to the sometimes unseemly requests of Payton and her siblings. “Hope’n ye didna wait too long for me. Blimey cold out an’ all.”
“Shhhh,” she hissed as they pulled past Ashford Hall and continued down the street to the next corner before making their way back to the main road.
Once they reached Regent Street, Payton was able to ease up onto the seat. There was little traffic this time of the early morning, but they’d traveled far enough from Hanover Square that she no longer feared being noticed.
With all her savings gone, Payton couldn’t jeopardize losing her position as a governess by bringing any scandal to her name. It had taken her weeks to collect the measly amount of coin.
Payton must keep her head down, work diligently to please the baron and his children, and only accept a card challenge when she knew she could win. If she held to those promises, she’d one day find herself in exactly the place she longed to be.
The children didn’t have to accept her, nor did she have to be particularly fond of them—or their father. But she did need the position.
Chapter 7
After a day off spent alone at Craven House—sleeping in a bed that no longer felt like her own—Payton returned to her position. She’d never thought that seeking her independence from Marce meant losing her sense of home and feeling like a stranger in two houses.
Ashford Hall was silent, every footfall echoing in the abandoned hallways. After being greeted by Mr. Brown upon her arrival, she’d not seen another person. The household had found their beds. Every light in the front of the townhouse had been extinguished when Mr. Curtis had deposited her at the stoop earlier, the only glow was from the pair of sconces on either side of the front door.
Now, she stood silently inside Joy’s bedchamber, watching the girl breathing deeply, in and out, lost in a dreamland that only a sleeping babe could escape to. The room around her was decorated in pale yellow with cream drapes and a four-poster bed. In her youth, Payton would have given anything to have such a finely adorned room with dolls neatly arranged on a shelf, and a miniature dressing table made specifically for a young girl. Payton could have done without the demure pinafores with polished black boots and ribbons matching each dress. She could have done without the pearl-handled brushes and eyelet bed covering that perfectly matched the draperies.
Even the beeswax candles lighting every room had taken some getting used to given how they differed from the tallow ones used at Craven House. Despite the unappealing aroma tallow candles were known for, beeswax was a luxury Marce never allowed within their home—at least anywhere but in her parlor on the nights she held events.
Food over extravagance.
Education above travel.
And tallow candles with their sooty gray burn over the clean, fresh smell of beeswax.
It hadn’t mattered that the smoke from the wicks left horrible stains on the walls, or that their gowns, after years of exposure, always held the lingering scent of smoldering cotton.
Ashford Hall even appeared brighter when lit by beeswax over the sputtering of tallow flames.
Unfortunately, Payton did not know how Craven House appeared when lit by expensive candles. Such luxuries were not within Marce’s budget as she preferred to spend their money helping others, not only themselves. Payton agreed with her elder sister’s frugal spending habits; however, her time at Ashford Hall had her growing accustomed to certain extravagances.
Her day off had passed quickly, and she’d found herself longing to return to Ashford Hall if only to be away from the quiet of Craven House. She’d returned less than a day after her hurried escape from the gaming tables.
The hour was growing late, and she knew she should find her bed before she risked waking Joy, but she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the tranquil, serene girl. Did she know how lucky she was to be born into a noble family? To have the luxury of such contented slumber, knowing a hearty meal awaited her when she woke, complete with hot cocoa and marmalade for her toast. Those were things rarely offered to Payton and her sisters.
The baron, though aloof and distant, would surely do everything in his power to make certain Joy and Abram were cared for. Payton couldn’t even go to her sister for the funds to pay her debt to the duke. That was something she’d realized over the last day. She would need to repay Catherton. The lord was a powerful man and would—if needed—discover her identity.
If not today, then tomorrow or the next.
She was a gambler…never a thief.
Living with such worry hanging over her head would be too much to accept.
Even if Marce hadn’t been away from London, Payton wouldn’t have had the nerve to ask her for twenty pounds to repay her gaming debt.
Joy mumbled in her sleep, rolling to her other side and curling into a tight ball with her knees close to her chest. Did Lord Ashford realize how thankful he should be to have his two children—hellions that they were? If not for them, he would have been left utterly alone after his wife’s passing; his melancholy and heartbreak easily taking him down. She’d heard the servants’ whispers around the townhouse as they spoke of the baron’s crushing despair after his wife’s death. Though she knew nothing firsthand, it was not a secret.
She eased out the door and quietly closed it behind her.
It was long past time she retired to her own chambers.
Yet, she was not tired after her day of rest.
Perhaps a warm glass of milk, another extravagance not commonly found at Craven House, would help soothe her to sleep.
Pausing at the head of the main stairs, Payton listened for any sounds from below to signal that someone was still awake, but nothing could be heard.
Her half boots made no sound as she hurried down the stairs, her footfalls silenced by the rug covering the hardwood. Making her way through the darkened hallway toward the kitchen at the back of the house, she paused before the open library door. If she had more free time during her day, she’d likely slip into the shelf-lined, cavernous room and search the rows of books until she found the perfect story to lose herself in. It would be one of adventure—or mystery. Instead, her days were filled with geography, arithmetic, and history. Joy applied herself to learning her letters, while Abram enjoyed reading about the bloody battles in England’s past. Thankfully, Lord Ashford had not required her to tutor the pair in Latin or Greek or chemistry, for her shortcomings in languages and the sciences would have been apparent, even to a person unfamiliar with the subjects.
Before she realized it, Payton had stepped into the room and wandered toward the row of books closest to the waning light given off by the hearth. On a table near the fire, rested an unlit candelabra with three tall candles—and a cup of spills at its side. Deftly, she retrieved a spill and leaned close to the hot embers in the hearth. Once burning brightly, she lit the three candles and tossed the spill into the hearth.
The added light illuminated the dark, glossy wood shelves and reflected off the gold leaf-embossed titles of the leather-bound books. Craven House had an adequate collection of books, but Ashford Hall’s library housed too many to count. She ran her fingers down the length of a spine, relishing the texture of the aged binding. If she leaned close, would she breathe in the scent of leather, ink, and parchment?
Careful to hold the flaming candelabra away from the volumes, Payton walked along the shelf, reading titles as she passed.
History.
Philosophy.
Architecture.
The library was bursting with every subject imaginable.
Still, she kept moving around the room,
nothing catching her notice and holding it for any length of time. Perhaps it wasn’t sleep she longed for but distraction. Great tomes detailing the history of rock formations in the Swiss Alps would not do.
A shelf filled with small, thin novels, close to the large bank of windows on the far wall drew Payton’s attention. Titles including Gulliver’s Travels, Robinson Crusoe, The Monk, and Moll Flanders, but her stare landed firmly on Love in Excess. Marce had a copy on her own personal shelf in her private chambers—a book she allowed no one to borrow.
Payton slipped the novel from its place and held the candle close for a clear look at the small book. The binding was well worn as if it had been read a thousand times over.
A throat cleared behind her, and she nearly dropped the novel as she spun around toward the door. The sudden movement extinguished two of the three candles in the candelabra, shrouding her in a murky, dim glow. The wall sconce lit the figure in the doorway but kept his face in shadows.
“Miss Samuels.” The baron stepped into the room. “I had not been told you’d returned. I hope your time away was…pleasant.”
“Lord Ashford,” she breathed.
“May I help you locate something?” The tread of his boots was muffled by the ornate rugs covering the library floor.
“I—I—was going to see about getting a drink from the kitchen,” she said in a rush, her face heating as she tucked the book under her arm.
The baron glanced about the room, suddenly feeling far smaller than it had felt a few moments before. “This does not appear to be the kitchen, though I have been known to be wrong.”
Her throat tightened as he walked closer to her, stopping to light another candlestick on a table, flooding the area around him in a muted glow.
Lord Ashford wore only his breeches with a loose, linen shirt—no jacket or neckcloth. His sleeves were rolled up above his elbows, exposing his forearms. Never had she seen him in such casual attire, despite her having lived in his household for over a month. When outside his chambers, he was always properly attired as he’d been the other morning. Even his sandy brown hair hadn’t seen a comb in recent hours, as it spiked in every direction much like Abram’s when he first awoke in the morning.
Her stare lingered on him far longer than she should allow. Something about him, especially surrounded by the dim candlelight, made him appear exposed. Vulnerable. He wasn’t hidden in his study behind mounds of paperwork and a locked door. He wasn’t hurrying out of the townhouse for an evening of…oddly, Payton didn’t know what the lord did when he was outside Ashford Hall. Besides his gaming parties, she had witnessed no friends or business acquaintances coming or going from the townhouse. He sulked, unseen, around the townhouse most days.
The baron spent little to no time with his children, yet he’d claimed to be busy the prior day.
“I decided to borrow a book to read before bed. I hope that is acceptable,” she said, breaking the silence between them.
He ran his fingers through his hair before tucking them into his trouser pockets, as if uncertain what to do with his hands. It was a boyish gesture she hadn’t expected of a lord such as him. “It is a library, the books are for reading, and I fear since Sar—my wife’s passing the room is most often forgotten. What have you chosen?”
He took a step closer, his focus alighting on the book nestled under her arm.
Payton hoped the dim glow masked her heated skin.
“Love in Excess.” She held out the book to him, but he made no move to take it. “I’ve noticed it on my sister’s shelf and wondered why she kept the book for so many years.”
“A favorite of…some distant relation from the past,” he murmured, his arrogant detachment no longer clinging to him like an oversized coat. “You will certainly enjoy the tale.”
“Have you read it, my lord?” Her pulse fluttered at the thought.
When he flinched at her question, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d crossed some line she hadn’t known existed. The baron was a private man, but his reading interests could not be so personal in nature, could they?
He shook his head with a light chuckle. “No, I have not. I much prefer tales of war—and triumph.”
“As does Abram,” she offered with a shrug.
Ashford’s stare widened. Was he unaware of his own son’s interests?
Her heart ached for his neglected children as she remembered Joy’s peacefully sleeping form, nestled in her bed.
With it came a twinge of sorrow for the baron, as well. He missed so much but seemed oblivious to the fact.
Before her was not the lord who’d scolded her the previous day. Gone was the baron who’d questioned her capabilities as a governess. In his place stood only a man, his eyes heavy with exhaustion as if whatever kept him from his children during the day also tormented him in the night.
Even during the gaming party, she’d noticed something different about him as he hovered here and there around the room, never partaking of a game nor pausing long enough to speak with anyone. Until she and the duke had come to their battle. Only then had Ashford stopped pacing on the fringes of the ballroom and sat at their table to keep score during their piquet game.
He hadn’t known it was she. Couldn’t have known it was his governess hiding behind the mask.
Never had he addressed the duke’s accusation of cheating.
Nor had his stare lingered on her as she played.
Now, Ashford seemed distracted, his focus trained on nothing, yet he gave off the impression that he was deep in thought.
She should find her chambers immediately before anything else about the man had her rethinking her desire to collect her wages and move on as soon as opportunity allowed.
Her body tensed. She wasn’t rethinking or forgetting her chosen future. The baron—nor even the duke—could cause her to do that. Lord Ashford’s happening upon her in the library was only a misfortune of fate, not an indicator.
“I was just on my way to my study. I have a few matters that need to be handled before I retire.”
“I will not keep you, my lord.” Payton could not think of anything so pressing that it would—or could—be handled this late into the night. “It is past time I return to my room anyways. The children will be awake early.”
His moss-green eyes glowed in the candlelight as he remained in front of her, blocking her path to the door. His mouth opened several times but closed again without him saying anything.
“Miss Samuels.” He swallowed, his lips pressing into a firm line before the tension in his shoulders relaxed, causing her own body to stiffen. “Miss Samuels, if you find yourself still parched, I can offer you a drink in my study before you continue to your chambers.”
Her pulse leapt with panic. Alone with the baron in his study… in the middle of the night? Pair that with it being the first time he’d spoken to her in any other tone but with annoyance and disinterest, and it was perplexing to say the least. Especially since, more often, she believed he saw his children—and her—as nothing more than an inconvenience.
Despite her place as a servant in his household and the warnings from the other Ashford servants to keep out of the baron’s private affairs, she desperately wanted to know why. So she accepted.
Chapter 8
Damon rubbed at his temples as he faced the sideboard in his study. His private domain. The place he was free to allow himself to dwell on the past without prying eyes scrutinizing his every move, his every word, his every expression.
And he’d invited the bloody governess in.
For a damned drink. At nearly midnight.
He wasn’t sure which was worse: his offer, or her acceptance.
Stalling time for him to reassess his bearings, Damon lowered his head and inspected the crystal decanters on his sideboard. Scotch whiskey, gin, cognac, arrack, rum. No wine or sherry. Why did his servants not stock his sideboard with an appropriate drink for female company?
The answer was glaringly obvious. After Sarah�
��s death, there hadn’t been another woman in his study. After several months, Damon had noticed that his space no longer had his wife’s favorite drink, a honeyed wine that he’d imported from France. It had been a relief at the time. He wasn’t reminded of her absence every time he sought out his study. She would never curl up on the lounge close to the fire while he worked late into the night, nor would she join him early in the morning before the household woke for pastries pilfered from Mrs. Eleanor’s kitchen pantry.
He’d lied to the bloody governess, too.
There hadn’t been any reason for the deception except that he longed to hold the memory to himself…a secret that only he knew about.
The book, Love in Excess, was not, in fact, the favorite of a past relation but Sarah’s cherished novel.
How many nights had they lain in bed or secluded themselves in this very room as she read aloud from the book?
Of all the thousands of titles precisely arranged in the library, why had Miss Samuels selected the one novel he never wanted to set eyes on again?
His fingers shook, causing two decanters to clink together.
He listened as the rustle of the governess’s skirts revealed her position across the room. She seemed as hesitant to enter the study as he’d been to invite her.
Closing his eyes and steadying his rapidly beating heart, Damon gripped the edge of the sideboard. There had been no reason for his invitation, except Miss Samuels had appeared so alone and lost in the library, dwarfed by the massive shelves that reached all the way to the ceiling with the impressive Italian chandelier hanging unlit overhead. He’d watched her as she ran her fingertips along the spines of the books closest to the hearth, but then she’d spied the low row of books that had belonged to Sarah. Only Sarah.
The Gambler Wagers Her Baron: Craven House Series, Book Four Page 7
