And how delightfully dangerous.
Well, perhaps not dangerous—how dangerous could a bespectacled confection of a governess-y lass be, really? It wasn’t as if she were French cavalry.
“A straightforward caress?” he echoed as if considering the maneuver as carefully as she. “Like if I touched your hair”—he reached out to demonstrate, catching the backs of his fingers across the sweep of soft, light hair looped behind her ear—“or your face.”
Her mouth opened into a gratifying expression of silent astonishment before she recalled her both her wits and that decisive, instructive voice. “I had thought something more definitive, sir.” She pushed her spectacles more firmly up her nose.
But she was not so self-possessed as she might like him to believe—her face had pinked up quite nicely. “More definitive? Do demonstrate for me, Miss T. I shouldn’t like to get it wrong.”
She moved fractionally closer. “I should think your arms might simply go ’round me”—she moved her arms into an awkward, patently inexperienced version of a caress—“as if you were pulling me into an embrace.”
“Right ho, an embrace,” he echoed with all the appearance of studious attention. “Like this?” Instead of following her careful instruction, he gathered her almost roughly to his side, so they were mashed up, shoulder to shoulder.
“Well.” Despite being squashed against him like a trooper in a cart, she gave every appearance of considering the pose seriously. “That seems rather more like comrades than lovers. Perhaps something a bit more purposefully amorous?”
Purposefully amorous. Oh, she was delightful, with her awkwardly specific vocabulary.
“I should rather recommend the sort of face toward face embrace that might be mistaken for kissing,” she continued.
“Right ho!” he said as if he could never of thought of such a thing on his own. “Well, if it’s kissing that you want—” He swept her ’round, across his lap in a rather stylish, ready-to-ravish embrace, if he did say so himself. “A good bout of kissing is bound to do the trick.”
He was gratified to find her flustered and instantly holding him off with straightened arms pressed against his chest. “Yes, perhaps, but if you don’t mind, Colonel Cathcart, I think we might postpone the actual embrace until the appointed time. Though I am pleased to find you sufficiently versed in the art to effect the requisite pose without any difficulty.”
Requisite pose! “Glad you think so, Miss T. Happy to oblige.”
“You are very kind,” she said with obvious sincerity. “But there are one or two things that I must take care of—things I must plan and prepare, you see—before we can commence in earnest.”
“Plan the thing out, what?” He gave her his sunniest, dimmest smile, all toothy pleasure. “Strategy—learned that in the army.”
“Yes, exactly—strategy.” She disengaged herself from his arms and stood to shake out her skirts. “I’m so glad you understand.”
“Don’t understand much.” He regaled her with his best idiot’s delight. “But happy to oblige.”
“For which I thank you.” She put out her hand to shake, even as she took a step back, as if she feared he might seize her up again. “Thank you for agreeing to help me.”
“Always a pleasure to help a damsel in distress, what? Though you don’t seem distressed at all.”
“No. Because I’ve got you to assist me.”
Something that had to be his conscience stirred within, like a dull sword being pulled out of a rusty scabbard. Damned if he didn’t feel like he ought to act something of the hero she was making him out to be.
But she was entirely her own heroine. She repossessed herself of her hand, all self-possessed, self-determined governess. “Until next time.”
“Right ho.” And because he wanted to have the last, most idiotic word, he added, “Tell you what, Miss T. I’ll use the time till then to practice up on the various embraces, shall I? See if I don’t.”
Chapter 4
In for a penny, in for an entire pound—after what she had arranged with Colonel Simon Cathcart, Tamsin felt she had put enough of her foot on the road to ruination that she might as well continue on down the path.
She readily gave way to a small falsehood—that she had an appointment to meet Lady Evangeline at Mattigan’s Bookshop, no more than a few short blocks away on Piccadilly. Her mama generally depreciated Mattigan’s as a place that catered to bluestockings, but she could not object to any appointment that put her daughter in the circle of the much-admired, deeply influential Lady Evangeline. And truly, Tamsin would make an appointment to meet Evangeline there, just not on that particular day.
Her object in the subterfuge was to visit her aunt Dahlia and make those alternative arrangements she had told Mr. Cathcart about—it would do no good to ruin herself if her punishment were to be trapped in the tedious country for the rest of her natural-born life. She was not such an idiot to think that being alone without comfort or companionship was anything to be desired.
When she arrived at her aunt’s smartly elegant house on the curve of Manchester Square, there was a smattering of the intellectual set taking morning coffee and tea in the drawing room to ward off the winter’s chill. Much as Tamsin might have liked to sit and listen and chat the whole morning through, she had business that needed attending to. She would have time to chat later, after she was ruined.
So as soon as a lull in the conversation opened, Tamsin inserted herself into it. “I was wondering if I might seize this opportunity to speak with you privately, Aunt Dahlia?”
If her aunt was surprised at her urgent tone, she made no public sign. “Of course, my dear.” She led the way toward her private sitting room near the back of the house and took a seat on an elegant chaise in front of the warm fire. “Come, tell me what has occasioned your visit this chilly morn without your fiercely protective mama to breathe fire at us all?”
The mental image of Mama as a dragon who would alternately guard and scorch her for the rest of her life was enough to embolden Tamsin. She took her courage in hand and envisioned the life she desired—the life that would not be possible without her aunt’s—as well as long, tall Colonel Cathcart’s—assistance. “You must know how ardently I admire you and the life you have made for yourself here in London,” she began.
“I am so glad you’ve enjoyed your visits.”
“I’ve more than enjoyed them—I long to accept all of your invitations, and to be able to visit every day.”
“So you might,” her aunt said kindly, “when you are married and mistress of your own acquaintance.”
“But that is just the thing, Aunt Dahlia—how can one be sure that one will be mistress of one’s own acquaintance? That one’s husband will not object as much as one’s draconian mama?”
Aunt Dahlia smiled as if she knew all the secrets of the world. “By choosing carefully. And wisely.”
Such advice, although well meant, could only frustrate. “Choice is one thing, Aunt Dahlia, but the law is quite another.”
“Ah, yes.” Another understanding smile wreathed her aunt’s face. “I am pleased to find that your education has been so thorough.”
“Indeed it has.” Despite Mama’s—and occasionally Papa’s—objections, their governess had given Tamsin and her sisters a very liberal education. “I am glad I’ve been educated in what my rights will—and more importantly, will not—be under the law. It makes me more desirous than ever of being in charge of my own fate, even if that means becoming a spinster. What I desire above all else is to be like you.”
“I am flattered.” Aunt Dahlia looked at her with fresh concern. “But are you…averse?...to men in general, or simply to this Cousin Edward that I’ve heard my sister Violet speak of?”
“Not exactly averse.” Tamsin weighed her words carefully, not wanting to misspeak. “I’m sure some men are perfectly acceptable.” For some strange reason Colonel Cathcart’s genial face leapt into her mind, smiling and giving up command.
“But I much prefer books, and my own rights, to men.”
Her aunt smiled. “Books don’t keep you warm at night, my dear girl. Not in the same way someone who loves you will.”
“But you’ve no husband,” Tamsin pointed out, sure of her logic. “Your life is heavenly—you do as you like and pursue your own interests.”
“True,” her aunt acknowledged. “But that is not exactly by choice. And not exactly heavenly—despite the fact that I have many friends and acquaintances, I am still without a chosen helpmeet. Such an existence can become decidedly lonely.”
Tamsin’s face must have shown her shock, for she had always believed Mama’s assertion that her sister Dahlia had freely and defiantly chosen a life of intellectualism in London despite her family’s objection.
“Tamsin, I might have married had I been able—had the one I loved…” Dahlia shook her head and collected herself. “What I’ve created here”—she gestured to the house and all it symbolized—“was the life we had planned together, had we been able. So this life of intellectual and artistic pursuit you admire is not necessarily incompatible with a successful marriage.”
Her aunt’s surprising story of unfulfilled love made Tamsin ache with pity—and with more determination to fulfill her own destiny than ever. “I take your point, Aunt Dahlia. But I’ve no time to find the right fellow. With the peace, Papa plans to sell out of the Royal Marines, and wants our futures—and his estate—settled, and Mama says this season is my only chance to find someone other than Cousin Edward. It’s most unreasonable to think I must decide about the entire rest of my life in so short a span—it simply can’t be done.”
“I take your point—you’d like me to appeal to your mama to let you stay in town longer, with me?”
“Why, yes! That would be lovely.” But as much as her heart lifted at the thought that her object might be so easily and practically gain without recourse to ruination, Tamsin had little realistic hope that her mother would agree—Mama already thought Aunt Dahlia’s set too “fast” for Tamsin to even attend salons, let alone stay permanently.
“Then I shall ask her, to please you,” said Aunt Dahlia. “Though you must prepare yourself to be disappointed—your dear mama does not always like to listen to me. She thinks you’re too beautiful for intellectualism.”
“Beauty is not the same thing as character,” Tamsin scoffed.
“Indeed.” Aunt Dahlia smiled in her gentle way. “But do not be too hard upon your mama—she thinks you beautiful because of your character.”
It was typically kind of her aunt to say so, even if Tamsin doubted it was true. “What Mama thinks is that beauty is currency, and that I must spend it whether I want to or not.”
“It is the way—”
“—of the world,” Tamsin finished. “So I’ve been told, though I should rather change the world than adapt myself to it.”
“You are young and passionate, as you should be. I agree that you should have more time to choose your way, and I shall do my level best to persuade your mama to give it.”
“Thank you, Aunt Dahlia. Thank you.” It was both a pleasure and a relief to know she had such an ally within her own relations. “But what I should love more than anything would be to stay here with you always, and be your companion so you are never again lonely. Even if Mama does not approve.”
“Sweet girl.” Aunt Dahlia reached for her hand. “You are most welcome, my love, anytime, whether my sister Violet approves or not. But do not be in such a rush for spinsterhood, no matter how enticing it looks at present. My situation was only made tolerable because my mother and father had both died and I was able, through the disinterest of my guardian, to take control of my fortune. But I don’t know if you shall be so lucky?”
“No,” Tamsin had to admit. Though she and her sisters had respectable enough dowries, there was no guarantee that her parents would settle the money on her if she chose not to marry.
“Is there no one?” Aunt Dahlia asked. “No one that you might have singled out for your attention? Someone who might improve upon further acquaintance?”
Again, Colonel Simon Cathcart’s sunny smile beamed out of her mind’s eye. But she had singled Simple Simon out for attention for reasons that would hardly please her relations, even her liberal-minded aunt.
So she gave in to the lie that seemed to come too easily to her lips. “No one particularly special. No one at all, really.”
But Aunt Dahlia was not born yesterday—she sat back and assessed her niece with narrower eyes. “Oh, my. I am almost afraid to ask what it is you’re hatching in that too-clever head of yours.”
“Nothing untoward, Aunt Dahlia.”
At least nothing too untoward.
If she planned carefully.
And if she and Simon Cathcart got her ruination just right.
Chapter 5
“We have to get it just right,” Miss Lesley instructed in her delightfully bossy way—Lord, how he loved a governess—when she sought him out in the library of the Viscountess Malmesbury’s palatial house on Pall Mall.
“I am at your service, Miss T,” Simon assured her, “if you will be so kind as to tell me what it is I’m to do.”
“I’ve given it a great deal of thought,” the young lady explained, donning the spectacles she dug out of her reticule, giving her that deliciously pert, governess-y air. “It is imperative that we be found privately rather than publicly. While I should like to be ruined—”
“Lightly ruined—do I still have that right?”
“Oh, yes.” She was all serious scholarly consideration. “But I should like to be ruined with as little éclat as possible, so as to lose as little of my reputation—or yours—as can be managed.”
Simon clearly didn’t give a damn about his reputation—who else would pose as an idiot? And while he had no great confidence that ruination could be achieved without any éclat, he would give the attempt the old army try. “Don’t worry about me, Miss T. I’m immune—no one wants a muzzy-brained dunderhead for a son-in-law.”
Miss Lesley looked rather adorably put-out for him at such a characterization. “You’re not such a dunderhead that you light yourself on fire,” she said earnestly. “You’re a very good, generous sort of person who will make some lovely woman a wonderful husband.” She patted his arm in consolation. “Just not me.”
Simon was surprised to find her words—though certainly kindly meant—gave him a pang. He had played his part too well, it seemed. And he needed to continue doing so. “If you say so, Miss T.”
“I do.” She gave his arm another consoling pat. “Now, I have arranged as best as possible to be found by my mama and not someone else, as that should serve our purposes best.” She led the way upstairs, toward the back of the house. “The viscountess has a small, seldom-used morning room where she meets her housekeeper and writes her letters—”
Simon acted the dunce. “Never heard of a viscountess who writes letters to her housekeeper instead of just telling her what to do. But that’s the nobility for you.”
“No, she— That is—” Poor Miss Lesley’s earnestness could not hold the line against such stupidity.
Simon pressed his idiot’s advantage with another nonsensical speech. “But I suppose that’s how generals order a battle—sending out dispatches and missives instead of merely shouting them at the top of their lungs—which they do an awful lot, I can tell you—so nothing gets garbled or mistaken in the furor. Superior strategy, I suppose. I salute Lady Malmesbury.”
“I’m sure she’d be gratified at such praise,” Miss Lesley offered kindly. “But what I meant to say was that the room should be suitable to our particular purpose—remote and private.”
“Leaving nothing to chance, Miss T? Already reconnoitered? I salute you, too. You’re a credit to your father, the marine colonel, what? You’d have made an excellent quartermaster.”
She cast him a funny little sideways glance over the top of her spectacles. “Only a quartermaster a
nd not a colonel? I thank you, but I should rather be the one giving the orders, rather than the one receiving them. Wouldn’t you?”
“Damn me, no,” he said, entirely honest. “God keep me from such a fate—I quit the army so they couldn’t promote me.”
“Really?” She turned to face him—man to man, as it were. “I’ve never heard of a career officer—or any man, for that matter—who didn’t want promotion, or at least recognition.”
“No, no.” He had glanced too close to the truth—or at least a small portion of the truth. There was nothing for it but to renew his bid for incompetence. “Had more than my share of that sort of responsibility. Makes my brain ache something fierce, it does.”
She sent a very long, considering glance his way, and seemed on the verge of saying something to the point, when they thankfully arrived at their destination. “Oh. Here we are.”
The room was as small and discrete as she had described—it would do perfectly for a little light ruination.
“I think we should start in a basic position of compromise.” His Colonel Lesley began to order the field of battle. “Here, where we can be readily seen, across from the door.”
He was certainly a man who knew how to take an order. “Right ho. Which one?”
She stilled. And frowned. “Which door?” There was only one.
“Which position of compromise do you prefer, Miss T? There are, after all, so many.”
Her face turned an enchanting shade of pink, and he didn’t know when he’d last been so pleased with himself. Or so charmed. “Ah, yes, of course there are.” She nodded, as if she had spent quite some time thinking of any number of intimately compromising positions to choose from. “I think a deep embrace.”
“Deep embrace,” he repeated, as if this required concentrated study. “But face to face, as I recall. Like this?” He came close enough to take a firm grasp of her upper arms, but no closer, as if they were about to dance.
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