Elisabeth Fairchild (3 page)

This man of monstrous reputation watched her approach most intently, rain dropping from his hair to course damp tracks along each weathered cheek, his eyes just as glittering and cold, piercing and yet shuttered, as if he gazed down from arrow-slitted battlements no one would ever breach, as if for all his relaxed stance he sat coiled--waiting.

For who? Or what?
A shift of the light in his eye, the slightest adjustment in the tilt of his chin, gave her the strangest feeling it might be her he waited for--a ridiculous notion--and yet the very idea made her heart beat faster. Did he turn such a look on any woman who crossed his path?

He did not look like a monster. Nor had he behaved like one in Miss Bundy’s classroom. Monsters seldom did.

Her former employer had fooled her. Indeed, the distinguished and respected Lord Palmer had presented himself more innocuously than Lord Wharton did, for Palmer was neither so handsome, nor so bitingly witty, and he had seemed a happily married man, a good provider, and an excellent father, not a man of questionable past and moral character.

She had heard stories of Felicity’s father, Valentine Wharton, a heartbreaker if ever there was one. Dreadful tales if they were true, far more scandalous than poor, pitiful Palmer’s sins. And yet, these tales reminded her all too much of the desperate haste with which she had abandoned her latest post, the breathless panic of her leave-taking.

She had no very high opinion of men. Valentine Wharton was not the sort of fellow to restore her faith. The eye-catching looks, barbed humor and delving gaze of this uncontested rogue proved at the same time attractive and repulsive.

How confusing when an ugly character came handsomely wrapped. This monster had abandoned the mother of his child. He had stolen his illegitimate offspring from the tender, loving care of another young woman. He was a danger to any single young female’s reputation--a sharpshooter of violent history, reputed to imbibe too deeply in spirits.

Everything Elaine had heard of Valentine Wharton made her wish to avoid him. Indeed, she wished she might refuse him his daughter’s care--sweet Felicity--such a father would surely pervert her goodness.

And yet, he had shown himself remarkably sensible to his responsibility in confrontation with Miss Bundy and her ridiculous posture perfector. He had supported his daughter’s good sense in rebelling, and yet attended to Felicity’s apology for her rudeness.

Small seeds of hope.

He stirred her curiosity, this detestably comely creature. He watched her, as she approached, one eye half-closed, as if he measured her, as if he had the right to examine her like any horse or a dog whose performance he judged. It made her wonder if this second summons to the headmistress’s office had aught to do with him, or if she were merely to be scolded for too rudely interrupting Miss Bundy’s class.

He addressed her as she went to pass him, “Felicity speaks highly of you, Miss Deering. Tell me, do you suffer motion sickness?”

She stopped, nonplused. An odd question. A very odd question indeed.

Was her monster the Sphinx with such a riddle? She was unquestionably turned to stone for a moment, before responding evenly, as if she were asked such questions every day by her pupil’s parents. “No, my lord. Why do you ask?”

He tipped his head at an angle, eyes narrowing, raindrops glittering in his lashes, the aloofness she had first noticed in him undiminished, despite the light of interest that lurked in his changeable gaze. “I wonder if you would care to go to Wales?”

H
e awaited her response with a sardonic lift to chiseled lips, a lazy watchfulness in hooded blue eyes.

Elaine considered him carefully. Snide and handsome young men generally took advantage of gullible women. She knew that all too well, and yet there was nothing flirtatious in his gaze, nothing suggestive or lewd--only that testing, watchful fascination.

“Wales?”

He spread wide his arms. His lips curved upward, his mouth wide, and full, and mischievous. A mouth to make a woman think of kisses, of this rogue’s reputation for freely dispensing such favors. “You have heard of it, I trust?”

Impertinent question. Impertinent smile. She would not be beguiled by a handsome face. By bold blue eyes. By rain starred lashes.  By enticing lips. She must not feel either flattered or offended that a handsome young man invited her to go away with him.
That the monster remembers my name.

This was a business arrangement. Surely it must be.

“Are you in need of a governess, my lord?”

“In need of governing, yes.” Lord Wharton’s lip curled. His gaze assessed her most piercingly. He seemed to laugh inwardly, as if in private jest, as if he had some sense of her unwilling fascination.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I’ve need of many things, Miss Deering.”

The words hung between them, like the droplets that hung above his brows, in the rain soaked, honey-colored forelock. Elaine frowned, swallowed hard. He meant to be suggestive, meant to see if he could rattle her. Well, she would not be rattled.

“And I am one of them?” she asked in the calmest of voices.

He paused a moment. “Felicity claims you are her . . . favorite.”

Innuendo.

“I am pleased she should say so.” She chose each word carefully. “And it is kind of you to offer Wales.” It would not do to offend a man of his position.
Or the monster he is said to be.
“But, my lord. I do not think . . .”

“Do not think.” He changed the meaning of her words, making them a firm directive rather than her waffling attempt to refuse him. “You have only to act. To say yes. I will double your current salary.”

He means to tempt me.
It was tempting. She could use the money.

A flicker of heat warmed his gaze. Impatience, not desire.

She frowned. “I fear . . .”

“Fear?” He pounced on the word, as if she chose it unwisely.

“I might prove a liability, my lord.”

He tilted his head, raindrops scattering, glinting like diamonds on his lapel, trickling in a crooked path toward his mouth, toward damp lips that echoed, “Liability? Do you mean to persist in presenting yourself in a negative light, Miss Deering?”

“Only in that while I am conversant in five languages, Gaelic does not number among them.”

He regarded her a moment as if she baffled him, before brushing at his mouth with an impatient hand. “I am in no need of an interpreter. I speak the language fluently.”

She clasped her hands, stared at her feet.
Am I foolish not to jump at his offer?

Mrs. Northgate came to the office doorway, “Miss Deering?”

Nothing yet settled between them, Elaine said, “If you will excuse me, my lord. I am summoned.”

She followed Mrs. Northgate, relieved at the interruption, surprised to find her office occupied. A gentleman sat in the chair before her desk.

His sleeve, and one well shod foot were all she could see of him. And the hand--bound in white gauze and sticking plaster. She knew that hand. She knew the reason for the sticking plaster.

Her stomach lurched in anticipation of fresh disaster. Another monster.

“Miss Deering, I believe you know Lord Palmer.” Mrs. Northgate made an obsequious gesture toward her visitor.

He turned, her former employer, leaning his elbow hard into the arm of the chair, to look at her with a distant expression, chin high, as if they were barely acquainted, as if she stood miles beneath him. And yet, his feeling for her smoldered in his gaze, gave hint in the weakened purse of his lips.

How dared he show his face? Did he mean to apologize? Or was it trouble he was after? Elaine drew a deep breath and tried to look and sound calm and polite. “Do you mean to school Jennifer here, my lord?”

Mrs. Northgate answered for him, tone chill, as if Elaine’s question were in some way inappropriate. “Lord Palmer comes upon another matter, Miss Deering.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I am most disappointed to hear report that contrary to Lady Palmer’s recommendations you were regarded as unsatisfactory in your handling of their children. Lord Palmer regrets the need to set the record straight. He voices concern that you seek employment again in a situation that involves young ones.”

Elaine stared at him, a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach.

Revenge.
Of course
. He meant to sully her name, to leave her without references. No hope of finding a position of any standing then. No hope at all.

Palmer eyed her with unguarded satisfaction, no pity, no heart, no words for her.

“It is a lie!” she blurted.

Mrs. Northgate wrung her hands. “I very much regret, Miss Deering, that so serious and derogatory are the nature of these reports that I cannot keep you on here at Gatehouse.”

Elaine regarded her with a dismay that matched her feeling for Palmer’s accusations. “You give me no opportunity to defend myself? What are these trumped up charges?”

Mrs. Northgate licked her lips uneasily.

“I can think of no good reason why a gentleman of Lord Palmer’s standing should wish to slander you, Miss Deering. I must accept his word as truth.”

Elaine’s heart broke all over again. She recognized the unyielding set of Mrs. Northgate’s lantern jaw. Her mind was already made up. The truth did not matter.

Her future teetered, seemed poised to plunge into an abyss of ignominy. She strove to defend herself, to halt her inevitable downward slide.

“Lady Palmer supported me in my going. She knew my reasons--found them both honorable and valid. She liked me, as did the children.”

“And Lord Palmer?” Mrs. Northgate pressed. “Would you accuse a gentleman of doing this out of spite? He did not like you?”

Elaine pressed her lips together to stop her chin from shaking. She must not allow her voice to quaver. She must not allow her growing sense of terror to overwhelm her.

Palmer’s brows rose. How smug he looked. The beast. He knew this was the reception his accusations would meet, that he might with the snap of his fingers ruin her chances for gainful employment.

“Have you no answer?” Mrs. Northgate demanded.

His hands! The looks. The whispers. How to explain?

“He liked me too well!”

A moment’s shocked silence, and then Palmer murmured coolly, nostrils flaring, “You flatter yourself, my dear.”

Mrs. Northgate shot him a measuring glance.

He sat, straight-backed and well-groomed on the edge of the chair, a picture of the proper English gentleman untouched by English rain, or the sordid breath of scandal.

Elaine met Mrs. Northgate’s delving look, chin up.

Pity welled in the headmistress’s eyes. She pursed her lips and shook her head regretfully. “I am terribly sorry, Elaine.”

Elaine braced herself.

“I cannot take your word over a gentleman’s. You do understand?”

Elaine closed her eyes, heart sinking.

“You will be so good as to fetch your things?”

So good as to avoid making a scene. So good as to avoid involving the school in a legal proceeding.

Elaine turned, knees shaking, her future undone. She stopped beside Lord Palmer’s chair, gaze fixed on his bald spot. With every inch of self-respect she could muster she said calmly, “You are, in every way conceivable, a profoundly little man, my lord.”

His head twisted, that he might shoot her such a look of malevolence she was tempted to fall back, tongue stilled. But, she had nothing to lose now in speaking out, and so she stood her ground and said, “I pity your wife, sir. Your children. On you I waste no such tender emotion. For you, sir, I feel nothing but contempt.”

Invigorated by her own nerve, she turned her back on him, turned her back on security and income, on the certainty with which she had regarded her future at Gatehouse, and sailed out the door.

Lord Wharton still waited on the bench, a puddle at his feet. The Sphinx once again stopped her in her tracks. His hair curled wild and wet, as disarrayed as her emotions. His brilliant, rain-starred gaze rose to meet hers, brows raised, as if in question.

He heard! Oh Lord, he heard the whole. And now this monster of a man will judge me.
She paused to catch her breath, to stiffen her resolve, her back, the wobbly condition of her knees.

What was this look in his eyes? This warmth! Here sat the picture of a profligate man of dreadful reputation, and she found in his formerly chill regard nothing but an invigorating blaze of admiration.

He said, ever so quietly, “My offer still stands.”

She frowned.
Do I misjudge him?

“Elaine.”

Palmer’s voice. He spoke from the doorway behind her.

Without turning she said, voice strong. “Miss Deering to you, my lord.”

“I’ve no desire to see you cast onto the street.”

So sympathetic his words, so snide his tone.

Hypocrite! Snake!

In Valentine Wharton’s gaze hovered a moment of understanding, a quick, flickering look of distaste for Palmer, a mirror of her own feelings.

She whirled to face her former employer. He looked her over contemptuously, head to toe, gaze sliding past her to the figure who lounged upon the bench.

To think that she had trusted him! Admired him. Envied his wife such a husband.
How could I have been such a fool?

Her anger flared. “Is the street not exactly what you intended for me in producing such a pack of lies?”

He held wide his hands, palms up, as if he were harmless, blameless. In the most urbane and unobjectionable of tones he said, “I offered you a position once. I stand by that offer.”

“What? Beneath your thumb?” she snapped, and then surprised herself in saying, “Or is it another part of the anatomy you had in mind?”

He laughed. “You disgrace yourself, my dear, with such a suggestion. Where will you go?”

She said nothing.

“Penniless,” he pressed.

And you would leave me so.

“Without proper reference? Where in heaven’s name will you go?”