Guilty Series (35 page)

“Ugh.” She made a face and chomped down on her candy stick. “How horrid!” she said around the bits of peppermint in her mouth. “Can't I have a majordomo instead?”

“Only princesses have majordomos. Other little girls have nannies and governesses.”

“I know, and it's so rum. I'd rather be a princess. Then I could order everyone about. Even you.” She brandished the stubby end of her peppermint stick at him. “Give me a proper bedroom, or I shall lock you in the Tower,” she intoned with as much majesty as an eight-year-old could summon. He grinned, and she stuck her candy stick back in her mouth. “Besides,” she went on in an ordinary voice, “governesses are awful. They are dowdy and dull. They are always making you do sums, and they twitter and fuss when you don't mend your stockings.”

Dylan took her word on that. “This governess isn't anything like that.”

“Is she pretty?”

Pretty? Hardly the word for a woman who had haunted his dreams for five years. “I suppose she's pretty,” he answered as he lifted the bottle of brandy to his lips.

“Is she your mistress?”

He choked. “For God's sake, how do you even know about such things? Never mind,” he added at once, realizing that this was hardly a topic one discussed with a child. “I think you should go to bed.”

“You can tell me.” She rested her chin on her cotton-covered knees, sucking on her candy and eying him with a wise sort of skepticism. He didn't want to know how she had acquired it.

“She is not my mistress,” he answered, telling himself his answer was the truth, at this moment anyway. “And we are not going to talk about this again. Go to bed.”

She slid off the chaise longue, but instead of going toward the door, she moved to stand beside him. “I'm not tired. Can't I play piano with you? We could do duets.”

He shook his head, but she persisted. “I would keep up, I swear I would, Papa.”

Papa. He did not even like the word. It implied affection that she could not possibly feel for him. It implied responsibility he did not want. He should tell her not to call him that.

She put a hand on the keyboard and pressed a few notes at random. “I made that up just now,” she said. “I like it. I think it's a serenade, don't you?”

“Perhaps.”

“You have an estate in the country, don't you?” she asked and played a few more notes. “Fruit orchards. Pears and apples. It's in a place called Devonshire. I read about it.” She stopped and met his gaze. “I've read all about you.”

Dylan didn't know what to say. Most of what was printed about him wasn't what a child should be reading. Feeling suddenly awkward, he looked away from her gaze, staring down at the small hand on the piano. He watched as she put her other hand on the keyboard and began to improvise on her little serenade.

“Can we go there some time, Papa?” she asked. “I've never been to the country.”

“Isabel—”

“It would be nice to go to the country and have a pony.”

There was a mournful note in her voice, and when he looked over at her, her eyes were so hopeful, so wistful.

Without thinking, he leaned close to her and gave her a kiss on her temple, the same careless gesture of affection he would give any female with inconvenient expectations. “I have work to do, and you need to go to sleep. We'll talk about ponies some other time.”

Reluctantly, Isabel walked away from the piano. “If I don't like my governess, can I sack her?”

“No.”

She paused by the doors. “Would you sack her for me?”

He told her the truth. “No.”

“Mistress.” She nodded, looking far too wise for an eight-year-old. “Just what I thought.”

With that, she departed, and Dylan watched her go, feeling chagrined by the child's assumption, though he could not find fault with it. It would be the truth if he had his way.

It was disconcerting to hear a little girl talk about such things, and he doubted they were even supposed to understand the concept of mistresses. But then, what did he know about little girls?

Nothing, he answered his own question. All the more reason for her to go to school when the year was over. It was for the best. If she were not so gifted, he would ship her to relatives as he had originally intended, but her musical ability should be nurtured. Her talent warranted a music conservatory in Germany or Italy.

I've read all about you.

Isabel's words stirred something inside him, a sense of disquiet at what she must have read. He was the man that he was. He hardly needed to apologize for it, and he ruthlessly shoved any sense of disquiet aside.

His plan was all for the best. During the coming year, Isabel would have Grace to look after her, he would have Grace with him, and Grace would gain for herself a secure future. Dylan finished off the brandy, telling himself it was the perfect solution for all of them.

W
hen Grace arrived at Dylan Moore's home the following day, she did not have any idea what to expect, but knowing what she did about the owner of the house, she concluded that nothing about her new situation could surprise her. In that, she was mistaken.

“Are you my father's mistress?”

The abrupt question rang down to the foyer from overhead, interrupting the butler's introduction of Grace to the group of servants gathered around her. All were silent as Grace tilted back her head to look up at the child leaning over the wrought-iron stair rail above her. No introduction was needed here.

Isabel had the same dark eyes as her father, the same willful jaw line, and, obviously, the same ability to speak in a forthright fashion when necessary. She stood on her tiptoes, her braids hanging down, the painted blue-and-white sky of the dome behind her head a sharp contrast to her black hair.

Grace was not a woman easily shocked, but such a question from a little girl was rather shocking. She lowered her gaze to the impassive face of the butler, Osgoode. She cast a look around her at the various members of the household. No one said a word. The perfect servants who knew their place, all of them were now behaving as if they were part of the wallpaper. She did not know if they had formed the same opinion of her as Isabel, but Grace knew she would have to dispel such notions by her behavior, not her words.

“Osgoode?” She looked at the butler, then at the small valise near her feet.

He took the hint at once and signaled for a footman to take her valise upstairs. The younger man obeyed, and the butler returned his attention to her. “The master wishes to see you this afternoon at four o'clock,” he told her with a bow. He left the foyer, with the rotund little housekeeper, Mrs. Ellis, right behind him. The maids and remaining footmen also dispersed, leaving Grace alone with her new pupil.

She looked back up at the child hanging over the rail. “I am Mrs. Cheval,” she said. “You must be Miss Isabel Moore.” She paused, then added, “But perhaps I am mistaken. I was told by her father that Isabel was a young lady, and young ladies do not ask indiscreet questions.”

The child straightened away from the rail and started down the stairs. “The only questions that aren't indiscreet are about the weather, the roads, or people's health.” At the bottom of the stairs, she added, “It's the indiscreet questions that help you find out things.”

There was enough truth in the child's words that Grace felt a smile tug at her mouth.

Isabel came to a halt in front of her, tilting her head back. “Are you going to give me an answer?”

“I certainly am not. People of good breeding do not answer such questions as that.”

“My father answered it. He said you're not, but I'm not sure I believe him.”

“Don't you believe your father when he tells you things?”

Isabel shrugged. “Adults lie,” she answered in a matter-of-fact way that was oddly pathetic. “I have to find out if my father is the sort to tell lies.” She paused, and her eyes narrowed in an almost accusing stare. “You might tell lies, too.”

Grace did not know what to make of the child's statements and questions, but as she looked into Isabel's face, she realized one thing. Despite the cynicism of her words and her worldly-wise manner, this little girl was very apprehensive about her new governess. “I don't tell lies.”

“We'll see,” Isabel answered with skepticism. “If you are his mistress, I'll find out soon enough.”

“This is not an appropriate topic for discussion, and I believe you know that already. Also, a matter of that sort is your father's own business.”

Something hard crossed Isabel's face, something that should not have been on the face of a little girl. “You're wrong!” she cried out with such vehemence that Grace was startled. “It's my business, too. I'm not letting this sort of thing happen anymore.”

So that was it. Mistresses coming and going. Grace felt a wave of compassion for the child, who had a rake for a father, no mother at all, and clearly no upbringing. Looking directly into her eyes, Grace said, “It will not happen because of me.”

“Humph,” was the child's only reply, making short shrift of Grace's assurances.

Changing the girl's opinion would take time, and she made no further attempt to change it now. “I should like to see the nursery,” she said. “Will you show it to me, please?”

Isabel's jaw set and she crossed her arms. “You might as well know I don't want a governess.”

“Want one or no,” Grace answered cheerfully, “you have one.”

The child turned away and started for the stairs. “If that's really so, it won't be for long. You won't stick it. They never do.”

Grace only intended to stick it for one year. “They?” she echoed as she and Isabel started up the stairs. “How many governesses have you had?”

Isabel paused, and Grace stopped beside her. The child counted silently on her fingers, then looked up at her and smiled. It was a wicked smile, just like that of the man who had sired her. “You're the thirteenth. Lucky you.”

Heavens,
Grace thought,
the acorn and the oak. What have I gotten myself into?

 

Sleep was a precious and unpredictable commodity for Dylan. Achieving it usually required a bit of assistance. Last night, even though he had gone two days without any rest and downed nearly a bottle of brandy, he had been unable to quiet his mind enough to lay his head down. Even by sunrise, he had not been able to sleep without the help of a pipe of hashish and a few sips of laudanum.

When he awoke, Dylan paid the price for all that help. For some idiotic reason, Phelps decided to open the draperies, and the clatter of rings sliding across a wooden rod woke him. He opened his eyes, and the bright sunlight sent shafts of pain through his skull like needles. Today just had to be one of the rare days when England had bright, brilliant sunshine.

Dylan turned onto his stomach with a groan. “Christ, man, what are you doing?” he mumbled as he covered the side of his face with a pillow. “Shut those damned things.”

“Good day, sir,” his valet greeted him with the irritating cheerfulness of those who knew nothing of overindulgence or its consequences. “Would you care for breakfast?”

Breakfast? Dylan's tongue felt glued to the top of his mouth, his body felt drier than the desert, and the thought of food made him want to retch. “No,” he said through clenched teeth. “If I catch even a whiff of kippers in this room, I shall make you a footman and hire myself a new valet. Now let me have my rest.”

“My apologies, sir, but it is now quarter past three, and you do have that appointment at four o'clock. I assumed you would wish to bathe and shave beforehand, so I have had a bath drawn. It is waiting for you.”

Dylan didn't care about bathing, shaving, appointments, or much else at this moment. All he wanted was to return to sleep, the only quiet refuge he had. He buried himself deeper into the bed linens and struggled to fall back to sleep, but it was too late. Already, his companion was there to torture him, humming along like a faulty tuning fork that never quite hit perfect pitch. He groaned again and reached for a second pillow, pressing it against his ear, but his attempt to shut out the whine was useless.

“Shall I tell Mrs. Cheval you wish to postpone the appointment?”

He knew no one by that name. Besides, in his present condition, even a woman wasn't enough to stir him. “Who?”

“Isabel's governess. I believe you told Osgoode last evening that she would be arriving this morning and that you wished to meet with her at four o'clock to discuss her duties.”

So Cheval was her surname, he thought groggily. It had never occurred to him she might be married. That bed in her flat was only big enough for one. Even if she was married, she had lived alone. She had to be a widow, or perhaps she had separated from her husband. No matter her current situation, she was a woman of experience. His favorite kind.

Half-asleep, Dylan focused his sleep-drugged senses on her, and that made him smile. Grace. Her name suited her. His fist tightened around a handful of feather pillow as he imagined her slender body in his arms, felt again the plump, perfect shape of her small breast beneath his palm. The whine in his brain receded as arousal took its place, as he remembered the soft, immediate yielding of her mouth and the welcoming eagerness of her kiss. He had not expected to awaken such desire in her so suddenly the other night, but the surprise had been a sweet one indeed.

No other man had touched her in a long time. He was certain of that, and he hungered to remedy it. If she were here beside him now, he would find all the secret places that gave her the greatest pleasure, exploiting them until she couldn't bear it, until he entered her and the only sounds he could hear were the frantic cries of her climax.

“I could tell her you are ill,” Phelps's dignified voice called out from the dressing room, ruining the most luscious, erotic fantasy Dylan had ever had. He forced down his erection and vowed that soon, it wouldn't be a fantasy.