The Carriagemaker's Daughter (11 page)

It was a puzzle. Celia had said that it was Jonathan who had insisted on hiring a new governess, but surely the marchioness must also have had a hand in the decision. Mrs. Tiggs had as much as told him that the previous two governesses had been too pretty and well-bred for Celia’s tastes. Perhaps she had chosen a girl unlikely to inspire jealousy.

How ironic it would be, thought Charles, if that was indeed Lady Sinclair’s reasoning, for the young woman’s appearance was now little short of stunning. Still... Miss Helène Phillips could hardly be quality, no matter how many languages she spoke.

“Please excuse me, Lord Quentin. I must return to my room.” The governess smiled hesitantly, and he found himself strangely reluctant to see her go. A few more minutes could surely do no harm, and he was intrigued by the curves hinted at by the soft draping of her wrapper. Slippered toes peeped out from under the silk hem– 

Ah. Well. Charles forced his attention back to the book in hand.

“Are you truly interested in Pliny?” he asked, the first suitable question that came to mind. The governess looked up at him warily, as if trying to judge the sincerity of his interest.

“Not Pliny himself. Elder or younger, that is,” she finally answered. “But in the history of ancient Rome, and all of the Italian peninsula. His description of the eruption of Vesuvius, for example–”  Miss Phillips stopped, but her face had come alight with these words, her eyes flashing green fire. The effect was rather delightful, and Charles wanted to see it again.

“I’ve always found Rome one of the most intriguing cities of the continent,” he told her, forgetting for the moment that the governess could hardly have visited it herself. “Marble columns falling over into dust, the ruins of the Forum filled chock-a-block with people selling everything from cheap trinkets to fish. But I suppose, if you’ve lived with such glories your whole life, they become part of the background– ”

He stopped. Miss Phillips had been staring at him with an expression Charles could hardly interpret. When she spoke it was with a dreamy quality, unselfconscious, almost as if he was no longer there.

“Oh!  It would be marvelous to see the Forum!” cried the governess softly. “And the Pantheon and the baths of Caracalla!   To stand on the steps of the Curia and imagine Cicero speaking in that very place–”  The governess halted abruptly and sighed, and her gaze shifted from his face. When she spoke again her tone was matter-of-fact.

“At any rate, I find it more enjoyable to read contemporary accounts of ancient life than the current scientific books. Although–” she added hastily, as if Charles would be offended at this dismissal of modern scholarship, “I am sure they are of greatest interest to the experts.”

“Dull and dry as bug dust, actually,” said Lord Quentin. “It makes one surprised that anyone wants to visit Rome these days, if they’ve read more than a page of, say, Liddell. Or Scott.” 

Miss Phillips was startled into laughter. “Oh, no!” she said, “To think all these years I’ve been feeling guilty that I found him pompous and... and rather long!”

“Interminable,” agreed Charles. “Although usually accurate, one must admit.”  They chatted comfortably about Rome for several minutes more, Miss Phillips once again charming in her animation. She was, Lord Quentin discovered, curious, intelligent, and well read. He hadn’t had a more enjoyable conversation in months.

Careful, old man,
said the little voice, reminding him that the girl was, after all, only an employee in this house. He could do as he wished, of course, but it was highly inappropriate for Miss Phillips to form an acquaintance with one of the guests.

“How did it happen that you are a governess here?” asked Lord Quentin, and then was surprised when the girl answered. He hadn’t intended to speak aloud.

Miss Phillips took a deep breath. “My aunt . . .”  She hesitated. “My father and my aunt arranged the position.”  All animation left her face, and the wariness returned.

“Your father?”

“Nathaniel Phillips. He died... not long ago.”

“Ah,” said Lord Quentin. The name rang no bells with him. But then, there was no reason to expect that it would.

“I really must leave–”

Miss Phillips leaned forward to adjust the strap of her slipper. Charles caught a glimpse of
décolletage
, and all thoughts of Roman ruins or Latin histories flew straight from his head. Although she was still rather slender overall, the girl’s breasts looked to be spectacular. Charles felt the first twinges of desire.

A pretty little nobody with, as far as he could tell, no family interested in her welfare. Lord Quentin had always preferred to take his pleasures among the more mature ladies of the
ton
, ladies for whom the rules of the game were well understood. Young nobodies weren’t generally his style, and–Pliny the Younger notwithstanding–Miss Helène Phillips was well down the social ladder. But the governess had piqued his interest. Charles wasn’t sure he cared to examine his feelings any more closely than that. She was... interesting, that was all, and an opportunity that he was currently at liberty to explore. A dalliance would certainly make his stay at Luton Court more satisfactory.

The girl shifted on the sofa, as if to rise. “Pray excuse me, my lord. It is quite late, and– ”

Perhaps Miss Phillips could be persuaded to engage in an occasional tumble during the next few weeks. She was only a governess after all, and he was the heir to the Tavelstoke earldom. The girl would probably be delighted to receive his attentions. And it would take his mind from the persistent temptation presented by Celia Sinclair.

“Miss Phillips,” he began. She looked up, and Lord Quentin found himself staring into wide, questioning eyes.

“My lord?”      

“Hmm.”  He was suddenly unsure of himself. It rankled. “Ah. I trust you’ve found your accommodations satisfactory?”

“My accommodations?”

“Well, yes. And the children?  They are advancing well in their studies?”

She looked at him as if he had lost his mind. “They are doing quite well, thank you,” she said finally. “Alice and Peter are delightful.”

“Ah.”

“Now, if you will excuse me–”

Charles took a deep breath. Why was he hesitating?  He couldn’t remember what he had planned to do or say. His attention seemed captive to her eyes, to the cascades of auburn hair about her shoulders, the bruised ruby lips–

“My lord!” protested Helène Phillips.

Charles had leaned forward to kiss her. The governess, heedless of the honor being bestowed upon her, was pushing him away. She was no match for his strength, of course. He took her hand.

Long, slender fingers.

A bell of warning sounded, softly, somewhere in the back of Lord Quentin’s mind. He ignored it and concentrated on the fingers, bringing each one to his lips for a taste. Heat flowed through his veins, his groin tightened, and he heard Miss Phillips murmur another protest.

She tried to snatch her hand away; he allowed it, moving his own hand to stroke her hair. He watched her reactions carefully, seeing first confusion in her eyes, and then–

And then his own desire, mirrored there. He was sure of it.

The chit wanted him, thought Charles, exultantly. And no innocent, surely. Well, this would be easy.

* * * *

Lord Quentin was going to kiss her. Helène, although having no previous experience in the matter, was quite sure. The nerve of the man.

Her eyes closed in a moment of confusion, and she found her lips brushed very softly with his. Then Helène’s arms moved around his neck, and she returned the kiss, hearing him groan softly. His hand was moving–good heavens, his hand was moving against the back of her neck and down the silk of her wrapper, stroking softly.

Time slowed, Lord Quentin kissed her again and again, and Helène swam in honey. He had pressed her into the sofa cushions and his movements were becoming... odd. Insistent and disturbing. She heard his voice whispering against her ear.

“Relax. Everyone else has gone to bed.”

Relax?

What was happening?  What was she doing?   Helène struggled to sit up, to push the man away from her.

“Easy, my sweet–”

“I am not your sweet!” 

Crack!  Her hand flew forward of its own accord, and she slapped him roundly across the face. Helène gasped and buried her face in her hands, sickeningly aware that her temper had once more gotten the best of her, aware that it was her own fault. She could hardly claim seduction. Not when she had gone to the library of her own accord, dressed only in nightgown and wrapper, and sat right there, on the sofa, letting him make love to her–

At least, that’s what she
thought
Lord Quentin had been doing. A country girl might have been able to explain things more clearly, but Helène was town born and bred. She had witnessed more than she ought in the back streets of London, but as for details... the details were still obscure to her.

Heavens. Helène finally shook off her paralysis and looked up. Lord Quentin was watching her with hooded eyes. He seemed unperturbed by the slap and his gaze raked over her once again, following the hollow of her neck down to her
décolletage.
Helène
put her hand up to cover... whatever it was that had captured his attention. He crossed his legs and she felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room.

“I must ask your forgiveness,
mademoiselle
,” said Lord Quentin. “Pray do not be alarmed. I was carried away by the brilliance of your eyes–”

Helène, for reasons she could hardly begin to explain, burst out laughing.

“My
eyes
?” she managed to say.

 Lord Quentin looked startled. He had been leaning forward on the sofa, his hand reaching for hers, but now he checked himself. “I fail to see what is so amusing,” he told her.

“Oh!  I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “It’s only that I’m not accustomed–”

She stopped, searching for an explanation that wouldn’t make either of them sound foolish. But Lord Quentin abruptly stood up.

 “There is no need to elaborate,
mademoiselle,
” he said. “I will bid you good night.” 

Helène saw that he was offended and, for some reason, this struck her as even funnier.

“Oh, my lord,” she said, hiccoughing with the effort not to laugh, “I’m... I’m
honored
, truly I am.”

“Yes,” said the lord, drily. “I can see that you are.”  He turned on his heels and walked out.

* * * *

“What’s wrong, maman?  Who is she?”

Lady Pamela sat up in bed with a start. Never one to be troubled by nightmares, she was perplexed by the lingering touch of anxiety, feeling it float slowly away as she came fully awake. Why, after all these years, did she dream about that day in Hyde Park?  And why did she associate the woman in the carriage with Helène?

Does Helène Phillips remind you of anyone?

The girl was a riddle. In some ways–the wardrobe she had arrived with, her shyness in company–she seemed less than what a governess ought to be. But in other ways she seemed much more. Her accent, for example, was impeccable, and few members of the
ton
could match the fluency and ease of her French. Grammar could be obtained from books, but the rest–  Where could the chit have learned it?

Lady Pamela slid out of bed and walked to the balcony, tempted, despite the cold, to step out into the velvet black of the winter’s night. Luton in winter. The stars blazed cold fire, far more magnificent than one ever saw through the smudge of London’s winter air.

Helène had spoken little of her past. Her father had been a carriagemaker, and a reasonably successful one, it seemed, until his illness. Her mother was dead–

Her mother. A shiver went through Pam as a fragment of her dream came to mind once again. That afternoon in Hyde Park... The old marchioness had been an intensely social creature, always happier in London than at Luton Court. An extended promenade through the park was
de rigeur
for any sunny day, and Pamela enjoyed the rides, especially as her mother  knew
everyone
. But Lady Sinclair had been very angry with her daughter on this occasion.

“Who is she maman?  She’s beautiful.”

“Pamela, stop this hen-witted fussing at once! ” 

“But maman–”

“I’ve told you before. She is no one.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

A governess with any need to conceal her past is earnestly to be pitied.

Lady Detweiler, for reasons that were initially unclear, arrived at the breakfast table well in advance of eight o’clock that next morning. Pamela and the marquess watched her entrance with a mixture of amusement and alarm. Grumbling loudly, eyes shielded against the soft morning sunlight with a enormous chicken-skin fan, Amanda was the picture of beleaguered misery.

“Heavens. Couldn’t you sleep?” 

“Can someone please explain to me,” complained Amanda, making her way immediately to the samovar of coffee,  “this fanatic interest in fresh air during the winter. I
cannot
comprehend it. As if it wasn’t bad enough that it’s cold
outside
.”

“If you’re trying to tell us that your rooms are not warm enough,” said Jonathan, “ask for an early fire to be laid.”

“Pah. The maids have to rest sometime, I suppose.”

The marquess chuckled and Lady Pamela hid a smile. That was Lady Detweiler all right– all bark and no bite. Pam had never known anyone who grumbled as loudly as Amanda, or who was as genuinely considerate of the servants.

Lady Detweiler grimaced at the sight of Jonathan’s plate, piled high with slices of ham and smoked pork sausage.

“We shall be killing the poor pigs left and right this winter, I see.”

“This is hardly an unreasonable breakfast,” protested Lord Sinclair, who never seemed to catch on to Amanda’s teasing. “You should see what Lord Burgess eats.”

“Lord Burgess,” she told him, “is an ox. I can’t imagine what all this is doing to your digestion. It must be perfectly demoralized by now.”

Lady Pamela snorted.

“Reynolds, pour another cup of coffee for Lady Detweiler if you please,” the marquess instructed the waiting footman.