The Education of Mrs. Brimley

Table of Contents

 

 

“
I will pose . . .
”

Emma said, pushing her spectacles farther up her nose, “but only fully dressed.”

“I cannot paint what I cannot see.” A dimple flashed in his smile. Sheer willpower kept her from smiling in response.

Chambers’s intense gaze raked her form as if fact belied his words. Never had a man studied her with such intent, certainly not one as handsome and refined as this. His voice, soft and seductive, surrounded her with the rich scent of warmed brandy and his own unique essence.

“I need to see how light and shadow caress a woman’s curves.”

Immediately, she imagined a physical heat, flowing down from her chest and swirling around her waist and hips. Her mind insisted that modesty called for distance between them, but her feet refused to move.

Chambers turned abruptly, releasing her from his enchantment. She slumped slightly, catching her breath while he strode toward his easel. “I will draw a picture of an aroused man’s private regions if you will remove just one article of clothing.”

“I have already removed my cloak,” she said, a bit short of breath.

He smiled, a subtle gesture. “And I have already shown you a picture of a naked man.”

She considered a moment, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of compliance. “A boot,” she announced. “If I had a buttonhook, I would remove a boot. However, as it is unlikely that such an instrument would be readily available in an artist’s studio . . .”

Chambers stepped over to his desk and returned with a long hook fashioned from a metal replica of a woman’s leg, complete with garter. “Perhaps this will help?”

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 
THE EDUCATION OF MRS. BRIMLEY

 
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

 
PRINTING HISTORY 
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / October 2007

 
Copyright © 2007 by Donna MacMeans.

 
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eISBN : 978-1-4406-2059-1

 
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As this is my first book, I have far too many people to whom I owe thanks and praise than I can list on one page. However, please indulge me while I pay tribute to a special few.

I wish to thank my agent, Cori Deyoe of 3 Seas Literary Agency, and my editor, Cindy Hwang, for believing in both this book and me. I am deeply indebted to Central Ohio Fiction Writers for the support and knowledge afforded me through good writer friendships over many, many years, and to Romance Writers of America for numerous opportunities and for awarding
Mrs. Brimley
their prestigious Golden Heart Award. Thank you. May I also acknowledge Christine Stahurski for her advice and support through good times and bad, Janet Ciccone for timely critique and advice, and Rosemary Laurey, who insists that writing goals must be met. A special thank you is extended as well to Berkley’s art department for the fabulous cover. Wow!

Finally, I’d like to dedicate this book to my mother, Helen Lutz, who passed away before she could hold this, my first book, in her hand. She never faltered in her praise for her writer daughter. And to my wonderful, supportive husband who is my own personal hero. Love Always.

PERCHED ON HER TRUNK, HER NOSE NUMB, HER toes paralyzed, the January cold burrowing bone deep, Emma Brimley huddled on an empty train platform agonizing over her decision to leave London for Yorkshire. She hadn’t considered the hazards of living in such a remote wilderness, nor had she planned for the tardy arrival of a carriage.

The muffled thud of horses’ hooves and the distinct rattle of wood and metal wrested her from her makeshift seat. A lantern swayed in the distance.

“Over here,” she called, shaking off the settled snow. Relieved that she hadn’t been forgotten, she waved her arms frantically overhead, even though she suspected it was too dark to be seen.

The light stilled, then moved in her direction, unleashing new anxieties. What if it wasn’t someone from Pettibone? In the dark, an unaccompanied woman was vulnerable to any miscreant or footpad. Her heart lurched into a fierce rhythm. She quickly lifted the leather flap of her traveling bag and fumbled for the only weapon on her person: her prized volume of sonnets.

“Would tha’ be the new teacher for th’ Pettibone School for Young Ladies?” A gruff voice called.

“Yes.” She relaxed, dropping the book back in her bag. “I’m Mrs. Brimley.” The words hung in a cloud of moist vapor. “They told me someone would meet me, but I was beginning to worry.”

“Aye. Tha’d be me. I come as soon as I could. Hurry along now. I’ll get tha’ things.”

She hurried to the end of the platform, eager to escape the elements. Too eager to question the appearance of the well-appointed carriage, and too impatient to wait for the assistance of the driver stowing her trunk, she grasped the door handle herself.

“Don’t mind his lordship, ma’am. He’s mos’ likely sleeping it off. He won’t even know he has company.”

“His lordship?” She released the handle as if it were blazing hot and not icy cold. No mention had been made of titled gentry in her correspondence with the school.

“Aye. Hissel’ is why I missed th’ train, late as ’twas. But I’ll have thee at Pettibone in a wink.” The well-bundled driver stepped to her side, opened the door, then helped her into the pitch-black interior. The door slammed shut behind her before the trapped warmth could escape. She had barely gained a seat before the lenses of her spectacles fogged beneath the protection of her black lace veil. The carriage lurched forward.

She sensed, rather than saw, the stranger’s presence. His body heat transformed the shared air of the interior into something earthy and forbidden. Her heart raced. The polite world would never sanction an unmarried woman alone with a man in such confined, private quarters.

In a bit of a panic, she dug her fingers beneath the sleeve of her heavy pelisse, searching for her mother’s handkerchief. She removed her spectacles, squinting in the dark to the opposite bench.

“My lord?” she inquired, her voice barely above a whisper.

A slumping bundle occupied inordinate space on the seat across from her. She swabbed her lenses with the recovered handkerchief, relaxing at his lack of response. Probably some old harmless member of the gentry who’d be more concerned with his hounds than an unattended woman. She slipped her eyeglasses back on the bridge of her nose, but the dark interior obscured details regarding the other passenger.

No matter, she sighed. Even if the man were awake, her widow’s weeds afforded her a small measure of privilege as well as anonymity. As quietly as her petticoats allowed, she slid away from the slumbering stranger to the far end of the padded bench.

Pulling aside the window curtain, she gazed with curiosity on what promised to be her new home. The moon had risen, its feeble light magnified by reflecting snow, revealing a forlorn, bleak landscape, so different from her familiar London, yet intriguing in a fundamental way.

“I have looked out in the vast desolate night—” she recited.

“In search of him.” A slurred voice completed the line.

He spoke! Her heart slammed into her rib cage. Emma tore her gaze from the window yet continued to hold back the curtain, allowing the moonlight to slip through the glass to the opposite seat. Her breath caught. She almost let the curtain drop, yet his face held her captive. Far from the old codger she’d expected, her companion was young, probably within a decade of her own twenty-three years. His fashionable clothes pegged him for an affluent gallant, right down to the silver-topped walking stick loosely trapped within his hand.

A dandy, she thought with a pang of disgust. She knew about dandies, those pompous, empty-headed peacocks who would cruelly snub someone like herself just to win favor with her pretentious cousin. This fashionable stranger probably knew only enough about literature to win a wager or two at some gentlemen’s club.

“You are familiar with Lord Byron’s poetry?” she asked, just to be certain she had not imagined his response. As she waited, watching the moonlight wash over his handsome features, a bit of unanticipated yearning tugged at her heart. How would it feel to be desired by someone like him? To be asked for a dance just once ahead of all the wealthy, gossiping debutantes who couldn’t tell a verse from a stew recipe? To be envied and not looked down upon for circumstances not of her making?

Although his eyes remained closed, a half smile tilted his lips.

“Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda-water the day after.” Slight slurring aside, his fluent elocution proved familiarity with Byron’s work.

“That is not my favorite verse, sir.” She frowned, disappointed by his choice. Still, he had recited more than she had anticipated and the prospect of conversation after her long trip from London proved too great a temptation.