The Governess Club: Louisa (4 page)

Sniffing, Louisa looked away. “I did not say I needed you to rescue me.”

“If I hadn’t, you would likely be unconscious on the floor, perhaps even dead.” His voice was laced with displeasure. Tension radiated off him. She would not have been surprised to see him assume a prizefighter’s stance, his muscles were so tight.

“There is no call for such dramatics,” she huffed.

“Packard!” Mr. Taylor bellowed, making her jump. He reached up and retrieved the pot she had risked her safety to get. A shot of annoyance ran through her at how easily he accomplished the task. The cook appeared in the doorway and Giant Johnny thrust the pot at him, his eyes not leaving Louisa. “In the future, Mrs. Brock is not to fetch these pots.” He silenced her protest with a slash of his hand. “She is too short and it risks her safety. Either yourself or I will get them, or anyone who is tall enough, for that matter.”

“Yes, sir.” Mr. Packard gave a sharp nod, no question or hesitation in his voice. He didn’t even shoot a look of irritation in her direction for being the cause of such a clipped command; he simply accepted it and returned to his duties.

“That was unnecessary,” Louisa began.

Mr. Taylor cut her off, placing his fists on his hips. It made his presence in the room increase, if that were possible, taking every available inch as his own. “Mrs. Brock, you may have little regard for your own safety, but I will not have your injuries or your death on my conscience. So long as you work here, if there is any task that may risk your health and well-being, you will seek assistance.”

“I don’t need—”

“This is not negotiable,” he clipped out. “If you feel you will have difficulty meeting this expectation, pack your things now.”

Louisa hated him in that moment. Hated that he was commanding her, hated needing this position for the shelter it provided, hated knowing he was right. This hatred was visceral, bleeding from her bones and through her pores until she could almost feel the hot slime of it on her skin, burning her. The hatred wasn’t a stranger, but it had been so long since she felt it that it took several moments for her to gain control of it.

She swallowed and nodded. “I will do as you say.”

Mr. Taylor visibly relaxed, his arms and shoulders lowering. “I am glad to hear that. I should not want any harm to come to you.”

Louisa gritted her teeth. “I am not your responsibility, Mr. Taylor.”

“So long as you are in my employ, you are.”

For a moment, she was in serious contemplation of leaving. True, here she had a roof over her head, food—despite how questionable it was—in her belly and something to occupy her days. But Giant Johnny was turning into a domineering man, one used to ordering people about and not anticipating any refusal, merely taking what he saw as his right. She had spent her past few years fighting against such men, leaving when it was a better option than losing. She had no desire to find herself in yet another situation like that.

She thought she had found her sanctuary with her friends and their Governess Club. For a brief time, they were their own masters, making their own decisions regarding their lives and their futures. True, Jacob Knightly lived at Ridgestone with them, but for the most part he remained out of the Governess Club’s business. The estate and his marriage were his concerns; the Governess Club, the ladies’.

And it had been wonderful. Difficult, but wonderful.

But now she found herself yet again in the situation of submitting to a man. Did she need this position that much? Would she be able to survive like this? Odds were low, as she had yet to succeed in that. How long would she be able to suffer this? How long before he would demand the sacrifice of her dignity, her self-respect?

Did she want to find out?

Mr. Taylor continued speaking, his tone more gentle now that he had gotten her to accede to his wishes. “I just want you to be safe. I would feel horrible should anything happen to you. It’s for your own good.”

She couldn’t stop the snort. “Of course it is. Isn’t it always?”

He was taken aback by the sarcastic vehemence of her tone. “What?”

She couldn’t stop herself, didn’t know if she wanted to. “Men like you are always making decisions for a woman’s own good. We’re too weak minded and flighty to be considered capable of determining what our own good is, so we must depend on men to determine that. Why does no one recognize that men are selfish and will manipulate the situation to serve their own needs? At what point did ‘what’s best for the woman’ become entire acquiescence to man’s desires? Why is it that no one can see that disparity? And those who do are scoffed at, ridiculed and shunned for being ‘unnatural’ females, merely for wanting the acknowledgment that they are in possession of a working mind and are capable of using it just as effectively as a man.”

John blinked, feeling as though he had taken an unexpected punch to the kidney. He didn’t know what to do: respond to her words—
what was it she said anyway?
—or marvel at the ferocity on her face. He doubted she knew what she looked like: eyes snapping, brows lowered, face red—even her golden hair seemed to resonate. Gone was the harpy and in her place was this woman caught up in a passion. He recognized that it was anger driving her, but there was a fine line between anger and lust and he knew which one was driving him now. He took a breath to ensure control over his body.

His mind belatedly processed some of her words. His brow lowered in confusion and he crossed his arms over his chest. “Are you saying that you want to get hurt?”

For some reason that made her angrier. “No,” she snapped. “I don’t want to get hurt. I want the respect afforded to men that I know what I can and cannot do and make decisions accordingly.”

“But you didn’t,” he pointed out. “You were about to fall from the chair. You could have been seriously injured.”

“Oh, and you never made a mistake once in your life? Never so close to accomplishing something that a little risk is worth it?”

“I highly doubt a pot is worth the risk.” He was still confused.

“Oh!” He wondered if she would stamp her foot, but she restrained herself. John watched as she took a deep breath, her breasts straining against her dress. She closed her eyes, her lips pressed together into an almost invisible line, and she was clenching her hands into fists and then relaxing them. When she spoke again, her voice was calm and flat. “Pray excuse me. Mr. Packard needs assistance.”

John automatically stepped out of her way, the woman sweeping by him in a regal swish of skirts. The hairs on his arms stood up as she passed him, every nerve wishing to touch her in some way. Yea gods, she was a firecracker. One of the world’s worst maids, but a firecracker nonetheless. Her anger had turned her brown eyes to an alluring dark mahogany, snapping with fire. Her pale cheeks had flushed with red, contrasting with her wheat colored hair that taunted him with its tempting softness. Her bosom had heaved with her furious breathing; his eyes were torn with where to look: at the rise and fall of her breasts, her delicate cheeks flaming with fury, her lips rounding on each word with deliberation or her eyes, the fire drawing him in with its promise of passion.

This was a woman who would do well in bed. In
his
bed.

Her pause at the door was infinitesimal. “And it is not about the pot, sir.” She finalized her parting shot with a sniff and disappeared from the office.

A large grin burst out on his face. Oh yes, she would do very well in his bed.

“M
rs. Brock?”

Louisa turned her head at the young voice that called her name. “Yes, Timothy?” Suds were up to his elbows as he scrubbed the pots from the morning’s cooking.

“Kin I asks ye a question?”

She closed her eyes briefly at his grammar. “Of course.”

“Yer smart, right? Me mam’s day is coming up and I been saving bits of me wages to git her somethin’ pretty. Kin ye tell me what mams like?”

Louisa looked up from the tray she was preparing for Mr. Taylor. She had taken to bringing him a board of cheese and bread along with a pint. He worked in his office every afternoon and invariably grew hungry when he did.

And it always happened when Mr. Packard was out of the kitchen.

“You want to buy your mother a birthday gift?” Louisa asked. “That is very sweet of you, Timothy.”

He blushed and scratched his cheek, leaving some suds on his skin. “T’aint nothing. I only gots a few pennies.”

“Well, what ideas have you been thinking of?”

“Mebee some flowers, buts she kin get those in any field ’round here. Mebee a pretty dress? Or one them bonnets that them ladies wear. Buts I can’t go into one of them girl stores.”

“Are you asking me to go shopping for you?”

Timothy shrugged. “How much do them dresses and bonnets cost?”

Louisa’s eyes were sympathetic. “More than a few pennies.”

His face fell. “Well, what else do mams like?”

Louisa lifted the tray. “They like nicely behaved, handsome sons that do the dishes instead of going out and playing after dinner.”

A cheeky grin covered his face. “I got the handsome stuff down pat!”

She smiled back at him. “That you do, Timmy boy.” She turned and carried the tray to Giant Johnny’s office. “I will keep thinking about your mother’s birthday gift.”

“Thank ye, Mrs. Brock,” Timothy called out, the cheeky grin still on his face.

Giant Johnny looked up with a frown as she entered the office. “What was that about?” he asked.

Louisa shook her head. “Nothing important. Timothy wants to buy his mother a birthday gift.”

“Hm” was all the response she got as he turned his attention back to his books, rubbing his head.

She stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at Giant Johnny hunched over his desk. He looked awkward, uncomfortable, as he scratched away at the paper. He didn’t normally ignore her like this. Usually he stood and offered her a smile and a seat. She had become used to these offers, even put more on the tray when she was of a mind to accept.

She didn’t often get the opportunity to watch him. Her days were too busy and in the evenings he was dedicated to the pub, serving and entertaining the customers. Regulars, mostly, all men. None came who expressed interest in needing a room; she had yet to clean the rooms again, for which she was thankful.

Now as she stood here, looking at him, she wondered at the tiny ball of disappointment at how he barely glanced up and didn’t even smile at her.

Louisa watched his hand running back and forth over his bare pate. She had run her hands through a man’s hair before, and she was curious about how her hand would feel in the same place as his now. Would his skin be soft? Smooth like the skin on her stomach or more rough, given the hair follicles that covered a human scalp? Would it be warm or cool? Would she be able to determine just by touch if he was naturally bald or if he maintained it that way?

She imagined herself standing beside him and sliding her hands along that bare skin, down his neck to settle on his broad shoulders. She had never seen a man of his size. Serving in the pub, she noticed how the men instinctively cowered when near him, but she found it intriguing. Ever since the pot incident when he had effortlessly held her by the waist, a part of her longed for it to happen again. Her skin tingled at the thought of being held in his arms again where she could lean into him and learn his body, his heat, his smell. Her shoulders ached to be surrounded by him, her throat drying at the prospect of being able to lean into him and pull his head down for a kiss.

She was not a maiden, having indulged with two footmen since becoming a governess. They had both been pleasant and attractive—she would have nothing less—and, most importantly, discreet. She never would have considered them if she had thought they would spread tales about her. The experiences had been enlightening, if dangerous. She gave a brief whisper of thanks she had never been caught with child. She was not a stranger to feeling lust, but the force of this particular lust for the giant sitting awkwardly at his desk took her off guard.

She was torn between indulging her lust and denying it. She was unsure if he was feeling the same attraction to her and he was her employer; that alone could complicate matters. As a governess, she had never allowed her employers any possibility of a sexual relationship, but those gentlemen had all been married with children. Such an arrangement would have made her more than uncomfortable in regard to her dignity and having to face his wife.

But her giant here was unmarried, no children in sight save for the two boys he employed. And if things became awkward, she had more freedom to leave than she had felt as a governess. She did not have a formal contract to stay at the inn and he paid her on a weekly basis instead of monthly.

If anything, it would rid her of the ache between her legs and along her skin whenever he was nearby. She was certain that even if he didn’t exactly feel lust for her, he would be able to perform when the time came.

She just had to decide what it was she wanted.

“I’ve brought your tray, Mr. Taylor,” Louisa said and moved to put it on his desk.

He muttered absently, “Thank you.”

“Is something the matter?” she asked, glancing at him.

“Nothing you can help with,” he replied.

She stiffened at the dismissal in his tone and turned on her heel to stalk out of the room. His voice stopped her.

“Wait, please, Mrs. Brock.”

Louisa looked back at him. Mr. Taylor stood, the chair scraping loudly against the wood floor. He ran his hand over his head again. “I apologize. I should not have spoken like that to you. I only meant that it is an accounts issue, one that a maid does not need to be concerned over.”

She lifted her chin. “A maid can have some knowledge beyond cleaning.” At least
she
did. Not many others she had met did.

He nodded. “Of course.”

At his agreeable tone, she took a step forward, softening a little. “I do, for instance.”