The Reluctant Governess (14 page)

One.
One
.

Exactly one woman had turned up punctually in the chilly morning drizzle, brandishing an umbrella and wearing a sludge-brown hat that would be revolting even if it weren't wet.

Nicholas hadn't even liked Eliza's unobjectionable hat when it was dry. What would he think of this one?

Eliza led Miss Scully into the morning room, where a tea tray set for half a dozen lay on a table. The woman was in her forties, and had the pale, pinched look of someone who didn't get outside much. There was also an unfortunate mole, with a whiskery hair sprouting. Did she not own a mirror and a pair of tweezers? Nicholas would take one look at her and that would be that.

Eliza was not leaving Lindsey Street today.

Her throat felt thick, and she closed her eyes to will back the tears of frustration. What good would it do to cry? Her best bet would be to telephone Oliver as soon as the interview was over and beg and plead for someone,
anyone
else.

Perhaps Miss Scully would surprise her.

Not bloody likely.

She poured a cup of tea for them both. The governess candidate gave Eliza a quelling look, as if Eliza might have dropped in poison instead of sugar. “You are the young woman who was in all the papers with the master of the house?”

“No,” Eliza lied. “I am here representing the Evensong Agency.”

Miss Scully took a sip of tea, her pinkie finger extending to absurd lengths. “Ah. I am accustomed to dealing directly with Mrs. Evensong.” Her lips pruned. “Mr. Palmer is a bit immature to have so much responsibility. You are as well.”

“Mrs. Evensong and her niece Lady Raeburn trust us implicitly.” Eliza swallowed her own tea, wishing it was indeed poisoned. “Mr. Palmer explained the nature of the household? Mr. Raeburn is a . . . is an internationally renowned artist, and Domenica is his only child.”

Where was Nicholas anyway? Eliza had slipped a note under his door reminding him of the appointment early this morning, then settled Sunny in the kitchen with Mrs. Quinn and Sue. She had not seen him after last night's . . . debacle. It could be thought of as nothing else.

Eliza could not blame her wanton behavior on the wine at dinner; she'd had very little of it. If a few kisses could go to her head—and the rest of her—it was a good thing she was leaving.

But, oh dear, she probably wasn't.

Optimistic earlier, Eliza had opened the front door herself, noting the happy absence of reporters in the misting rain. And there stood Miss Scully, dasher of all optimism.

The woman was speaking, her vowels careful. “Yes. And what he didn't tell me, the gutter press did. I won't let the temporary notoriety influence me—half the time there's no truth to what gets printed. I'll make my mind up about the job once I meet Mr. Raeburn. I am an excellent judge of character.”

Eliza didn't bother to let herself feel relief. While Miss Scully might not be scandalized yet, Nick was unlikely to warm up to this drab creature.

“How do you feel about leaves, Miss Scully?” Eliza asked, somewhat desperate.

The woman looked startled. “Leaves?”

“Yes. As in nature studies. Collecting. Chlorophyll.” She was babbling.

“Some areas of science are not harmful to the young female mind. Botany is a suitable subject, I suppose. One can always supervise one's gardeners when one is the mistress of one's own home. Flower arranging is a specialty of mine, as you must have read in my résumé. Is there a greenhouse on the premises? One might plant a seed, note its progress, and record it in a journal.”

“The female mind?”

“You must agree that females should be educated differently than males. We are delicate, like the flowers that interest us both. Women need not trouble themselves over worldly pursuits. Politics. Our place is in the home, raising a future generation of leaders.”

“How will these women know how to train leaders if they are unaware of current events?”

“That's what public schools are for, Miss Lawrence, once our charges have surpassed us. Dear me, you are not one of those suffragists, are you? Does Mrs. Evensong know?”

“I believe Mrs. Evensong shares my opinion,” Eliza replied. “After all, she runs a successful business. Why should she take second place to a man?”

Miss Scully sniffed. “She is an exception. A woman of her advanced years is entitled to some eccentricity.”

This conversation could not be any worse unless Miss Scully admitted to devil worship. Actually, Nicholas Raeburn might have some sympathy for that. Eliza swallowed the rest of her tea with bleak certainty that she'd be stuck here awhile yet.

Her “experiment” would not be repeated, however. It was far too dangerous. She shut her eyes, thinking of Nicholas's coppery curls between her thighs, and shifted in sudden discomfort. In a week or two, when she was finally returned to her rightful place, would she be typing a letter and get distracted by the memory of his hand on her cheek? Such an innocent gesture, yet fraught with feeling.

There was not an ounce of innocence in Nicholas Raeburn—everything he did was designed to enrapture. Tantalize. Seduce. Eliza had been a lamb being led to slaughter, if slaughter resulted in sheer bliss as he'd promised.

Miss Scully cleared her throat. “Are you well, Miss Lawrence? You look a bit peculiar, if you don't mind my observation. I read of the master's recent illness.”

“I'm perfectly fine.” Or she would be, if she could find a way to turn off her inappropriate thoughts. It was a bit of a miracle she had not come down with the household complaint, but Eliza was made of sterner stuff.

If she had to stay until a suitable governess was hired, could she plead illness? Lock herself in her room and pretend to be sick?

Coward. Coward. Coward.

Miss Scully looked pointedly at her watch.

“I'll just go and see what can be keeping Mr. Raeburn,” Eliza said. “Excuse me.”

She left the governess reaching for an iced cake and ran up two flights of stairs. Nicholas was not in his bedroom, and the note she'd left was still on the floor where it had been slid under the door. Damn it.

Eliza looked up the stairwell, listening for sounds from the studio. She'd only been up there once, looking for Nicholas's address book. Taking a deep breath, she mounted the steps and reached the top of the house.

The studio door was shut. Eliza turned the knob and entered without knocking. A certain gray brightness from the skylight illuminated the room, along with lamps and even a branch of guttering candles. Nicholas was sprawled on a couch, sound asleep, wearing nothing but paint-stained pants.

He could have set the house on fire.

“Mr. Raeburn! Wake up! Miss Scully is here.”

He didn't move. Eliza grabbed a paintbrush and poked him with the sharp end.

He came to with comic slowness, batting his eyes like a baby owl. “Come back for more?” he asked in a sleep-roughened voice.

“I beg your pardon, but no. Never again. The new governess is downstairs.” She left the “you idiot” off.

He sat up. “Bloody hell. What time is it?”

“Nearly half past ten. Have you been up here all night?”

“No. But I couldn't really sleep and came up again before dawn.”

“What was so important?”

“Nothing.” Nicholas wouldn't meet her eyes. Eliza turned to the enormous canvas on the easel and shrieked.

“It's not what you think,” Nicholas said hurriedly.

“It isn't? I can see as well as the next person, and that's me!”

“That's
I
,” the wretch murmured. “And it isn't really you, except for the face and the lower extremities, and I'll fix that before it's displayed. I'm not sure I got your breasts right. We never got that far last night.”

Eliza was speechless. The painting was larger than life, and the breasts were gigantic. Nicholas would be disappointed with the real ones, not that he'd ever get to see them.

“You cannot show this to people!”

“Well, not as it stands now. It's not finished—far from it. The underpainting was the easy bit. But I do think I finally got your skin tone right. It needs more crosshatching—”

“I am—I am
touching
myself!” Eliza might have yelled. She was trembling with what she guessed was rage and had lost her self-control entirely. She had just spotted the palette knife on the worktable when Nicholas snatched it away.

“Artistic license,” Nicholas quipped. “But you might enjoy such a thing in the future. I take it you've never—”

“No, I certainly have not and n-never will!” Yes, she had occasionally felt a little restless alone in her bed, but to do to herself what Nicholas had done would be an impossibility.

Wouldn't it?

“Never say never, my love. You are bound to discover you've lied. You'd better go downstairs and tell Miss Whoever that I'll be down in a trice.”

Too late. Eliza heard the squeaky step below and began to see stars.

There was no blood this time—
yet
—but it seemed as good a time as any to faint.

When presented with the prospect of a swooning woman or covering his latest art project—the sheet would stick to the fresh paint anyway—Nick chose to catch Eliza before she fell to the floor. He had just settled her on the couch when Miss Whoever stepped over the threshold clutching an umbrella to her flat bosom.

“I heard someone scream. And then there was shouting,” she said faintly. She was staring at his bare chest and Nick felt positively indecent.

Damn. The woman must have the ears of a bat to hear them from three floors below.

“I do beg your pardon, madam. Miss Lawrence has been overcome by fumes. The paint and turpentine, you know. How brave of you to come up here to protect her, but as you can see, everything's fine. You should go downstairs and wait for us.” Nick gave her a practiced smile and noted her grip on the umbrella did not loosen.

“Have you murdered her?”

“Don't be ridiculous. She's only fainted.” Eliza did look like a corpse at the moment with her hands folded across her bosom, but that was simply a trick of the light.

“This does not speak well of you, Mr. Raeburn. A man with your reputation must do better than this.” The umbrella now pointed to his chest, and Nick thought he might be blushing. Miss Whoever had the ability to make him feel like a fourteen-year-old boy caught with his hand up the kitchen maid's skirt.

“I am truly sorry. I lost track of time. My work, you know.” Oh, by the gods.
Don't turn around, don't turn around—

Miss Whoever turned around and shrieked. Not quite as loudly as Eliza had, but loud enough.

“I wouldn't stand for this!” the woman hissed.

“I quite agree,” Nick said soothingly. “I find it's so much more comfortable when one is lying down, and as you can see, though perhaps the angle is confusing to you, the model is reclining on a couch.”

Miss Whoever's eyes darted to the selfsame couch, where Eliza remained, fortunately insensate and fully clothed.

“The m-model! Young man, do you take me for an utter fool? It's Miss Lawrence on that canvas, Mrs. Evensong's representative! That, sir, is a—is a
dirty
picture! You can see her—well, I don't even know the proper word for it! Does the agency know about this?”

“You are mistaken, Miss Wh . . . I'm sorry, I did not get your name. Are there other ladies waiting downstairs?” Nick asked hopefully. This one wouldn't do at all. She was so very . . . brown and disapproving.

“There are not. I was the only one stupid enough to ignore all the gossip. I have a reputation, too, you know, and I will not have it sullied by working in such a household!”

Nick patted the woman's shoulder in a friendly fashion and she jumped a mile. “Don't worry. I wouldn't have hired you anyway. Quite frankly, and meaning no offense whatsoever, you don't seem like you are a lot of fun. Sunny deserves fun—my daughter, you know. But just to be fair, how do you feel about leaves?”

“Are all of you mad? What is this obsession with leaves? I shall
leave
at once—no, don't bother to see me out, I can find my own way down the stairs. I shall be complaining to Mrs. Evensong herself about the goings-on in this house. No doubt Miss Lawrence will not find herself in good graces when she goes back to the office.”

“Miss Lawrence did not pose for that painting!” Nicholas said, growing angry. “Have you ever heard of the imagination, Miss Whoever? No, I don't suppose you have. Miss Lawrence is as pure as a—as a unicorn,” Nick said, feeling quite lame with his analogy.

“Unicorns are nonexistent, just like your shirt,” Miss Whoever said grimly. “Good day, Mr. Raeburn, and good luck finding someone for your daughter.”

Nick heard the telltale squeak of departure and fell into a chair. That had not gone especially well.

Eliza sat up, rather like a jack-in-the-box. Good. His analogies were improving.

“Did she
leave
?” Remarkably, Eliza began to laugh. True, it sounded more desperate than delighted, and the tears streaming down her cheeks did not bode well. Nick handed her a cloth that was only slightly paint encrusted.

“I am r-ruined,” she hiccoughed, when the tears ceased.

“Of course you aren't. I made very sure last night—”

“I'm not talking about last night! I will not even let myself
think
about last night! That woman will go to Mrs. Evensong and tell her I have not only been serving as your governess but as your latest nude model. She won't have me back. How can I perform my duties when everyone who enters the agency will imagine me undressed?”

“I would guess they do that anyhow, Eliza. At least the gentlemen must. You're very pretty.”

“Do shut up! You're not helping!” She blew her nose into the rag. “Oh my God! What if Miss Scully goes to the newspapers?”

She scrambled up from the couch and opened the window that overlooked the street. Nick peered over her shoulder. The pavement below was wet and empty, the rain falling at a steady clip.

“There, see? No one. Miss—Scully, is it?—doesn't strike me as the type of individual who will seek out a reporter,” Nick fibbed. “What could she say? That I'm painting portraits of naked women? Everyone knows I do that. I'll send her a peace offering—a month's wages and a new hat. Tubby was buying one for me. It was supposed to be for you, but I don't expect you'd accept it anyway.”

Eliza turned, her eyelashes still wet. “A new hat?”

“Yes. Something pink and frivolous. Please don't cry, sweetheart. I'll call that Oliver fellow and tell him Miss Scully didn't suit. Can you bear to stay a few days longer?”

“I shouldn't.” She bit that lip again. “What if you importune me again?”

“I did not importune you!
You
kissed
me
, if you recall. Really, Eliza, you're making a fuss about nothing.”

The tears started afresh. “Last n-night was n-not n-nothing. Or maybe it is to you. You're probably immune to burying your nose in every—oh! I don't know the proper word for it, either. This is just ghastly. How could you do this to me?”

Nick ran a hand through his disordered curls. Eliza looked miserable. Gone was the superior, rather queenly countenance she usually presented to the world.

“I'll speak to Mrs. Evensong myself. Explain this misunderstanding is all my fault. And there's always Tubby's job.” Nick didn't want her anywhere near Tubby, but she brightened at the words. “And I swear I won't touch you again.” Giving lie to this statement, Nick wiped a tear from Eliza's pale cheek.

She trembled beneath his finger, and Nick could do nothing but bend his mouth to hers. She didn't spring away or club him with a canvas stretcher bar, but melted into him, the starch of her blouse scratching his chest. Nick tasted tea and tears and lovely Eliza. Her lips were lush, her tongue hesitant. He had no difficulty moving her from the open window to the old brocade sofa in a kind of dance without music. They slipped onto the cushions as one, Eliza in his lap. Her hands were cool against his bare shoulders, but the sweet heat of her mouth drove him to madness.

Could she feel his cock through her thick woolen skirts? He'd been hard the whole time he was painting in her skin early this morning, not that he was anywhere near to being finished. To his eye, her canvas curves needed more shadow and light. The valley between her breasts was too white, her nipples insufficiently defined and not quite pink enough. It would take him days to get it right, not that he would ask her to help him. This was an idealized version of Eliza, imaginary, just as he'd told Miss Whoever.

The real woman was in his arms and much too proper to pose for him. He would never see all of her body, even if she agreed to stay until a new governess could be engaged.

Nick wanted her to stay. Needed her to stay. But what did Eliza want and need? She had come to him so reluctantly, and now risked losing everything she had worked and trained for.

How could he please them both?

A serious question, but he had better things to do than solve it. As long as Eliza permitted his kiss, he wanted to take advantage of her good nature.

Take advantage
. She was, perhaps, too upset to think along her usual unbending lines. He had caused her distress, and it was up to him to soothe her. Would it be better to dump her off his lap and send her back to Sunny, or deepen this electrifying kiss?

Nick knew what he
should
do to protect her. Protect them both. He fought a brief war with himself, and lost—or won, depending upon one's viewpoint.

He was as light-headed now as when he was ill, blood surging in his ears, face flushed. Nick would give them five minutes to savor this dazzling exchange of tongues, then cease. Become a gentleman, or close enough to. Set Eliza safely aside and continue on with his work. Hang a “Do not disturb” sign on the door handle and paint until his vision clouded with the lost light and his stomach protested with hunger.

And then her fingers tangled in his hair and his scalp sizzled. They were just fingers, Nick assured himself. Most everyone had some. Why he felt the bolts of lightning from her gentle exploration was a mystery. A shiver ran down his spine and he lost himself for a moment, then revived. All senses were alert. She smelled of soap and lemons—or lemony soap—and sat lightly in his lap as if she were made of clouds. He couldn't even feel any strain on his stitches. Her blouse was stiff and must be an awful bother to her sensitive skin.

The fastenings this time were in front. How convenient. Nick was usually adept at removing a woman's clothes, but he broke the kiss to concentrate on all the hellish tiny buttons. Eliza helped him, too, her hand shaking nearly as hard as his. He tugged the blouse from her waistband and slipped it down, revealing her corset and camisole.

The paint had not done her justice. Even in the rain-soaked light, Nick could see he'd have to go back to his palette and make some adjustments.

He slid her camisole strap off her shoulder, thumbing her silken softness. Color could never capture the feel of something, and Eliza's skin begged to be touched. Kissed. Worshipped.

What was missing? Ah, Eliza's touch on
him
. Her arms were still bound by the puffed sleeves of her top, and he helped her shrug out of them.

Her blue eyes were clear now, and assessing. Nick knew five minutes would not be long enough.

“What do you want, Eliza?” he asked, his voice almost breathless.

“I don't know.”

“Shall I kiss you as I did last night?”

Her lashes fluttered downward. “That isn't fair.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't know what I mean when I'm with you. I can't think. You have, as I stated earlier, ruined me.” She wouldn't look up, but he knew she meant every word.

He had
not
ruined her. Not deliberately. Yes, it had all started out as amusement, but something had shifted under him.

He brushed a loose tendril behind her ear. “Nonsense. It's just kissing.”

“It's not
just
anything. That implies there's no true significance to it all. Is that how you feel? Have you done this so often with so many women that it's meaningless?”

No. It was not how he felt. Like Eliza, he didn't seem to be able to marshal his thoughts in any kind of order. “There haven't been so many women as that.” He hoped she wouldn't ask for an exact figure.

She snorted. “Don't lie to me.”

“I'm not lying. I've never kept count, but no one has ever—”

Affected me as you do? Captured my heart
?
Don't be a ninny, Nick. She'd never believe you.
He felt himself in treacherous waters. He'd best be careful, or Eliza Lawrence would hold his head under to drown.

And he'd deserve it.