The Reluctant Governess (15 page)

Here she was again, half-undressed and half-witted, sitting on Nicholas's lap and wanting—

What? He'd asked her and Eliza had no answer.

She'd vowed after last night that they were done with their experiment. She'd received more of an education than she expected, and it would have to be enough. Perhaps it would have to last a lifetime, since it was unlikely she'd find another man to do such a thing to her.

It—the kissing down there—couldn't be common, could it? She would have to ask Oliver.

Lord, what was she thinking? She couldn't possibly discuss such a personal thing with him. She'd never hear the end of his teasing.

“What are you thinking? You've gone quite cold.”

Well, Eliza
was
cold—there was no fire in the little studio stove and the window was still open. She had helped to remove her blouse and her chest was there for all the world to see.

“No doubt you would tell me I'm thinking too much. That I should just throw up my skirts and have at it,” she said bitterly.

“Eliza! I would never be so crude. Nor would I ever take you against your will. I'm sorry if you've suffered in the past few days. I'll make it right to you, I swear it.”

He sounded so earnest. “I don't see how you can, Nicholas. Look at me! I'm sitting in your lap like some harlot, and the horrible thing is, I don't want to get up. My corset feels so tight I'd like to tear it off, or better yet, have you do it. I want to kiss you until I can't breathe. I don't care if a hundred Miss Scullys accuse me of impropriety, because I want to be improper! I
hate
you, Nicholas Raeburn!”

Eliza was as startled by her outburst as Nicholas seemed to be. He looked adorably confused, and she wanted to hit him on his aristocratic nose.

No. It was not his fault he unsettled her so, and he'd been hit enough.

“I was just fine when I arrived on Lindsey Street,” she continued, “perfectly content with my lot in life. And now, I don't know what to do. I've never fainted in my life until I came here, you know—not once. Now I've fainted twice in a handful of days. I think I would be better off if I just blacked out permanently and pretended I'd never met you!”

“Eliza, Eliza.” He was brushing away the useless tears that she was incapable of controlling. What a mess she'd gotten herself in. She glanced over at the gigantic portrait and shuddered.

“I'll destroy it,” Nicholas said, noticing her revulsion. “I never even meant for you to see it. I would have altered it before the exhibition, you know, but somehow I couldn't stop when I started. You—you took over.”

“I did no such thing!”

“But you did. It was as if you were right there, urging me on. Whispering all sorts of things that, quite frankly, were most out of character for you. It comes close to being my best work, even if it's not finished, but I don't want to cause you further distress. Really, Eliza, I—I value you and your good opinion of me. I'm truly not the libertine you think I am. I mean, I suppose I used to be—”

“Oh, be quiet,” Eliza said, and kissed him to stop his lips from moving so pointlessly. They were meant for better things.

Oh yes, she was ruined. There wasn't an ounce of sanity to be mined from her mind. His mouth was delicious and warm, his arms strong around her. Her breasts threatened to pop from their restraint and she wished they would. Then Nicholas could see how inaccurate he'd been, but perhaps kiss and touch them just the same to rid them of this dreadful anxiety. How silly—breasts could not be anxious. It was Eliza who was anxious and yearned for more. Perhaps she could hint.

She placed her thumbs flat on Nicholas's coppery nipples, then swiped across them. Eliza must have done the thing properly, for he drew an agonized breath in her mouth, then almost savagely plundered, the kiss taking on intense concentration. He thrust beneath her, his erection unmistakable.

She felt like a pastry being gobbled up, no crumbs saved for later. Every place he gripped tingled—who knew a shoulder was so vulnerable? At last his hand found its way to the top of her corset and she groaned. Taking the sound for permission, he unhooked a few inches, loosening the diabolical thing. Nicholas reached in and stroked over the thin cotton chemise. Eliza wished he'd touch bare skin as she was. Her breasts felt swollen. Anxious, she reminded herself, and she smiled in the middle of the kiss.

“What's so amusing?” Nicholas asked, his voice raspy.

“I am. I'm a bit of an idiot.”

“That makes two of us, Eliza.” He pressed a nipple between his fingers with supreme gentleness, and she thought she might weep again. “What are we doing here?”

“I'm not sure. Must we describe it? I don't think I have the words for this, either.”

“You do know where this is leading.”

Eliza nodded. “We cannot go that far, Nicholas. I really would hate you then.”

He sighed, then shifted her off his lap to the cushion. “Then we need to stop now. I can't guarantee I'll be a gentleman much longer.”

“Oh. You're right, of course.” Did he hear her disappointment? She looked down at the gaping corset, saw the pink flush that washed over the tops of her breasts, felt the ache inside.

“I—I'm sorry,” Nicholas said. He appeared to be in pain also, his lips quite white.

She cupped his cheek, and her palm tickled from the auburn bristles. “Oh, don't be. This is my fault entirely.
I
kissed
you
again. You are a very bad influence on me.”

He didn't smile as she meant him to. “This is my punishment, I presume. For all my years of intemperate living.”

“I don't want to punish you! All young men sow their wild oats.” Eliza recalled what Oliver had told her the other day, and added, “Some more than others. You are an honorable man, Nicholas Raeburn, no matter what the newspapers say or what some people think.”

He waved a hand in the direction of the street. “I don't care about any of that. Sunny is the only person I want to impress. And maybe you, just a little.”

“I'm more than impressed, and that's the trouble.” Nicholas had affected her without even trying. He must be a genius at seduction after his Continental travels, and he hadn't even turned on a quarter of his charm with her.

And Eliza had been charmless most of the time. Judgmental and tiresomely prudish. It was a wonder he wanted to kiss her anywhere at all. Paint her. He'd made her truly beautiful, if she discounted what she was doing to herself in the portrait.

He reached over and hooked the front of her corset. Pulled her chemise strap up and found her balled-up blouse. It would require ironing, but Eliza was not going to ask Mrs. Quinn to do it.

“If I want to keep your respect, there shall be no more kissing, Miss Lawrence,” Nicholas continued. “I'm not strong enough to resist you. Even when you're not physically present, you egg me on to foolishness.” He tilted his head toward the canvas in the corner.

“Don't destroy it,” Eliza said. “There must be some way you can fix the—the face.” She said nothing about her fingers and what they were engaged in.

Nicholas shrugged. “Maybe, but my heart's not in it. It was as if I was possessed this morning.” He rubbed his jaw. “I'm a wreck. I can't believe that awful woman saw me like this.”

“I'm sure she enjoyed the sight deep down. Not every old maid gets to see a shirtless, tattooed gentleman sporting a day's worth of beard. Some might say you're somewhat hard to resist yourself.”

He stood. “Well, I should get cleaned up. I'll head for the Evensong Agency once I'm presentable. Straighten out this little misunderstanding.”

“Are you well enough? Do you want me to come with you?” Eliza hoped he'd say no. She was afraid she'd wilt completely under Mrs. Evensong's gray-spectacled gaze. Mrs. Evensong would somehow
know.

“No. Sunny enjoys your company, and you won't be here all that much longer. I won't muck it up, I promise. Your reputation will be restored and your job secure.”

Eliza wondered if in fact that was what she really wanted.

Nicholas left her seated on the sofa. Some of the stuffing was spilling out of the arm, and Eliza absently pushed it back in. The room was bathed in dimness as a hard rain fell squarely on the skylight. She turned her attention to the painting, amazed that he could have accomplished so much in so short a space of time.

She picked up a sputtering candle and stepped close. Individual brushstrokes were visible; a hair from the paintbrush was stuck on her right knee. Gingerly she pulled it from the canvas and held it between her thumb and forefinger. An odd souvenir from this morning. She let it spiral to the floor.

Even unfinished, the work was stunning. Eliza thought of the much smaller portrait of Sunny's mother and noted the similarities in technique. Yet there were differences, too. Nicholas had blurred the lines, but the colors were as rich, the patterns dizzying. Eliza knew nothing about art, but even untutored, she was moved.

Or would be, if the subject matter weren't so very embarrassing, her wicked pleasure—or the faux Eliza's—so very obvious. Nicholas was talented; there was no question.

Sighing, she straightened the sofa cushions but left the rest of the room untouched. Nicholas seemed particular in the organization of his equipment, all his brushes lined up by size. She blew out the candles and turned off the electric lights, and the room was plunged into a filmy gray darkness, almost as if it were underwater. Raindrops chased themselves down the glass dome. It was turning into a filthy day, though a little piece of sunshine lurked in Eliza's heart.

Nick flinched under Mrs. Evensong's basilisk stare. Well, that was thrice in one day Nick had been reduced to feeling like a naughty boy by a woman. He folded his gloved hands in his lap, grateful that Mrs. Evensong couldn't see through them to remark on the paint stains.

“I assure you, Mrs. Evensong, Miss Lawrence did not cooperate with me in any way. The painting sprang entirely from my imagination, and it was only by the oddest of chances the subject resembled her.” There was no point to picking up his teacup. His hand was unsteady with nerves.

“Hm. That is not the story Miss Scully told me after finding Miss Lawrence lying down on your studio sofa. She was dreadfully upset, you know. The woman came to me directly after leaving your house. She does not possess much of an imagination herself, but she's a perfectly adequate governess. I've placed her in five of the best houses over the years.”

Nick was almost sorry he'd bathed and brushed his teeth so he could have beat the woman here.

But no. Then he would have missed Eliza's trembling kisses. Smoothing her alabaster shoulder. Observing the gentle swell of her perfectly formed breasts. Feeling her nipples stiffen under his tentative exploration.

A headache was beginning to form at his temples. Perhaps he was rushing his recovery.

That was it! No harm at throwing himself at the elderly woman's mercy.

If she had any.

“I've been ill. Out of my head, really. You can ask my doctor—Simpson. No, Samuelson. Respectable fellow. Miss Lawrence brought him to me after I was injured, actually. I suffered a concussion, and my mind has been playing all sorts of tricks on me.”

“The kind of tricks that undress your governess?”

“Absolutely not! I mean yes, my mind may have undressed her, but I assure you that
I
have not!” What was one little white lie when defending Eliza?

“We are quite fond of Eliza. She has settled in very nicely to our office routine since my niece hired her. There is room for advancement. I should hate to think our trust in her has been misplaced.”

“There's been no misplacing,” Nick said with urgency. “She's a—brick. Best governess I've ever had. My daughter adores her. Of course, El—Miss Lawrence doesn't really want to be a governess. She's gone to secretarial college, as you know. That's why it's imperative you dig up somebody—I mean, go through your files to replace her as soon as possible. I don't like to see her unhappy, and we've had a rough few days on Lindsey Street.”
Get her out of my house before I forget to keep my hands off her. I promised, and a Raeburn keeps his promises.

“Ah yes. I read the newspapers. Oliver Palmer keeps me informed.”

Nick had caught a glimpse of Palmer on the way in to the corner office inner sanctum. Good-looking fellow with a fallen angel look about him. Nick wondered if the young man would consent to sit for him.

By the gods, no. He needed regular models who understood his artistic vision, or at least could sit still long enough to collect their paycheck. By next week all the fuss would die down, and he could go back to what passed for normal in his life. Jolly dinner parties with his friends. Look-ins at museums and galleries. Painting at dawn. Reading naughty French novels.

Well, perhaps not that. He was already as randy as humanly possible.

“I do hope you haven't conveyed any of the recent troubles to your niece and my brother. They deserve a quiet honeymoon.”

Mrs. Evensong removed her gray-tinted spectacles and gave him a stern look. “I have not kept this business running since 1888 by panicking, sir. My niece's happiness is paramount to me. If I know Mary, she'd turn right around in New York Harbor and catch another steamship home to rescue you from your own folly. No, of course I haven't told them.”

Nick swallowed, and felt himself sinking lower into the plush client chair. “It wasn't precisely folly.”

“No, I daresay it wasn't. It was very commendable for you to try to help that poor girl, but it's all blown up in your face. One cannot predict where the heart leads us. Mr. Cross seems like a nasty character, but even he inspires devotion. There was quite a touching interview with Maisie in one of the papers this morning.”

Good grief
.

“There's a lid for every pot, as my mother used to say,” Nick replied, thinking of how ill-suited his parents ultimately were. There had been plenty of pots thrown and shattered during his youth.

“Indeed. The Evensong Agency prides itself in our matchmaking services as well as employment assistance. In my professional opinion, however, you are going to have trouble acquiring a wife
and
a governess in your present difficulty.”

“I don't want a wife!” Nick didn't even want a mistress at the moment to take the edge off. Things were too complicated.

Mrs. Evensong shrugged. “As you say. Oliver and I interviewed the governess candidates personally. There were a very limited number of qualified women who consented to be considered for the position. You had a reputation even before the recent notoriety.”

“Please look again. There must be
somebody
.” Nick ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He should have stayed in Italy.

“We shall do our best.
We
have a reputation, too, as you know. And as you might now be considered by some to be my nephew-in-law, this has become a family matter.”

If Mary hadn't thrust Eliza into his home, half of his current problems wouldn't exist. Nick didn't really know his new sister-in-law; he'd only met her at tea before they sailed. But from his brief acquaintance, she was a managing little thing. Probably inherited that from her formidable auntie. Nick squirmed a bit in his chair and wished all women to the devil.

The day had been going downhill ever since Eliza stood over him like a caryatid and woke him up. What else was ahead? Nick stole a look at his watch. Almost eleven more hours until midnight. Anything could happen.

“Are you sure your household is safe in the meantime? As I said, we are very fond of Eliza.”

Nick looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

“That article I mentioned earlier. It seems Mr. Cross has escaped from custody, although I don't think he'd be foolish enough to hunt you down for any revenge. He's probably gone to ground somewhere. Didn't you know?”

By the gods, he had not. He'd been too busy painting, fending off pointy umbrellas, and kissing Eliza to do any reading this morning.

“I didn't! May I see the newspaper?” Mrs. Quinn had said nothing to him. Of course, he hadn't seen his housekeeper this morning what with all the insanity, and she might have burned the papers as instructed without even looking at them.

“Certainly.” She rolled her wheelchair to a tube attached to the wall. “Oliver, dear, I need you to bring me the
Morning Constitution
.” Nick heard a squawking assent and waited impatiently.

Mrs. Evensong returned her spectacles to her pert nose. For an old woman, she was trim and must have been a looker in her youth. Nick wondered if there ever had been a Mr. Evensong. The poor man could not have got away with much.

“They had an exclusive,” she said. “Some reporter has practically moved in with your model, Mr. Raeburn. When she got the news last night, she implored Mr. Cross though the paper not to do anything rash.”

Could Maisie have come to her senses? Not bloody likely.

Oliver tapped on the glass door and entered without waiting for Mrs. Evensong's reply. Up close, the man was too beautiful for his own good. Nick imagined he got a lot of ribbing in the schoolyard.

“Here you are, Mrs. E. I circled the material relating to Mr. Raeburn.”

As if Nick were too stupid to read the lurid headline over the article. He skimmed the thing with distaste. Maisie was milking this situation for all it was worth. If he didn't know the truth of the matter, he'd think Phil Cross was a misunderstood choirboy from her description.

Damn Daniel Preble for recommending the girl to him, though perhaps Daniel had never seen the bruises and cuts.

He might not have cared anyway. Daniel was comfortable with a certain amount of roughness during sexual congress. That was not to Nick's taste, but to each his own.

“How is Eliza holding up?” Palmer asked, folding his arms over his chest. There was intimation in his tone that if Nick wasn't careful with her, this young pup would come and beat the stuffing out of him. Nick wasn't interested in serving as anyone else's punching bag, thank you very much.

“I believe she's in excellent health.” He sat up in the chair and tried to project masculine competence, feeling like a bug under a microscope.

“When I saw her the other day, she was very distressed,” Palmer continued. “I trust you've not been adding to her discomfort.”

Hell. If anyone was discomforted, it was Nick. He had a permanent erection when Eliza was in the vicinity, although these two in the office would be enough to depress it and him for the foreseeable future.

“It has been a trying few days,” Nick acknowledged. “As soon as I can obtain a new governess, Eliza can return to the fold here.”

Maybe he should just send her back anyhow. He'd gotten by with Sunny after Maria passed on, hadn't he?

But—he didn't want Eliza to go just yet. Even if he was sworn not to touch her, he could look at her.

Nick spent the remainder of his time at the Evensong Agency arranging to hire a charwoman to help Mrs. Quinn with the heavy cleaning. He turned down Oliver's ridiculous suggestion of a bodyguard to protect him. Surely things were not as bad as all that, and he was perfectly capable of defending his household, or would be when his headache retreated.

His next stop was Featherstone House. Even though it was afternoon, Tubby was still lounging about in a brocade dressing gown, and invited Nick to join him for breakfast. As Nick had not eaten a thing, he wolfed down all that was put in front of him by the Featherstone footmen.

“You've seen the papers, I presume,” Tubby said, pointing to a stack next to his plate.

“Indeed,” Nick mumbled through a mouthful of beefsteak.

“Maybe you should go up to Scotland and hide out until Cross is captured, old man.”

“Absolutely not! We aren't even settled yet, and it would be much too upsetting for Sunny. And I'm expecting a shipment of art—have you forgotten?”

“The show must go on? I'm inclined to agree. We'll be mobbed after all the interest you've garnered. Every society matron will want to meet the great hero Nicholas Raeburn. It will do wonders for your sales, I expect.”

Nick groaned inwardly. He hated all the socializing that was expected during Tubby's gallery openings. He was as genial as the next man, but the forced charm with his patrons was not his cup of tea. “I fear you're exaggerating.”

“Not by half. I've already been approached by a certain duchess. She's very keen to see your . . . etchings.”

Nick set his ale down. “Damn it, Thomas, I'm not some trick pony. I am
not
going to seduce some bored wife to open her husband's purse. My work will have to stand on its own.”

“I quite agree. But I thought perhaps you were in need of a bit of divertissement. You're back in the country for a bit, and your social life has been sadly lacking. Unless the gorgeous Miss Lawrence has been helpful on that score.” Tubby looked far too knowing, an annoying smirk on his handsome countenance.

“I have been much too ill to worry about women,” Nick said with a firmness he hoped would convince his friend. “And Miss Lawrence is out-of-bounds. For me
and
for you.”

“Has she rejected my job offer, then? Really, Nick, me hiring her was your idea. I thought it was brilliant.”

“We haven't had the chance to discuss it further.” And he wouldn't broach the subject again with her. He valued Eliza too much to expose her to the oddballs in the art world, himself included. Eliza could go back to her old job. He was fairly confident he'd convinced Mrs. Evensong that Eliza was not at fault in the Scully debacle.

Both she and Palmer were her champions. It was nice to have people in your corner. Even though he'd scrapped with his brothers growing up, Nick knew they cared about him. He looked forward to the time they might gather together in Scotland. Introducing Sunny to her heritage at Raeburn Court would be a pleasure.

But a deferred one. Nick couldn't leave London now, no matter how tempting it was.

He wasn't worried about Cross. If the man had a brain in his head, he'd be on a boat bound for America. Nick had given Maisie plenty of money, which was no doubt in Phil Cross's pocket right now.

“Mooning over the delicious Miss Lawrence?” Tubby asked, breaking into his reverie.

“No. Thinking about Maisie, actually. She modeled for Daniel, didn't she?”

“Yes. Although you could never tell from his bits and blobs. I'm afraid Daniel's artistic skills have deserted him—he's quite out of fashion. The last show I sponsored was pitiful. Not a single sale.”

Nick was surprised. When he'd spoken to Daniel in Paris, he'd intimated he'd sold a significant number of paintings to stave off his creditors.

“Perhaps the change of climate will help. My villa may inspire him.”

Tubby shook his head. “I wouldn't count on it. Daniel's past his prime. No one will put up with his antics anymore, either. He's bound to get fagged to death in the countryside for lack of stimulation, my friend. Don't be surprised if your property suffers for it. You'll probably never see a penny of rent.”

Nick loved his little stone house. For a fleeting second, he pictured Eliza in the lemon grove—she'd fit right in, her hair the color of the rising sun, her scent mingling with the fruit trees.

“I have more faith in Daniel,” Nick said, hoping for the best. “We'll see what happens, won't we? Now, where's my hat?”