The Reluctant Governess (18 page)

“Don't be stupid! From all I've heard, Daniel Preble is a horrible man. Even Mrs. Quinn doesn't like him. She adores you.”

“Mrs. Quinn?”

“Don't look so surprised. All she can do is sing your praises.”

Nicholas shook his head. “She's only known me a couple of weeks, and half that time I've been confined to bed.”

“Well, she knows Daniel Preble very well and has nothing good to say about
him
. She was over the moon when he had to flee England. That house has been the scene of some very unseemly activities.” Mrs. Quinn had been mostly circumspect in her appraisal of her previous employer, but one or two hair-raising tidbits had come out over rolling out pastry on the kitchen table.

“This isn't getting us anywhere. So what if I'm marginally less sinful than Daniel? No court of law would choose me as any child's custodian. I don't even know if the arrangements I made in Italy will be upheld here.” Nicholas picked up his empty glass and stared into its bottom.

“Drinking won't help.” Eliza knew she was sounding prudish again, but couldn't help it. Nicholas looked truly ill.

“Ah, it's back to me being a drunkard again. Whiskey might not help my case, but it might help my head.” He stalked over to the drinks cupboard and poured out much more than a splash.

“You
aren't
well. You should eat something.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Eliza closed her fist around a hapless biscuit. “Don't be mean, Nicholas. It doesn't suit you.”

“Like Mrs. Quinn, you don't even know me.”

That was it. Eliza lobbed the biscuit directly at Nicholas, just as Sir Thomas entered the room.

“Children, children,” Tubby said. “I can't leave you alone for five minutes without disaster befalling you. Which is a bit troubling, as I've got several engagements tonight that are imperative to attend. Fund-raising efforts, don't you know. I don't suppose either one of you would like to come along with me?”

“I haven't any clothes,” Eliza said, giving Tubby a shy smile.

If only that was true. Her gray jacket and gray hat made her look like a morbidly underweight elephant. Nick shut his eyes to the sight of her being friendly to his friend and swallowed too much of his drink.

“Nicky?”

“I'm not in the mood, Tubby.” He might never be in the mood to socialize again.

“Very well. Then I'll begin the arduous process of getting ready to skim money off the cream of society. Bathing. Buffing. Consuming half a bottle of brandy to make them seem more interesting. I'll tell Hitchborn to notify Cook that there will be two for dinner. And don't tell me you're not in the mood to eat, Nick—my Cook will cook us both if her efforts have gone to waste. Once she sees this tea tray, we're done for anyhow.” Tubby picked up a tiny sandwich and popped it in his mouth. “Eight o'clock sharp.”

Just a few hours from now. Nick wondered if he could stay awake.

“But—” Eliza bit a lip.

“But?”

“Can't we just take trays in our rooms? It's been a long day.”

“Miss Lawrence! Such heresy. If you're worried about a dinner dress, worry no more. There are trunks somewhere with all the fripperies a young lady could desire. For the models, you know. I may not paint, myself, but I sometimes loan out space here to starving artists, and I have all sorts of props and costumes. The attics get remarkably good light. Even Nicky has availed himself of them when he's visited London. But Hitchborn does not approve of the questionable characters in the art world traipsing in and out, and you know all gentlemen live in fear of their butlers. Hence my artists' colony idea. I just need the proper building.”

Tubby's idea was really revolutionary, and Nick hoped it would come to fruition.

But without Eliza assisting in any way.

Nick frowned. Who was he to condemn Eliza to the Evensong Agency for the rest of her life? It might be the premiere business of its kind, but surely there was more to life than securing nursemaids and new wives for members of the ton.

But she seemed to like it there, and judging from his interview this afternoon, they liked her. The sooner he could get her back where she belonged, the better.

To prevent Cook's rebellion, Tubby managed to cram three more small sandwiches and a fruit tart into his mouth before he scuttled out of the library, leaving Nick and Eliza alone again. Nick bent to pick up the biscuit missile and returned it to the tier of pastries.

“You don't have to keep me company,” he said gruffly.

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

Yes
. “Of course not. I just thought you'd be more comfortable in your room.”

“Wherever that might be.”

“I'm sure Tubby's making the necessary arrangements right now for your comfort,” Nick said, hoping it was true. He assumed he'd have his usual room. Nick hadn't come back to England often, but when he did he preferred to stay here.

“Why does he have that silly name?”

“When Tubby was a boy, he was very good with his hands, and fancied himself a nautical engineer. He made elaborate paper boats to float in the bathtub, but a fleet of them somehow got stuck in the pipes at school and caused quite a lot of damage. His father had to cough up an unconscionable amount of money to repair the dormitory and its plumbing, and Tubby was relegated to the showers until his father came to pick him up. He was expelled.” Nick doubted Tubby had continued on with his hobby, which was a shame. No matter what the man said, he was a kind of artist. He could probably have shown the Japanese a thing or two about origami.

“After so many years, I should think he'd prefer Thomas.”

“I daresay you're right. Old habits die hard.” Nick had had to kill his with ruthless efficiency once he'd taken responsibility for Sunny.

Did he miss his old life? Sometimes. Nothing had been forbidden, neither women nor drugs nor drink. Nick had indulged himself rather shamelessly, escaping from Highland hypocrisy—rules his family had set but didn't keep themselves. But if he was honest, his passion to push the limits had waned even before Sunny came into his life. Momentary pleasures were just that, and didn't last in the light of the day. Waking up to a strange face—or worse, a too-familiar one—was in his past.

“Look,” he continued, picking up the offending biscuit from the tray and snapping it in two, “I'm sure you could dine in your room without bringing Cook's wrath down upon us. You're right—it's been a hellishly long day.”

Eliza looked up from her teacup, a faint flush on her cheeks. “Do you want to be by yourself? I don't think that's good for you.”

“Good for me? Why, Miss Lawrence, do you think that you are the only thing standing between me and despair?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

Nick snorted. “You give yourself too much credit and me too little. Don't worry, I'm not going to leap from Tubby's—no, Thomas's roof. This business over Sunny will sort itself out, and then I'm leaving London.”

“You are?”

“I didn't want to come back to begin with, and I've had nothing but misery since I did.”

Except for the extraordinary sensual encounters with you.
But he couldn't say that. He needed to distance himself. Push her away. Unfortunately, all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and smother her with kisses. Undress her. She looked so earnest. Concerned.

Adorable even fully dressed in her ghastly governess outfit.

“Where will you go?”

He broke a half into a half. By the gods, he was killing time with mathematics. “I promised Sunny Christmas in Scotland with her uncles. And then who knows? It's time for a change.” Nick hoped he would still have Sunny with him.

“Is your family very jolly at Christmas?”

“I have no idea. They used to be before my parents split up. No, they didn't divorce—that would have been too sensible,” he said after catching the shock on her face. “They lived separately, and died within days of each other. It was all very odd.”

Nick's mother had not been much over forty. One didn't have to be old to die of diphtheria, however. His father met with an accident at a country house party, thrown from his favorite hunter three days later, never knowing his wife had predeceased him. The boys hadn't known where to reach him to give him the news—the late Lord Raeburn had been a restless soul intent on amusement wherever and whenever he could find it. Their parents were buried together in the family plot, where they were no doubt elbowing the hell out of each other underground.

“How sad.”

“I'm well over it. It all happened more than a decade ago. When Alec tried to become both mother and father, I left.”

Nick now understood Alec's fierce protectiveness—he felt the same for Sunny. But at the time, it had been a dead bore to be the littlest Raeburn brother, particularly when he was just as tall as his siblings and wanted his life to start on his own terms.

Well, he'd done what he wanted. Done more than he'd ever known existed. And what did he have to show for it?

Nick felt the sympathy radiating from Eliza. She'd grown up in a stable home where her parents loved each other. She would be horrified to know the depths he'd sunk to trying to find a home of sorts for himself.

“My mother is getting married again,” Eliza blurted, surprising him out of his funk.

“Indeed? Who is the lucky fellow? Do you like him?”

She picked at the gore of her skirt. “It's Dr. Samuelson.”

“By the gods, that old man? She'll be widowed again before she knows it.” Nick cursed himself for his careless tongue once he'd glimpsed Eliza's dismayed expression. He really could watch her face forever—her emotions and blushes were always at the surface.

“I hope the man lives forever,” he said hurriedly. “Fine doctor, as far as doctors go. I should call him to snip out these stitches. They pull like the devil.”

“That means you're healing. He's not due to come back until the day after tomorrow.”

“We should be home by then. In fact, we'll leave tomorrow. Daniel may turn up at any time. You can pass out the lawyer's card and go home.”

“Will I have to tie you up in your room so you don't come to fisticuffs with him? Mr. Coningford gave strict instructions to you to avoid him, but somehow I don't think you like to follow rules.”

Nick saw himself spread-eagle in his poster bed, silk scarves tied about each wrist and ankle. He was naked, of course, his cock pointed at the ceiling, Eliza bending to it with one of her ever-present blushes on her cheeks. Her hair would be loose, a river of gold and amber. She would give him the same shy smile she'd given to Tubby, then lick her luscious lips and begin. He couldn't move. He didn't
want
to move.

Nick crushed the biscuit sections he still had in his hands into crumbs.

“Oh! You're making a mess! Don't stand up. I'll brush you off.”

Oh yes, Nick thought, that's just what he needed, Eliza's capable hands skittering over his lap. She couldn't possibly miss his burgeoning erection. By the gods, what was wrong with him? His life was a shambles and all he could think of was sex.

Sex with Eliza, her creamy skin glowing in the lamplight, her hair silk between his fingers. The scent of lemons. Her lashes shadowing her cheeks, her pelvis thrusting up—

“I'll do it,” he said tersely. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swept most of the crumbs into his whiskey glass, where they sunk into the brown liquid that remained. So much for drowning his sorrows.

But Eliza was right. It wouldn't help to get muzzy-headed. He owed it to her to be gentlemanly tonight, to muster up some amusing conversation as they sat in Tubby's cavernous dining room and picked over what was sure to be a banquet. He might want to curl up on that couch over yonder, but it wouldn't do. Night would fall soon enough, and with it, his hopes.

The estimable—or terrifying—Hitchborn had two footmen deliver the trunks to Eliza's bedroom. Not the late Lady Featherstone's after all, but a lovely red toile-covered room that faced the rose garden in the rear of the house. Even though it was October, there were still some blooms clinging bravely to the canes in the gathering dusk. Lamps had been lit on the brick path that marched through regimented beds, lending a soft glow to the crisp night air. Gardening in the middle of Mayfair must be challenging, but Sir Thomas had the money to do it.

Eliza had bathed, refusing the help of a very young maid—she could figure out where all her body parts were, thank you very much, and she didn't have time to wash and then dry her hair. She was now examining some of the less outlandish gowns from Sir Thomas's attic. It was like playing dress-up.

Eliza quickly rejected some fetching but shockingly sheer costumes. If she had desired to dine as Scheherazade or Cleopatra or a sixteenth-century courtesan, there were choices galore. It was obvious this clothing was sewn to reveal more than it covered—a spangled scarf here, a satin draping there. The unadorned female form had been the rage for centuries. Nicholas was just another artist in a long line to put his brush to its devoted depiction.

Eliza prayed no one would break into Lindsey Street and discover Nicholas's latest work in the studio. No fabric covered the faux Eliza.

Her cheeks grew hot. Blast Nicholas for unbalancing her with his outrageous portrait. However, she needed to pull herself together, for he was very melancholy. There was no trace of his playfulness. How could there be, when this business with Daniel Preble loomed large? Eliza thought Nicholas would rather lose his brush hand than lose his daughter. The cheerful carelessness she'd observed in the beginning between them masked something deeper. Nicholas wanted the child to be happy and
free
—an extraordinarily unusual attitude for most parents, who clung to useless rules to raise their offspring.

There would be no rules tonight
.

Where did that come from?

Eliza's erratic heart.

She was going to seduce Nicholas Raeburn. They had skirted around the issue long enough—it was time for Eliza to toss up that skirt and damn the consequences.

His room was just across the hall. Sir Thomas's was miles away down another wing. They would have privacy. No Sunny, no servants.

She would return with him to Lindsey Street tomorrow, pass out the solicitor's card, hope for the best.

And leave.

Nicholas was right—she couldn't stay alone with him at the house. There was no reason to—Sunny was safe in Islington under the care of Mrs. Quinn and Sir Thomas's burly footman. One night would have to be enough. More would be asking for trouble.

Eliza had never looked for trouble in her life until she'd met Nicholas. Now trouble was popping up everywhere, some of it intriguing. Heavens, if her own respectable mother was enjoying the pleasures of the flesh, why shouldn't she?

Just the once. Eliza would have to make that clear. She was not going to become a man's mistress no matter how tempting he was. And to expect for more was foolish. Nicholas had no good opinion of marriage—he'd been clear about that. Marriage had never been her goal anyway, save for briefly picturing herself as Mrs. Richard Hurst. An impossible dream, since Mr. Hurst had barely known she was alive.

Goodness, she'd been silly. But she was not silly now. She pulled a soft blue silk dress from the pile and held it up, gauging its fit. It appeared to be Regency in design, and
very
low-cut. Her shift would show and her nipped-waist corset would be unnecessary beneath the voluminous folds of the gown, although Eliza was probably going to be too nervous to eat much. The dress was trimmed with shimmery gold leaves at the hem, beneath the bustline and around each sleeve. It smelled of lavender and was a lovely thing, even though it may have belonged to Sir Thomas's grandmother.

Eliza sat at the dressing table and unpinned her pompadour. The dress called for a sleeker style, which she managed by braiding her hair and twisting it into a coronet. She removed the gold bar pin from her shirtwaist blouse and anchored it into the braid to catch the light.

Eliza was immediately sorry she'd dismissed the little maid once she'd stepped into the dress. A thousand hook and eye fastenings marched down the back—well, seven, but that was several too many. Hoping she'd managed to close most of them, she stepped out into the hallway and collided with her dinner partner. He had borrowed a suit of Sir Thomas's evening wear, and was resplendent. His auburn curls had been brushed back and tamed with brilliantine, and he was quite the most handsome male specimen she had ever seen.

“Were you waiting to ambush me?” Eliza asked, once she could find her voice.

“Yes. Do you always use such colorful language when you dress?”

“If you'd heard me, you should have come in to help.” She tugged up the bodice to no avail. But that was the point of the dress, wasn't it?

“I was frightened. To think, once you used to be such a proper girl. Hold still.” He fastened the dress with hardly any effort at all.

“Just days ago,” Eliza said, feeling daring. “And then I met you, and all propriety has flown out the window.”

Nicholas grinned down at her. “All?”

“There's not enough left to signify. You do know where the dining room is in this monstrous pile, don't you? I should hate to get lost.”

Nicholas extended an arm. “I won't tell Tubby you said that. He's rather proud of the family mansion.”

“It's lovely, really. Just a bit intimidating.” There had been no gloves in the trunk, and her bare fingers brushed against the fine wool of his sleeve. They sauntered down the hallway, passing conventional landscapes, architectural renderings, and colorful canvases that bore no relationship to any reality she knew. Artwork was everywhere; Sir Thomas's house was like a museum.

“You should see Raeburn Court if want to truly be intimidated.”

Of course. Nicholas's brother was a baron. A millionaire, if the newspapers had it right. Mary was certainly turned out in the highest style when she came into the office. Nicholas must be used to houses this size, and even grander.

But, she reminded herself, he'd left all that behind. The Lindsey Street residence wasn't all that much larger than the house she'd grown up in.

Money didn't make one happy, but it was useful. Eliza felt the burden of worry over her mother lift—Dr. Samuelson would be providing the novels and hats in the future. Eliza could go on with her well-ordered life.

After tonight. Tonight was for disorder.

“You look very handsome,” she said, as they descended the main staircase. Two footmen were posted at the front door below like bewigged bookends. How bored they must be.

“As do you, Miss Lawrence,” Nicholas replied, being formal for the benefit of the footmen. If Eliza had wanted more ardor over her flimsy dress, she was doomed to disappointment.

One of the footmen sprang from his post and began opening a series of doors for them, as if they were incapable of touching doorknobs themselves. They followed him through several reception rooms, all of which held more paintings and statuary. At last he led them to a palatial dining room in the rear of the house. The garden lanterns flickered beyond the wall of French doors, and the room itself was lit with a bright blaze of light from an electric chandelier.

“Ah,
service à la française
,” Nicholas murmured, catching sight of the groaning sideboard. “I told Tubby we'd prefer to serve ourselves. I hate to have people hovering over my shoulder when I eat. Now we can be relatively private.”

Eliza was relieved. While she knew which fork went with what, she felt like an imposter in fancy dress costume in front of the servants. All she was missing was a mask.

“Thank you, George,” Nicholas said to the young man. “You can go. We'll ring for the second course.”

“Second course?” she asked doubtfully. There was enough food on the table now to feed a dozen people.

“First, soup and fish. Second, roasts. Third, dessert. That's the general order.” Nicholas picked up a gold-rimmed bowl and ladled some soup from a flower-bedecked tureen into it. “May I serve you, Eliza?”

“Better not. In truth, I haven't much appetite.” Her stomach was possessed by very busy butterflies.

“Me either, but we must help Tubby's reputation with Cook. The woman has been with his family since the Flood. Tubby's much too afraid of her to hire a fashionable French chef.”

She filled a bowl a quarter of the way to the rim. “I really can't believe a man like Sir Thomas is frightened of his servants. Why, we have hundreds—perhaps a thousand people on file at the agency eager to work.”

“Ah, you've caught him out,” Nicholas said, picking up his spoon. “Tubby's attached to all the old dears here. They practically raised him. His father was too busy making money and his mother too busy spending it to pay much attention to him.”

Goodness, pity the poor upper classes and their odd ways with their children. Eliza was suddenly grateful for her middle-class upbringing.

However long Cook had been slaving away in the Featherstone kitchen, she was an accomplished woman, and Eliza discovered she could eat more than she originally thought. The ensuing conversation was not at all strained. If Nicholas suspected what plans she had for them after, he gave no sign, regaling her with larks that Sir Thomas and he had got up to when they were not-so-innocent schoolboys. They deliberately avoided talking about the present or the future. Sunny's name was not uttered once. Nicholas seemed determined to pretend everything was absolutely normal, and Eliza tried to follow suit.

Despite her butterflies, she made a creditable attack on the first course, and tucked away slices of beef, chicken, and lamb when they arrived with an assortment of vegetables. Dessert, too, proved impossible to resist. Grateful that the gathers of her borrowed dress hid a multitude of sins, she rose from the table feeling woozy with food.

“I'm going to skip the port and cigars,” Nicholas said, standing with her. “Care for a turn in the garden?”

Eliza looked down at her dress. Despite her décolletage, Nicholas had kept his eyes firmly focused on her face throughout the meal. “I'd freeze to death.”

“Nonsense.” Nicholas shrugged out of his coat and smoothed it over her shoulders. His warmth and scent enveloped her.

“Now you'll be cold.”

He struck himself on the chest just as she'd seen an ape do in the zoo. “I'm made of sterner stuff, Eliza. I still have on long sleeves and a waistcoat. And with all the wine I've drunk, I'm hotter than hell.” He loosened his tie as if to prove it.

It was true he'd indulged himself with a generous hand all throughout dinner. He did not sound drunk, but there were flags on his cheeks and his eyes glittered. Some night air would do them both good. Eliza wanted Nicholas awake and alert for what she had in mind.

He held a French door open. She slipped an arm through his and stepped down into the thick turf. A few scattered stars pierced the clouds. The heavy air smelled like rain again, which meant that the newsmen might be driven from Lindsey Street tomorrow.

Nicholas had not mentioned how they would return there. It would be inconvenient if she had to climb over the wall again.

She was not going to think about tomorrow when she only had tonight.

Nicholas wrapped his arm around her in friendly fashion. There was no hint of passion, just concern for her well-being. She made a show of shivering and he drew her closer.

“It's probably snowing in Scotland,” he said, staring up at the sky.

“Surely not. It's only October.”

“Och, lassie, how little you know.”

“You don't have much of an accent, now that I think of it,” Eliza observed.

“They tell me I do when I'm angry. Going to public school in the south beat it out of me, I suppose. For the past ten years, I've been roaming the Continent. It's a wonder I'm not out here whispering French in your ear.”

Eliza shivered again, not from cold but from the thought of Nicholas murmuring foreign phrases of endearment. There were probably several that her French lessons had not covered.

She turned from the faint stars to his face. “I want you to make love to me tonight, Nicholas. To bed me,” she added, just in case he didn't understand.

He pushed her gently away. “No, you don't. You can't. You're just feeling a bit sorry for me.”

“No, that's not why. I assure you I want this for an entirely different reason. I've given it a great deal of thought.” She made for an iron bench beneath a bare tree and sat down. It was cold on her bum, and she put her arms through the sleeves of Nicholas's evening jacket.

It was the second time today she'd sat on a damp garden bench, but this time Nicholas was not beside her. In fact, he was backing away toward the French doors of the dining room. Through the glass, Eliza could see the footman George and several others clearing the dishes, with Hitchborn supervising. If they looked out, they could see Eliza, too, since the garden was lit at intervals with pretty brass lanterns. She sat up a bit taller.

“Eliza! A few days ago you thought I was an utter reprobate. As I recall, just this morning my wickedness made you faint.” He ripped a leaf from a bush and peeled it to its center. Poor leaf.

“It
has
been a busy day.” Too busy. Perhaps her poor brain had simply shut down. She might even be possessed by some demon, a demon who'd discovered her virginity should be disposed of at once.

“You're funning me. I have to say under the present circumstances I don't appreciate it.” Nicholas tossed the naked leaf to the ground.

“I am perfectly, perfectly serious.” Eliza held her hand out. “A lot has happened. Too much. But this is one thing we can have for ourselves. I'll be gone tomorrow or the next day, after that man comes to see you. You never need to see me again. You can take Sunny and go to Scotland. Be with your family again.”