The Reluctant Governess (5 page)

Eliza went to a tiny marquetry desk that looked as if it would collapse if its owner leaned one elbow on it. Sure enough, there was a medium-sized notebook and several soft artists' pencils. She paged through the book, impressed with the detail within. “You're good, aren't you?”

“Such effusive praise. Do you know my work?”

“I am no art expert.” She wouldn't tell him she'd never heard of him—she really hadn't heard of anyone save the inevitable Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, and she wasn't sure she knew much about them except they were both long dead.

“I have crates of paintings being shipped,” Mr. Raeburn said. “I'll give you a private viewing when they come.”

“I hope I won't be here,” Eliza said, handing him the materials and sitting back down on the chair. “I know that sounds rude. But I love my office job, and while Sunny is a delightful little girl, my training is secretarial rather than educational.”

Mr. Raeburn raised his bad eyebrow and looked regretful immediately. “Then why did Mary send you here?”

“I served as a governess for just under a year. My previous employer is a barrister—a King's Counsel, actually. I worked in his chambers, and when his wife died, he needed someone sympathetic for his children. Their original governess was not, I gather.” Eliza had heard the children's tales of Miss Bemelman. The horrific stories had prevented her from objecting too strenuously to her new job. Eliza might prefer office work, but she was tenderhearted, too. She was grateful that Lady Raeburn had found a wonderful qualified governess who was settling into the Hurst household nicely, for the children had become dear to her, even Jonathan with all his pranks. “Are you thirsty? Dr. Samuelson said I should make sure you are hydrated.”

“I don't suppose he'd allow me any Raeburn's Special Reserve.”

“Absolutely not,” Eliza said. “Now get on with this project before I fall asleep myself.”

Well, she certainly wasn't very deferential. Somehow Nick could not see her speaking to her KC like that.

There had been something about her voice as she'd spoken of her old job that made him suspect there was more to Miss Lawrence's history than he'd thought. But if she paraded around in her former employer's home in that elephant sack, it was no wonder the man didn't notice her.

However, Nick was a noticing sort of fellow. As an artist, he had to be. He was always finding the miracle in a rain puddle or a curling leaf. Despite the hideous robe and the braids and the virginal white nightgown up to her chin, she was a pretty girl. He wondered exactly how old she was. Nick suspected she'd been old-headed even as a child.

After pouring him a tumbler full of water, she sat absolutely still, staring at the chimneypiece. There were quite a few good Chinese vases lined up to catch the eye. Really, the entire house was a treasure trove. Why Daniel had not chosen to divest himself of some of his collection was a mystery. Surely his creditors could have been fobbed off for a while. But Nick supposed there hadn't been time and was delighted his friend had not, for he never would have had the opportunity to pick up so many exquisite things unless he lived a few more decades.

At the present, he wasn't sure he'd make it to noon today. His head was pounding, and his skin felt clammy. The pencil nearly slipped from his fingers. He hoped Sunny and the rest of them would be all right—it was completely beyond him to turn nurse and try to spoon broth into anyone's mouth, his hand shook so. How could he do Miss Lawrence justice?

Nick was a good enough journeyman portraitist, though his current style was far from conventional. He'd become fascinated with Art Nouveau, and Gustav Klimt in particular. Klimt's dazzling colors and patterns had liberated him—he now saw in the most ordinary objects what wasn't there to see. Nick was a true believer in the Thoreau quote:
It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see.
His work was shocking and controversial. Happily lucrative. It was a heady time to be an artist, closing the door on the stuffy Great Masters and running into the twentieth century, paint spattering.

Those random spatters would make neat Miss Lawrence frown. She looked like a color-within-the-lines person. That would never do for Sunny in the long term. Nick wanted his daughter to be raised free, secure in the knowledge that rules were meant to be broken, and broken frequently. Yes, there would be consequences, but wasn't risk its own reward?

“Are you done?” Miss Lawrence barely moved her lips. She reminded Nick of the ventriloquist he'd seen in a nightclub in Paris attempting to throw his voice.

“I haven't even really started. You don't have to be a statue, Miss Lawrence. Breathe. You look uncomfortable.”

A blush slowly stained her cheeks. Nick wished he had his pastels handy. Miss Lawrence would benefit from peach and rose and cream chalk. Robin's egg blue for her eyes, a little touch of pale gold for the ends of her eyelashes. In general, he preferred brighter colors, and Italian or French women with their dark eyes and knowing glances. Miss Lawrence seemed incapable of that sort of flirtation.

“I am. You are staring at me.”

He gave her a grin that didn't stress his bruised face too badly. “How else am I to accomplish a drawing? I could shut my eyes, but you wouldn't like the result.”

“I probably won't like it anyway,” she muttered.

Nick tossed the pencil onto the coverlet. “Fine, then. I'll not cast my pearls before swine.”

Her cheeks were flaming now. Ah, that was more like it. Even her pupils seemed to darken, rings of navy against the white.

“Are—are you calling me a pig, Mr. Raeburn?”

“I can't have done, I'm sure,” Nick said with all the innocence he could muster. “My head, you know. I'm not in my right mind if I did.” He took a sip of water, wishing he could get at the painted cabinet beside his bed. If his mind wasn't totally scrambled, half a bottle of Raeburn's Special Reserve lay in wait in its darkness.

His hand went to the back of his skull. His brothers had called him hardheaded, but they'd be impressed with the dual goose eggs. Nick couldn't quite remember how he'd come by them. He seemed to recall an encounter with an unexpected doorframe. Phil Cross's lodgings were a minefield.

This was absolutely the last time he'd rush to a damsel's distress. The burden of carrying the Raeburn honor had never felt so annoying.

Good Lord but he wanted to close his eyes, just for a little while. Surely a light little nap wouldn't cause him to go into a coma. Miss Lawrence could stab him with a pencil in case she got worried.

Nick felt his lids sliding shut. Ah, bliss.

“Mr. Raeburn!”

Bloody hell. She was jamming the pencil back into his fingers and whacking him with the notebook.

“All right, all right. But I warn you, I am having great difficulty staying awake. Perhaps you could go down to the kitchen and make me some coffee or tea. It might do the trick and settle my stomach besides. I shall—ah, I shall use the facilities in your absence.”

“Can you manage the stairs?”

Dr. Samuelson had warned him not to exert himself too strenuously—the stitches on his thigh might come undone. Nick knew there was a lovely flowered chamber pot under the bed, but if Miss Lawrence was going to be sitting like a vulture at his bedside, he'd have to make the effort to go up the steps, no matter what the doctor said. “Certainly.” He swung a foot out of bed and felt the room tilt.

She bit a lip. Nick noticed she did that quite a lot. If she wasn't careful, she would do harm to herself and chew a hole right through it. “If you're sure.”

“Oh, I am, I am. Run along now, my dear. See how they're doing below. Give Sunny my love. I don't suppose she should see me like this.”

“She already has. When we found you in the bathroom. She wondered why your face was so purple.”

Nick chuckled. “Just a scratch. Go on. I'll be fine.”

As soon as Miss Lawrence's gray robe flapped around the corner, Nick took out his bottle and took a quick swig. Highland nectar. Say, that was a fine name—he'd mention it to Evan in case he wished to branch out into another blend at the family distillery.

Another sip, and he was ready to hang on to the walls to get up the short flight of stairs. One look in the mirror over the sink confirmed that his “scratch” was rather monumental, and the black catgut stitches over his eyebrow ominous. He hoped Sunny had not been too frightened. When they were both up to it, he'd let her mix colors to see if she could duplicate the color on one of her dollies.

He did his business, then brushed his teeth so Miss Lawrence would not detect his liquid lapse. He was feeling better already. Hair of the dog and whatnot.

The trip downstairs was not as pleasant as going up. Wallpaper wavered beneath his hands and carpet cringed under his feet, very much like that sensation he'd had when he'd smoked something he shouldn't have. An icy prickle ran down his neck, and he had a sudden urge for his cashmere muffler.

He was cold. He was damned cold. Nick put a hand to his battered forehead, which felt damned hot.

He was damned, no matter what.

Teeth chattering, he crawled back into his bed. The patterns on the jardinières on the mantel wiggled, so he shut his eyes. Not that he would sleep. Not allowed. Miss Priss would give him hell.

Where was she? He couldn't believe he missed her.

Nick picked up the notepad and looked at his attempt to capture the soul of Eliza Lawrence. In his few pencil lines, her eyes stared blankly off in the distance, her lush lips were firmly shut, and she looked as if she smelled something funny. Well, she probably did—he'd never had his much-needed bath.

This image would never do. He tore the page from the notebook and lobbed it toward the wastebasket, missing it by a significant distance. His arm felt like a piece of cooked spaghetti. But it was strong enough to draw, and in a few short strokes he had a much better image of Miss Lawrence, hair tumbling down bare shoulders, eyes downcast, lips parted, looking ready to join him in his bed of pain.

Ha. Most unlikely.

She'd left the door ajar, and now she pushed in, carrying a tray with tea things and a fragrant bowl of something that set Nick's stomach to turn over. He slapped the book shut and tucked it under the pillow.

She arranged the tray on the bedside table and lifted a bouillon cup. “Some of Mrs. Quinn's beef marrow broth,” Miss Lawrence began, before noting that he was struggling to turn back a tide of wretchedness in his alimentary canal. “No? You're very green all of a sudden. I'll just put it in the hall, then.”

Nick nodded, too afraid to speak. The hall might not be far enough away; he had an acute sense of smell.

For God's sake, man. Pull yourself together. What woman wants to spend time with a puling, puking wreck?

She returned without the offensive double-handled cup. “Do you think you can manage some tea? Dr. Samuelson has just left. He says his nurse is on her way, and that the patients downstairs are all back to sleep.”

“Lucky them,” he mumbled.

“How do you take your tea?”

“No milk. No sugar.”

Miss Lawrence wrinkled her nose. It was a nice nose, a touch retroussé. “How ascetic.”

“Well, if you must know I usually take tea with a slug of whiskey if I must drink it at all. I'm convinced you won't approve of that.”

She shook her head. “Doctor's orders as well.” She poured the steaming liquid in a fragile pink-flowered cup. Nick could not imagine what possessed Daniel Preble to buy such a thing. He was still becoming acquainted with all his new possessions, but would eventually have to put his own stamp on the place. Nick had never given much attention to dinner plates before, though he supposed there was a first time for everything.

He took a gulp of the scalding liquid under Miss Lawrence's watchful blue eyes. “Aren't you going to join me?”

“I had a cup with Dr. Samuelson before he left. I'm sorry if I abandoned you for too long.”

Nick tried a smile. “I survived.” He took a breath. “I am sorry for dragging you into all this. I'm sure it's not what you expected when you signed on to the household.”

“It's only temporary,” she reminded him.

“Isn't everything?” he murmured.

She sat a little straighter in her chair, and Nick felt a lecture coming on. “Not at all. Some things are writ in stone.”

“Really? Name one.”

“Marital fidelity, for example.”

Nick snorted, something he would have to avoid in the future as it hurt his head. “Obviously you have never been married, Miss Lawrence. Or known people who've been married.”

“My parents were married for almost twenty-five years, and absolutely devoted to each other.”

He blocked the second snort quite handily. No one could accuse him of lacking self-preservation, except for a few hours ago when he let his chivalry run amuck. “You can't know that.”

“Of course I do!” she said, color bursting forth on her cheeks. “How can you insult people you don't even know?”

“Well. My parents were married for decades, too, and I assure you they were not faithful to each other. Perhaps at first, but familiarity breeds contempt, in my opinion.”

“What a wretched thing to say. You are a cynic, sir. There are thousands—millions—of happily married couples all over the world. Look at Lord and Lady Raeburn.”

His brother had been married four months. What would four years bring?

Although, Nick reflected, he wouldn't want to get on the wrong side of Alec's wife Mary. She wasn't very big, but then neither were wasps, and their sting could be deadly.

“Do you really think it is natural for a man to content himself with one woman his whole life?”

“Of course, if there is love.”

“And what is love, Miss Lawrence?” He was enjoying this conversation, although similar ones had always been accompanied by many bottles of wine, which made his friends far more amusingly philosophical than without them.

“Love is—love is respect,” Miss Lawrence stuttered.

“I respect the King, but I don't wish to marry him,” Nick returned, all reason.

Blue eyes flashed. “Well, I don't respect him! He has not held to his wedding vows.”

“Good grief, Miss Lawrence, do I harbor a traitor to my bosom? You have such a pretty neck. It would be a great pity to have any harm befall it.”

Her hand went involuntarily to the plain banded collar under her stubborn chin. “I don't think I'll lose my head for speaking my mind in confidence.”

“You trust me? You shouldn't, you know. I'm quite a villain. Ask anyone.” Some people thought so, at any rate. It was an image he'd cultivated since he'd grown out of short pants. The youngest of three boys had to make his mark somehow, and Nick had been happy to live down to certain expectations.

“Did the man you fought with tonight think so?”

“Oh, if anything,
he
was the villain. A great brute and bully.”

“Really,” she said, looking smug, “you men needn't prove your superiority with your fists—it's very juvenile. A woman would never think to solve a problem through physical aggression.”

Huh. Showed how much she knew. Nick had witnessed numerous catfights amongst his model and courtesan friends, replete with hair-pulling, kicking, and world-class swearing. Should he bother to tell her why he'd gone to Cross's flat? Nick didn't care what this little fuss-box thought of him.

Not much.

“Miss Lawrence, you are jumping to conclusions. It's a very irritating trait. Remember, I'm an injured man. You're supposed to be giving me succor.”

“If you are injured, it's your own fault. Getting into a drunken brawl is not the mark of a true gentleman.”