The Reluctant Governess (6 page)

Oh, this was too much. If he didn't have a headache to begin with, Miss Lawrence was bound to give him one. Such a self-satisfied little shrew—he had half a mind to toss her out on her very attractive—

And then, his stomach lurched. It seemed he wasn't safe with the tea after all.

Eliza was never so grateful as when Mrs. Daughtry arrived. The cheerful woman—almost annoyingly so for this hour—had already stripped Mr. Raeburn's bedding, while he had stripped himself and washed. The nurse could monitor him for the next few hours and endure his male nonsense.

Eliza fled to the kitchen and brewed herself another pot of strong hot tea. She would hide out below street level, making herself useful to Mrs. Quinn, Sue, and Sunny, who was fretful and bored and anxious to play.

Work before pleasure. It would not harm the child to do a few lessons in bed. Eliza had discovered that Sue could not read, so she devised a game with words printed on cards. This kept both girls amused for a while, although Eliza's eyelids drooped as the morning progressed.

Mrs. Daughtry was nimble as a deer as she took the flights of stairs between the basement kitchen and Mr. Raeburn's bedroom. Her comings and goings quite wore Eliza out, and after a light luncheon, Mrs. Daughtry herself ordered Eliza to take a nap along with the rest of the household.

It was a shock to realize she had never gotten dressed—she was still in her father's warm robe, her braids sadly unraveled. Goodness, such slovenliness was unlike her, but the events of the past day—less than a day, really—would be enough to challenge the most organized woman.

Eliza trudged upstairs, hearing Mrs. Daughtry's low tones across the hall as she evidently read something to Mr. Raeburn.
He
would not be allowed to nap—not until the middle of the night could he find any comfort on his pillow. Dr. Samuelson had insisted on twenty-four hours of wakefulness to monitor his concussion. That would teach the man to be more prudent—no more inebriated brangles unless he wanted to find himself in the same pickle.

As Eliza's lids fluttered shut, she remembered she hadn't telephoned Oliver to get extra staff or check on the progress of hiring a real governess. She would. Later.

***

An insistent hand was shaking her shoulder. “Miss Lawrence. Wake up, please.”

Eliza struggled through the fog. She was having the loveliest dream, sitting at a neat desk beneath a sunny window, surrounded by ledgers filled with columns of numbers that did not need reconciling. Everything was perfect, bright and fresh, the paper white, the ink black, the wood grain on the desk gleaming and scented with lemon polish.

“I do beg your pardon, Miss Lawrence, but it's time for me to go home. Past time, really.”

Eliza sat bolt upright. Her room was in near darkness, a spill of light coming from the electric sconces in the hallway. “I beg
your
pardon, Mrs. Daughtry! How long have I been asleep?”

“It's just gone on seven o'clock. I've brought you a cup of tea and some bread and butter. You'll be happy to know things are much improved downstairs, and if you are hungry later, Mrs. Quinn is up and about. Nothing I said could stop her. Fortunately, she's not been as affected as Sue or little Domenica. What a delightful, intelligent child, by the way. A touch impertinent, but then I like children who have spirit.”

She would love Jonathan Hurst, Eliza thought.

“They've all had their dinner down below, and the girls are almost asleep already. Mrs. Quinn assures me she can take care of anything they require. So, it's just Mr. Raeburn that needs tending to. He should be able to be left to sleep soundly around midnight.” The nurse cleared her throat. “What an unusual young gentleman.”

Wasn't he just?

“He drew a lovely picture of me,” Mrs. Daughtry confided. “I'm going to take it home and have it framed for Mr. Daughtry's dressing room.”

Good heavens. Mrs. Daughtry wasn't
undressed
in it, was she? Eliza would put nothing past Nicholas Raeburn.

“I saw the sketch he began of you,” the woman continued. “He's a very talented artist.”

Another female conquest for her employer, although the plump and motherly Mrs. Daughtry was surely not his type.

“Is he? I've seen nothing but his photographs, and those are . . . shocking.” Eliza knew she sounded like a Puritan, but she couldn't help it. She
was
a Puritan, if not by religion, then inclination. She was a sober, respectable woman and intended to remain that way, nude portraits be damned.

“Well, dear, I'll give you a few minutes to eat and get dressed, and then I really must leave. Mr. Daughtry will want his supper.”

Poor Mrs. Daughtry. She had arrived here before dawn, worked all day, and was still expected to put a hot meal on the table for her husband. Why wasn't Mr. Daughtry cooking for her after the day she'd had? It was unfair, but then marriage often was.

Eliza reflected on the conversation she'd had about the wedded state with her employer. If a wife was supposed to jump through hoops for her husband, catering to his every whim and bestial appetite, he'd better be faithful or he deserved to be hit on the head with a roasting pan.

Goodness. She was not generally so violent. A day spent in the company of the argumentative Nicholas Raeburn had corrupted her.

Eliza chewed her bread and swallowed the scalding tea as quickly as she was able, finished dressing, then scraped her hair back into a tight bun. She wasn't vain, nor did she wish to appear attractive to someone as wicked as Nicholas Raeburn undoubtedly was. He would have to take her as she was, sleep wrinkles and all.

He was sitting up in bed, holding an ice pack to the back of his head. Competing with his pallor were bruises of epic size and color. Somehow he still managed to look handsome, even with his scruffy red beard and black sutures. Mrs. Daughtry had found him a nightshirt, and he was more dressed than she had seen him in the scant two days she'd been here.

“Ah. There you are. I trust you had a restful day. I'm afraid mine wasn't restful at all.” He looked past her shoulder. “Is that horrible woman gone?” he whispered.

“If you mean Mrs. Daughtry, I'm sure she's a saint for putting up with you.”

“I swear, every time I shut my eyes she stuck me with a pin, and then she talked my ear off in that nurse voice. ‘How are
we
feeling?' I can't know how she's feeling, can I? We don't share the same skin.”

“She was just doing her job. You should be grateful,” Eliza said, sitting in the chair by the bed. “Can I get you anything before I get too comfortable?”

Mr. Raeburn shuddered. “If I have another cup of tea, I'll drown. No more soup or liquids of any kind unless we're talking about Raeburn's Special Reserve, and I've been told that desire is premature.” He gave her a rueful grin. “That doctor of yours came back this afternoon and lectured me. I felt as if I were back in the nursery.”

Eliza felt a stab of guilt. She
never
slept in the daytime. “I'm sorry to have missed him. What did he say?”

“That despite my lack of abstinence, I have a hard head and the luck of the devil. Tell that to my innards.”

Eliza rolled her eyes. She didn't wish to contemplate Nicholas Raeburn's digestive system. If she had wanted to train as a nurse, she would not have taken secretarial classes.

In a just world, she could have inherited her father's place in his accounting firm. She'd have the vote, too, and not be hobbled by a so-called health corset. Eliza was ready to foment revolution right here and now, but Mr. Raeburn probably had even more advanced ideas than she and would take all the fun out of it.

She smoothed her skirt, wishing she had something to do with her hands. Knitting, perhaps, although all she did was make wooly lumps that unraveled at the slightest provocation. “I'm sure you'll feel better soon. Things are improving downstairs.”

“I'm glad to hear it. I've worried about Sunny—the others, too, of course. But she's had a lot of upheaval lately, and getting sick is no picnic. Maria would have known how to cheer her up. Her old nurse, you know.”

Eliza nodded, reminding herself not to be offended. It wasn't as if she
wanted
to cheer children up all day long, after all. She was
not
a governess. “The one who died.”

“Right next to her, if you can believe it.” Mr. Raeburn's voice rasped with emotion. “On the train. Sunny's had enough loss in her life. I want to make sure she doesn't suffer any more.”

“An admirable goal, but we all suffer one way or another, Mr. Raeburn. It's a sad fact of life.”

“But one needn't go actively looking for suffering. I'll not have Sunny raised as a martyr, keeping her head down and her opinions to herself.”

My goodness. He
was
a revolutionary. “I'm not sure you'll be doing her a service. Outspoken women are not very popular.”

“Is that why you've never married?” he quipped.

Eliza felt her cheeks grow warm. “My marital prospects, or lack thereof, are none of your business, sir.” She would not divulge that her only offer had come from a man old enough to be her grandfather.

Eliza had led a sheltered, middle-class life, caring for her mother and running the household for her father, then training to be a secretary and working after his death. She didn't have time for friends, hadn't had any since her school days, and they all had married almost immediately upon graduation just as they were supposed to do. She had nothing in common with them now—they had children of their own while she merely minded the Hursts and now Sunny. Eliza quashed a pang of self-pity and focused on the Chinese jars on the mantel instead of the good-looking, disheveled devil in the bed.

“Well, you're pretty for an Englishwoman. Has no one ever noticed?”

“I thought I wasn't your type,” Eliza said, wishing to bite her tongue. She didn't want to let him know she hadn't forgotten his careless statement and how it annoyed her. Not that she wished to appear affected by him.

Not at all.

“It's true I've always been partial to brunettes. And as there seem to be so many red-headed models since the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood made them all the rage fifty years ago, they have been inescapable. I can't recall the last blonde I—”

“And I'm sure I could not be less interested,” Eliza said quickly. “Really, Mr. Raeburn, even if you are ill, your deportment in regards to conversation with a decent lady wants improvement. I don't see how the agency is going to be successful in finding a governess for you if you continue to discuss your ramshackle philosophy and lack of morals.”

Mr. Raeburn lifted his unstitched eyebrow. “Ramshackle?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I don't believe I do, Miss Lawrence. Explain.” There was a mischievous glint in his dark brown eyes.

“You are—you are discussing your
conquests
. It's very improper.”

“Am I? I thought I was discussing subjects for my paintings and photography.”

“Oh.” Could this day get any worse? “Then I misunderstood you. I'm sorry.”

He waved a hand. He had long fingers, the nails of which were not quite clean. “Apology accepted. I'm not a total villain, you know. After all, I believe in women's suffrage—why shouldn't you vote? I daresay, despite jumping to conclusions, you are reasonably intelligent and can make as good a decision as any man.”

Reasonably intelligent
. How condescending could he be? “I don't jump to conclusions!”

“Oh really? What was I doing last night, Miss Lawrence?”

“No jumping is necessary. I know perfectly well what you did—after all, I found you on the floor, sir, unable to stand on your own.” Eliza ticked off his transgressions on her fingers. “Carousing with your friends until the wee hours. Drinking. Fighting.” She folded her hands back on her lap and gave him a superior look, or as close to as she could manage when she saw his crooked smile.

He sat up a little straighter in the bed. “I hosted a dinner party for three gentlemen whom I haven't seen in ages. Old, old friends, which proves my loyalty and theirs. There wasn't much carousing, just a lively discussion to catch up. I drank no more than any of them—somewhat less, I should think, for I had an engagement to beat someone to a pulp after the party broke up.”

“You
planned
to fight?” Perhaps he belonged to one of those secret gentlemen's clubs that kept peculiar rules, one of which was never divulging the truth of their nefarious activities.

“In a manner of speaking. Like an idiot, I went to rescue one of my models from her abusive lover. He beat her so badly she could no longer work, and that isn't very sporting, is it? A great hulk like that using his fists on a girl. However, they both took exception to my chivalry.
I
was the one beaten to a pulp—and stabbed, I might add—and here I am with my reward.” He pointed to the purple and blue blotch on his face.

Eliza swallowed. If Mr. Raeburn was to be believed, he was rather heroic.

“Oh.” Her response was wholly inadequate, but it was all she could muster.

“‘Oh'? Not ‘How brave!' You could talk me up sweet if you put half a mind to it—I'm very vulnerable. Injury to my brain and all that.”

“Your brain seems in excellent working order if you can put words in my mouth as well as yours,” Eliza said. And she had no intention of talking him up sweet, tonight or any other night. The sooner she could leave Lindsey Street, the better.

Nick hadn't meant to tell her anything, but he was damned tired of her sniffy disapproval. Miss Lawrence looked at him as if he had horns. While it was true his auburn hair grew in curly disarray, as far as he knew there was nothing lurking underneath to indicate he was a devil.

She sat there in judgment, her hands folded on her lap like a schoolgirl, her perfect nose in the air as if he stank. Well, he didn't. He'd had two serious washups today—baths were prohibited because of the stitches on his thigh—and had perfumed himself with sandalwood. His nightshirt was fresh—hell, it was brand-new, as he never wore such a thing to sleep in. He wasn't even sure where he'd come by it; it could even belong to Daniel Preble for all he knew. Mrs. Daughtry had been insistent that he cover himself up. She'd clucked when she'd seen the ouroboros on his bicep, called him a wicked heathen even after he explained its mythological significance. The nurse had no poetry in her soul, although she'd held his head gently when he cast up his accounts again sometime this afternoon.

Perhaps she wasn't so bad after all, just boring. Nick was not used to boring women. He'd chosen to leave his dull upbringing behind, not that his parents had been especially conventional. They, like so many of their class, had left their three sons and a series of hapless governesses to fend for themselves at Raeburn Court while they found amusement elsewhere.

Nick's mother hadn't started off as a member of high society—she'd been the daughter of a tenant farmer on the Raeburn estate in the Highlands. But once she became Lady Raeburn there was not a woman around who could match her for self-consequence and propriety, except when she was tossing valuable objects at Nick's father, who deserved the many direct hits he received. Nick had gotten tired of avoiding flying crockery, his older brothers' fists, sheep, and snow-covered mountains, and had escaped as soon as he possibly could.

He was beginning to regret his return to London, for it was starting off in a most inauspicious manner. First poor Maria, the attack, and now this indisposition. He did not believe in Highland curses, but there were times he wondered what the Raeburns had done to displease the gods. His brother Alec had recently been under a cloud of suspicion for murdering his first wife—although, in Nick's opinion, she more than deserved it—and his other brother Evan was doomed to toil in the family's distillery like a sexless drone. Nick had tasted freedom, and he wasn't going to let some little blond prude condemn him without knowing the facts.

She sat there, her cheeks flaming. Nay, flaming was not the right word. The blush flowed over her face like a pink watercolor wash. Nick preferred to work in oils, but Miss Lawrence's looks cried for pastels, as he'd thought before, or watercolors, where the intensity could be adjusted. Muted. Yet even with her pale English-rose beauty, she was surprisingly attractive to him.

As long as he didn't have to listen to her.

“I—I suppose you think I owe you an apology.”

“Far be it for me to put more words in your mouth.” It was a lovely mouth—lush, unenhanced by any artificial assistance. If he kissed her, those plump lips would darken and swell. No doubt she'd be surprised and grateful—a girl like Miss Lawrence probably did not come into contact with many men who would think to kiss her, the idiots. There she'd been, buried by briefs in that attorney's office, then dealing with his sticky children, now at Nick's sister-in-law's reception desk. Drudge, drudge, drudge.

She deserved a bit of fun, didn't she? It wasn't as if she'd be underfoot here for very long—someone else would take her place soon and she could go back to her telephone and typewriter and files. Her proper, bloodless life.

“But I have an idea for a way to make up for your insult.” He leaned forward, spurred on by some maggot in his throbbing head. Nick could always chalk this up to fever or mild insanity, couldn't he?

Her blue eyes widened in alarm, but he was too quick for her, even in his bed of pain. She was too far away at first, sitting in that chair like a plaster statue. Somehow he managed to slide her forward into his arms, right up against his chest. If only they were skin to skin, but Nick would have to accept the current circumstances, even if they were not ideal. He was doing her a service, was he not? Defrosting her ice queen persona. Teaching her a thing or two. He was a man of considerable experience, winner of hard-won skirmishes in several European countries. Ladies loved him and succumbed to a delightful degree, and he loved them right back.

Love was perhaps too extreme a word; let him just say that there was mutual affection between him and the several willing women who were participants in his amorous adventures. More than several, actually. He had not been entirely indiscriminate, was nothing like his brother Alec chasing after empty-headed actresses for the better part of a decade. Nay, Nick had pursued his art, and with it some of his models and those patrons who had supported him. That couldn't be helped, could it? Propinquity. Opportunity. It was only natural. They had shared his vision, understood who he was.

But what a dog he was contemplating other women when he had a shocked Miss Lawrence in his arms, whose lashes batted fiercely at such close quarters, her mouth open, ready to protest. Perfect.

Nick licked her lower lip and felt her go rigid, then covered her mouth with his own. He tasted tea and . . . butter? Nick was a sensualist, and even something so prosaic had its charms. She smelled of soap and lemons. No doubt the soap was scented—he couldn't imagine Miss Lawrence squeezing lemon juice all over her naked skin, although that image had possibilities. He could follow the trail of liquid wherever it happened to drip, enjoying the sweet tartness of her body, breathing citrus and woman deep.

He inhaled now, clouded his aching head with Eau d'Eliza—that was her name, was it not? His tongue probed hers. If he'd thought she was shocked before, her sharp hiss told him she had no idea what he was doing. Had she never been kissed? What a bunch of slow-tops these Englishmen were.

He gentled her along, hoping she wouldn't have the wits to bite any part of him. Well, someday perhaps a nip or two would be quite pleasant, depending—but he mustn't get carried away. This was just their first kiss, after all, and it mightn't lead to anything of significance, although his cock definitely was hopeful. He toyed with her tongue, coaxing it to curl and seek his. Her mouth shifted under his the merest fraction—she was kissing him back, her artlessness appealing, her hands no longer in her lap but pressed against his belly. Dear God, just a few inches lower, he prayed, but Eliza Lawrence was oblivious to his prayer. His own fingers were busy at her throat and in her tidy hair, feeling her throbbing pulse and pulling pins.

Her pulse quickened as her hair cascaded in a tumble. She groaned, and Nick was spurred to delve deeper. Darker. This was no kiss of innocence any longer, no education, for Miss Lawrence was as apt a pupil as he'd ever met and was about to surpass his wildest lesson. Perhaps he'd gone without a woman too long if he was about to be hoisted on his own petard by this inexperienced virgin.

And she was a virgin; of that Nick had no doubt. He didn't deal in virgins. He had some shred of sense, though some might not think so.

What in hell was he doing? He had to stop before it all became too predictable. Ravishing the governess. That was worthy of some penny dreadful plot, and Nick was no villain waiting to be turned into a hero by the love of a good woman. Love didn't exist—or if it did, it was fleeting. Look at his parents—a love match that ended in disaster.

Eliza was trembling beneath his hands, warm, breathless. With a final sweep of his tongue into the corner of her mouth, he pulled back with some regret.

And she punched him in the stomach. Hard. He was knocked back into the headboard. Good God, he could have used her last night against Phil Cross. With a bit of training she could be a lady fighter.

“What was that for?” Nick asked, checking to see if his lumps were expanding. All he needed now was to vomit again and the day would be complete.

“How dare you!”

She was all the way back on her chair now, flushed, her golden hair tangled.

“You seemed to like it well enough,” Nick said, casting around the pillows for his ice bag. It was probably all melted by now.

“I did not!”

“Oh, certainly you did,” Nick said dismissively. “Don't lie to me or yourself. You bloomed just like a rose, one of those surprising white ones that unfurls to pink. I can't remember the name. Sunny's mother Barbara kept roses in her garden. It was a veritable Eden. An artist's paradise.” He'd done some of his best work there.

“Do not speak to me of horticulture or your mistress!”

“I don't really want to speak to you of anything. Kissing is much more fun.”

“You—you libertine!”

“Oh, come. This is not a West End melodrama with you as the wronged woman.” He shrugged, and heard ominous cracking in his neck. “We kissed, that's all. You apologized in your fashion. I accepted. Case closed. Run along now. I'll try not to sleep until midnight. After that, I can make no promises.”

“I don't care if you fall asleep and lapse into an irreversible coma!” Her eyes had turned the color of the Mediterranean. Interesting. Eye colors were always changing in the bad novels he read—perhaps it was possible after all.

“You know you don't mean such a vicious thing. Was that your first kiss? Well done. Except for the aftermath, of course.” He smiled. She was so very angry, much more stimulating to him than her usual state. Perhaps Nick had an unaccountable yen for his mother's temper, though he devoutly hoped Miss Lawrence—Eliza—wouldn't touch the ginger jars. He was sure they were worth something.

There was no point of thinking of her as Miss Lawrence anymore. She was Eliza to him now, Lizzie if she'd let him be so familiar.

He had a feeling she wouldn't like it at all.

“I told Mrs. Daughtry that I would remain at my post. I know my duty, which is more than you do. Interfering with your staff is not gentlemanly,” Eliza said acidly.

“Rest assured Sue and Mrs. Quinn hold no allure for me,” Nick replied. “You, on the other hand, are beginning to grow on me. I don't understand it. You are not my t—”

The alarm clock whizzed by his ear and bounced harmlessly against a pillow. Stricken, Eliza examined her guilty hand as if she'd never seen it before.

“Such passion. Who would suspect?” He picked up the clock and returned it to the table. “I'd like to sketch you now, just as you are. Wild. Unprincipled. You look very fetching.”

She opened her mouth, but snapped it shut. Nick was pleased to see her lips were puffy and very pink. Her eyes blazed in what could only be called contempt. Gods, she was beautiful.

“Cat got your tongue? Lucky devil. Sweet and pink. All right, you don't have to speak to me,” he said hurriedly when he caught the martial expression on her face. So she didn't like compliments. He reached for his charcoal pencil and pad, and kept himself busy for the next quarter of an hour. Eliza refused to meet his eye, which gave her a rather mystical countenance as she stared off into a corner pretending he didn't exist.

He didn't need her cooperation—he could probably draw her with his eyes closed. Hell, he could still taste and feel her—the tea, the butter, the indignation.

She had tried to tame her hair after their little encounter, but the hairpins were somewhere in the sheets, a place she was avoiding like the plague. She had braided it over a shoulder, but in Nick's sketch it was wavy and loose, just as he'd left it. It was the color of corn silk mixed with a darker gilt, not too common in an adult. Eliza was very fair, even to her eyebrows and the tips of her lashes, but somehow she didn't have that rabbity appearance that some blondes possessed. Her eyes were bright blue and blinkless. She'd beat him in a staring contest if he was foolish enough to challenge her.

Nick decided her brown dress was nothing to brag about and eliminated it entirely from the image. He had a good imagination, and had good eyes as well. Her breasts were on the small side but generous enough to satisfy a discerning man, of which he certainly was one. She didn't have that pouter pigeon look that was so inexplicably fashionable lately—some women looked as if they were about to topple over. Nay, she was trim, not too fleshy, not too scrawny. Just right, really. Nick grinned to himself as he altered the fairy tale to his liking. She was his Goldilocks.

As she sat Sphinx-like, he decided she'd have medium-sized nipples to go along with her general medium-ness. In a few strokes he had succeeded in bringing them to delicious, perfect peaks. Thinking about his lips upon them made him shift under the bedcovers. Eliza wouldn't notice, would she? Hell, she wasn't even looking at him. What could be so fascinating about that corner?

And then he glanced up at her again and noticed one silver tear sliding down her cheek. She was chewing on a lip to keep it steady, her adorable chin thrust out.

Damn.

“I say, you aren't crying, are you? It was only a kiss!”

She turned to him, eyes filling. “It might have been ‘only a kiss' to you, but as you suspected, it was my first. And what a waste it was to have given it to a man like you. I'll never get my innocence back.”

“I haven't taken your innocence,” Nick said, exasperated. “Believe me, you'd know it if I had, and like it well enough, to boot. I have a reputation, you know.”

“Exactly!” Eliza cried, balling her fists. Nick inched back on the bed and thrust his pad under the blanket.

“Oh, for heaven's sake. I'm not sporting horns—
I
stopped kissing
you
.” They had been very faint, but Nick had heard those warning bells. He didn't take advantage of unwilling girls.

Though she hadn't been unwilling. Just unwise.