The Reluctant Governess (7 page)

“And that makes it worse, don't you see? What on earth came over me? I don't even like you!”

“Thanks very much.” He didn't really like her, either, but was too much of a gentleman to say so. But he did like beautiful things, and her looks were growing on him, as he'd so inadvisably said earlier. If only she wasn't such a prunes and prisms miss. Priggishness was no virtue in his book.

“Just look upon it as a harmless experiment,” Nick suggested, tamping down his annoyance. “And if it makes you feel better, tell yourself I was simply off my onion and didn't know what I was doing when I hauled you into the bed. That's it, I was just delirious in my fevered brain. Mistook you for someone else. One of my many, many mistresses. You were so startled it took you a while—a
long
while—to pull yourself together and put me in my place.”

“But I didn't put you in your place!”

“Aye, you did. A bed's a favorite place of mine.” He gave her a cocky grin and hoped she wouldn't punch him again.

“Are you never serious?”

Lord, she looked so miserable. It was only a kiss! Nick had been kissing since he was in short pants, and was inducted into the art by a housemaid who had made it her mission to bed all of the Raeburn brothers. Not at the same time, of course, and she was getting a little long in the tooth by the time Nick was ready to be seduced. Alec was seven years older than he, Evan four, but Nick had not minded her age or his lack of precedence.

He shook his head of the memory and was rewarded by a vicious throb. “Look, it meant nothing to either of us. Don't go ordering any hair shirts just yet. In a day or two you'll never see me again and you can go back to your boring old life.”

For the second time, the alarm clock flew through the air. This time, he forgot to duck.

What
had
come over her? There was no rational explanation for the kissing or the throwing. Eliza didn't have a temper, had never shouted in her life, not even when Jonathan Hurst dumped his moth collection on her while she was sleeping. After she'd shaken the dead bugs out of her hair and eyes, she had told him calmly to go back to bed. Jon was so disappointed at her lack of reaction that he had not troubled himself to repeat his mischief.

Which was not to say he stopped being naughty. Oh no. But at least Eliza was no longer his victim.

She positioned the sticking plaster against one bristled, bloody cheek. Mr. Raeburn needed a shave, but she didn't trust herself with a razor.

He looked up at her, eyes twinkling. “You are determined to ruin my looks, aren't you? If you can't have me, you'll make sure no one else wants me.”

“Be quiet. It's just a scratch.” It was a bit more than that, to Eliza's horror. Likely he would have a scar and it was all her fault.

“I could get lockjaw. Then where will you be? There will be no one to kiss you,” he teased.

He was impossible. “Will you be still, sir! The bandage won't stick if you keep moving your face. And I won't be kissing you again. You can rely on that.”

“Who says I even want to kiss you again? You have assaulted me. Perhaps I'll have better luck with the next governess. Some sweet, docile woman who won't throw alarm clocks when vexed.”

She was vexed, all right. Eliza wished she had found some strong stinging ointment she could have used to torment him with. He was so—he was so—

She couldn't think what he was, only that she was not herself while she was around him.

When would midnight come? The clock was unhelpful, its coils and gears scattered on the floor once it had bounced off Mr. Raeburn's cheek and landed on the hardwood. If its trajectory had been a few inches shorter, it might have hit the Oriental carpet with less damage. At least the glass didn't shatter, but she'd better sweep up the pieces before Mr. Raeburn got out of bed and cut his foot. Then he'd have even more reason to blame her.

She bent over, hoping against hope he was not staring at her backside. But then, Nicholas Raeburn was probably a professional backside-starer.

She dropped the bits of metal into her pocket and sat down in the chair. “I shall of course buy you a new clock.”

Mr. Raeburn rubbed his stubbled chin. “I don't know if that's possible. It was a priceless antique.”

“Rubbish. My mother has one just like it,” Eliza lied. What if it was irreplaceable? Eliza had some savings, but not enough for anything deemed to be “priceless.”

“Tell me about your mother.”

Eliza gaped at him. “Why?”

“Well, I was just thinking about mothers,” Mr. Raeburn said. “Mine was a bit of a termagant. She loved us, but her temper was unreliable. Like yours.”

“I do not have a bad temper!” Oh dear. It certainly sounded as if she did. Eliza didn't need him to raise that damned eyebrow to tell her she was behaving badly. “Not usually, that is. You seem to bring out the worst in me.”

“Oh, I don't know. You are very compelling when you are angry. Colorful. Crimson cheeks, snapping blue eyes, etcetera. I long to paint you.”

Eliza put a hand to her warm cheek. She must look like she'd been boiled in oil. “I am not a model, Mr. Raeburn.”

“You could be, though, now that I truly see you. Yesterday I was mistaken in thinking you wouldn't suit.”

“Should I be grateful for your altered opinion?”

“Not grateful. Vindicated, I should think. You know you're a very pretty girl.”

She did, for all the good it had done her. Eliza was not vain, but her snapping blue eyes worked as well as Mr. Raeburn's twinkling chocolate brown ones. “I'm not comfortable with this conversation.”

“Then talk about your mother,” Mr. Raeburn said, smiling. The edge of the bandage flapped up, and she refrained from reaching forward to smooth it back in place.

“My mother is a widow and in uncertain health. My father died unexpectedly three years ago, and since then I've done my best to help support us.”

“What did he do?”

“He was a principal in an accounting firm. His partner bought out his share, but not at full value. Our finances were tight. So I took a secretarial training course, then worked for Templeton and Hurst for a year before Mr. Hurst drafted me to be his children's governess. I had to live in, and my mother managed, but I worried. I'm worried now. The position at the Evensong Agency is perfect for me—I can even go home for lunch. Dr. Samuelson says she's stronger than I think, but I've watched her struggle. She has rheumatism, you know, and the least little movement causes her dreadful pain some days. Stairs are out of the question—we gave up the lease on our house and live in a ground-floor flat now.”

“Do you favor her in looks?”

Eliza nodded. Her father had always told her she was almost as pretty as her mother, which hadn't offended her at all. Her parents loved each other, a rarity according to Mr. Raeburn.

“So you've sacrificed yourself to take care of her.”

“It hasn't been any sacrifice,” Eliza replied. “Not really. She took care of me while she was able. It's my turn now.”

“Very admirable. Have you no plans for your own happiness?”

Eliza's throat dried. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Well, are you going to slave for my bossy sister-in-law for the rest of your life, or do you wish for a life of your own? A husband. A house. Children.”

“Why do you care? I would think you'd find all of those things
boring.
” This time she was determined not to throw anything no matter what he said to her. He could call her boring and worse all night.

Well, not all night. At midnight, like Cinderella, she would disappear into her room knowing she had obeyed the doctor's and Mrs. Daughtry's edicts to the best of her ability. Whether Nicholas Raeburn woke up tomorrow morning meant nothing to her.

“Oh really? Just where are we sitting, Miss Lawrence? My house. And why are you here? For my daughter. I may not be conventional per your standards, but I'm not so different from most men. I want my comforts and my friends and offspring surrounding me.”

“I notice you've left out a wife,” Eliza said.

“I have no need of one, at least not right now. Perhaps when I'm a doddering old fool I can get a sweet young thing to ease me into the realm of Hades. But isn't marriage what all girls dream of? Society expects it.”

Eliza bit a lip. “Perhaps. But I have no wish to be some man's unpaid housekeeper and broodmare.”

Mr. Raeburn startled against his pillow. “My, my. You're not aiming high enough if you marry a man who can't afford to keep you in style. You deserve a housekeeper and a parlor maid at the very least. What about your Mr. Hurst?”

“He's not my Mr. Hurst!” Eliza knew she was blushing again. How on earth did this wretched man know she'd had a
tendre
for her previous employer? It had been entirely unrequited—Richard Hurst was too busy to notice much of anything unrelated to the law.

Except, of course, for Penny. His daughter's asthma was of great concern to him. Eliza hoped the girl's health was improving. It had been harrowing to sit up night after night with her over a bowl of steaming water, praying that the child would come to no harm.

“If you must know,” Eliza said, trying to change the subject, “I very much admire your ‘bossy sister-in-law.' I should love to own my own business someday.”

Mr. Raeburn's mouth dropped open in a very satisfactory manner. “Really? What kind of business?”

Here Eliza was stumped. She hadn't let herself think that far ahead. “Something to do with numbers. Organizing things. I've been told I'm very practical.”

“Are you now?” Mr. Raeburn shut his eyes for a minute, then opened them. “I'd like to introduce you to Tubby. Sir Thomas Featherstone, that is.”

“Is he in need of a secretary? I'm sure the Evensong Agency could find one for him.”

“Not a secretary per se. He has a bee in his bonnet about organizing an artists' cooperative. Not just artists, but writers, too. Playwrights. Musicians. The odd poet. A gallery where our work can be exhibited, a clearinghouse for models and inexpensive supplies, a venue for performances and lectures, a space to write in peace, studios with heat and good lighting. Kind of an all-purpose association for creative people and their patrons. He has more money than he knows what to do with, but no head at all for business. He does like a pretty face, though. With a little effort you might be Lady Featherstone and manage his fortune. Kill two birds with one stone.”

Eliza was intrigued, but shocked at the latter suggestion. “Mr. Raeburn! I have no interest in marrying your friend. I have no interest in marrying anyone.”

“Your mother could move into Tubby's house. The place is a damned barn—room for Snow White, all her dwarfs, and the huntsman. That's one of Sunny's favorite stories, by the way. You'll get sick of it if you stay here for any length of time.”

Oh no. She still hadn't called Oliver today to check on the progress of the governess search. Would Mr. Raeburn be up to seeing people tomorrow? He couldn't interview the women from his bed.

He was looking haggard now, stifling a yawn. Clearly the man needed to sleep. Eliza decided it must be time to go. “If you don't need anything, I think I should let you get some rest.”

“Finally,” he muttered. “But I shouldn't let you leave.”

“Why not?”

“It can't be more than nine o'clock. Now that you've killed the clock, you'll have to look at my pocket watch. It's on the dressing table.”

It was chased silver, a gorgeous thing and polished to brilliance. He was, unfortunately, right about the time. To pass three more hours in his company . . .

That kiss had seemed endless, but Eliza realized it couldn't have lasted more than a few minutes. He'd already drawn her and planned out her future, mad as his scheme was.

She sat back down. “What shall we do next?”

“Not what I'd truly like—I don't believe I have the energy.”

He gave her a look. She was beginning to recognize it—he was just daring her to be naughty right along with him. Nicholas Raeburn couldn't seem to help himself from skirting propriety, and Eliza resolved not to fall into his trap. She would not be lured into an inappropriate conversation with him no matter how many looks he gave her.

“Don't you want to know what that is?” he asked.

She folded her hands tightly in her lap. “Not especially.”

“But you suspect something nefarious. Admit it.”

“I don't know you well enough to discern what you are thinking, Mr. Raeburn. I'm not a mind reader,” she said with impatience.

“Do you believe in the occult, Miss Lawrence?”

“Goodness. What an odd question.”

“You've never been to any séances? No, of course you haven't. A nice middle-class girl like you, daughter of an accountant, you wouldn't accept the mysteries behind the Veil.”

Oh, what rubbish. And Eliza said so.

Mr. Raeburn threw back his head and laughed, then looked as if he regretted it. “Can you get me my tablets and a glass of water? I have a devil of a headache still.”

“Perhaps it's the spirits with hammers and anvils,” Eliza said, unwrapping the pills from their paper.

“Very likely. Though as far as I know, no one's died in this house. It belonged to my friend Daniel Preble. He was its first and only owner. What do you think of his collections?”

Eliza was tempted to say like Sir Thomas Featherstone, Mr. Preble must have more money than sense. He probably never passed an antique shop without buying something. But judging from his contented expression, Nicholas Raeburn was happy to be surrounded by the detritus of numerous civilizations.

“I'm not an antiquities expert. Or very versed in art, for that matter. Did he paint all the paintings in the house?”

“Oh no. Some, certainly, but most were collected on his Grand Tour and are centuries old. The rest come from artist friends of ours. One or two might even be mine, but the bulk of my work won't arrive until next week. I told you that, didn't I?”

“You did.” And if she was still here by next week, she would shoot herself.

“Which reminds me. I promised Daniel I'd crate his paintings and send them. Perhaps you could help me with that. If I'm confined to bed for a few more days, someone will have to.”

“C-confined to bed?” Eliza stuttered.

“According to your Dr. Samuelson, I am supposed to remain here for the foreseeable future. The sutures in my leg need a chance to heal. They're situated in an awkward spot, and any excessive movement might rupture them.”

From the position of his hand on the bedclothes, his injury was perilously close to his manhood. Eliza went back to staring in her corner.

Days. She would be here days. Even if Oliver found the perfect governess candidate, any ordinary woman would refuse to come into a man's bedroom to be interviewed.

“You cannot get up at all?” she asked in a small voice.

“Oh, I can. Within reason. To use the necessary if absolutely necessary.” He grinned. “To flee the building if it's on fire. But like your poor mother, stairs are tricky for me at the moment, as I've found much to my regret. Don't worry. Mrs. Daughtry will be back tomorrow to change the dressing and empty the slops and check for fever. Actually I feel a bit hot now.”

Without thinking, Eliza reached out and placed her palm on Mr. Raeburn's forehead. It was scorching. Was his fever associated with the flu or an infection? Eliza was no nurse, and was not about to ask Mr. Raeburn to remove his pajama bottoms so she could check on his wound.