What a Lady Demands (4 page)

He tamped down the impulse. “A game? I have not employed you to play games with the boy. You are to provide him with the rudiments of education so that eventually he will be ready for a tutor.”

“A tutor?” She scrubbed at that damnable lock of hair, but it hung stubbornly in place. Just as mule-headed as Cecelia herself. “You’re actually planning on teaching him Latin? And might I ask to what purpose?”

He refused to give in to the temptation to dismount. To approach her. She was a governess, for God’s sake, and the younger sister of a man he’d once deemed a friend. Reason enough to stay away, no matter how deucedly attractive he found her. “That is the accepted method for gaining entrance to a proper school when the time comes.”

“And what will you do when he shows no desire to deal with the vagaries of the first declension, let alone the third?”

He arched a brow at her, an expression usually guaranteed to cow the most recalcitrant servant. “And what do you know of such things?”

A smile flitted across her lips, evaporating so quickly, he wondered if he’d really seen it. “Perhaps I listened in when Alexander had lessons. But no matter. You are skirting the issue.”

“And what is the issue?” Besides the fact that he was the employer and thus set the rules.

“I’ve no idea if Latin is among his aptitudes or even his interests, but he has shown me one area that fascinates him.”

Good Lord, he knew what was coming. One of the other governesses had tried to discuss the boy with him. And what was her name? He’d been through so many he couldn’t recall, even if the conversation hadn’t taken place all that long ago. “I do not wish to discuss the boy’s obsession with those soldiers of his.”

“How can you not?” She stepped toward him, one hand outstretched, approaching his thigh. Near. Too near. “This might be the key to convincing him reading and writing are worth learning.”

God help her if she so much as grazed her fingertips against his leg. He wasn’t at all sure he could take responsibility for the outcome, not the way his body yearned toward hers. Not the way his cock came fully erect at the thought of her touch. He suppressed an urge to rein Judas away.

How long since he’d let a woman touch him? Not since Lydia. And even that had been ages before he’d lost her.

With his wife, he’d felt like a whole being. Complete. That was, until he’d discovered the truth.

And now, what kind of man would give in to his appetites like some mindless animal, no matter how long he’d done without female companionship? He ought to have learned to control himself long since.

“The last thing he needs is to be encouraged toward the military.” He forced the statement through his teeth as precisely as if he were giving orders. “Do you think the army would take him in his state?”

Her fingers wavered, and she curled them into a fist. Thank God. He well remembered her as a girl, those hands always in motion, fluttering like birds, brushing against various and sundry. She’d damned well better keep them away from him.

“I can understand you wanting to protect him from danger, but at his age, he has plenty of time to grow up and realize what is possible and what isn’t. And in the meantime, you could foster his interest elsewhere.”

She swept out an arm, meant no doubt to encompass his estate. “You’ve been inspecting your land, have you not? Speaking with your tenants and whatever else gentlemen do about their property. You might take him with you next time. Let him see what you do. Let him start getting an idea of the routine.”

He broke in on her appeal the moment she paused for breath. “No.”

She blinked. “Why on earth not? It’s what makes the most sense in Jeremy’s situation. Why wouldn’t you take him with you?”

“For one thing, you must have seen he’s a danger to himself.”

“Can you not get him up on a horse?” Something snapped in her eyes. “I’m certain he’d love to learn to ride. Especially if you taught him.”

“I?” He forced his gaze to remain on her face. “And what makes you think I’m up to the task? The entire reason I’ve taken on so many governesses is to relieve myself of a job I neither have the heart nor the time to pursue. And you want me to give the boy riding lessons?”

“Have you even seen how he looks at you? Good heavens.” She clamped her lips shut for a moment as if to hold back something much more colorful. Her cheeks darkened to a becoming shade of pink, nearly the same hue as her lips, a hue that drove him mad with curiosity about more intimate parts. “The expression on his face just now. He’d give anything to spend a little more time with you.”

At her words, a burning sensation ignited in his gut, but he snuffed it just as quickly.

“We all want things we cannot have,” he muttered. If the boy learned that truth while he was young, it might save him some pain down the road. “At any rate, I have hired out that position. To you, come to think of it.” And damn the circumstances that led to such desperation. If anything was increasingly clear, it was her utter unsuitability to the job. Or at least, she was ill-suited to remaining in a house with him. As large as his manor had always seemed, three floors were suddenly not enough. Not when a single flight of stairs stood between his chamber and hers. “You’ve been here less than a day, and already you’ve failed in your duty.”

“My duty as I’ve understood it is to teach him to read and write.” She folded her hands in front of her, but he knew better than to take that gesture for submission. She was more likely restraining an urge to fling them in his face. Or slap him. “I am merely suggesting a course of action that will facilitate matters.”

“Your course of action involves fobbing your duty off on me, and I will not have it.” Best she understand him from the outset. “You are, however, fortunate. I cannot dismiss you yet.”

“Dismiss me?” Her eyes went round. “You haven’t even given me a chance.”

He’d given her as much chance as the others. “As it happens, you now have two days to prove your methods.”

Her mouth worked for a moment. “Two days? And what do you expect me to accomplish in that amount of time?”

“Certainly, he can learn to write his name legibly in two days.” There. He’d even make matters easy on her.

“And what, pray tell, will transpire in two days that you so generously allot me so much time?”

“I shall need a woman at dinner to round out the guests.”

“Round out the guests,” she echoed faintly. “You’re keeping me on for a social occasion?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Your brother and his wife are coming to supper.”

The wash of pink drained from her cheeks at last. “You can’t have my brother over. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

Cecelia clapped a hand over her mouth. Blast it all, she hadn’t meant to reveal that.

Lindenhurst merely sat back in the saddle and regarded her with an air of infuriating superiority. At least he was no longer examining her as if he was imagining what she might look like beneath her garments. But that was the least of her concerns. Experience had taught her how to deal with men who insisted on ogling her.

She had far less experience with a situation where she spoke without thinking, even if the situation was his fault. He’d invited her brother to dinner and blurted out the information with the expectation she’d take it in stride. If he’d known all that had transpired between her and Alexander, he’d never have placed her in a position where she was responsible for his child’s welfare.

“Is that so?” he drawled. He all but removed his gloves to inspect his fingernails. “And how, pray tell, was he to act as a character reference if he wasn’t even aware you were seeking employment?”

She lowered her brows and stared hard, pretending she could turn her gaze into a flame and burn straight through him. Brazen. She must forge ahead boldly to stop Lindenhurst from tossing her out on her backside.

“You were not meant to follow up on my character references.” At least not until she’d proven her worth to him. And to Alexander. But then if she’d proven her worth, Lindenhurst wouldn’t bother following up on references, would he?

“Indeed? And what do you imagine my purpose was in asking for them, if not to acquire confirmation of your good character?”

“You were supposed to take me at my word, based on long familiarity with my family.” And blast him, why could he not leave it at that?

“Now that you’ve shown me how unwise such a course would be, you’d best explain how you’ve come to seek employment in my household without your brother’s knowledge.”

“Haven’t I already answered that question to your satisfaction?”
Settle on a story and stick to it.
If she didn’t once waver in her conviction that she was offering him the absolute truth, he’d have no choice but to take her at her word. “You know quite well my brother has suffered a financial setback, and I chose not to burden him with my upkeep.”

He pressed his lips together as if to hold back a sigh. In the next moment, he swung his leg stiffly over the rump of that chestnut beast of his and hauled himself to the ground. When his feet touched down, he winced and swayed on the spot.

His expression, as he limped toward her, solidified to the consistency of granite, a mix of sheer will and threat. Her heart somersaulted before pattering out of control.

“The truth this time.” And how did he manage such an air of command while speaking so quietly? He towered over her, looking down the finely honed knife-edge of his nose. “If your brother wished to commit your upkeep to someone else, he would have seen about marrying you off.”

She fixed her gaze on the top button of his morning coat, only inches away. Better there than slightly higher, where she might take in the breadth of his shoulders, perfectly highlighted by expert tailoring. A sharp breeze whipped between them, stirring the points of his collar, tossing her hems against his Hessians. “My brother and I had a difference of opinion. It seemed best for me to leave and seek my fortune elsewhere.”

There, she could tell him that much and not lie. If only that much would satisfy him.

“I see.” His hand tightened about the reins, the leather of his gloves crackling slightly. “And what was the nature of your disagreement?”

“As a matter of fact, we disagreed on the manner in which he was raising his daughters.” That was also close enough to the truth that she could voice the words without forcing them to sound overly light.

“And your response was to run to me? An extreme measure, don’t you think? Especially when your brother has the ultimate authority when it comes to his own offspring.” Only his lips moved with each syllable. His jaw remained tight, as if pure will were all that maintained him in place. “Doubly so in that he’s recently married.”

“Yes, well, his marriage was another reason I felt it best to leave.”

“You dislike his wife?”

On the contrary. She adored Henrietta for her singular ability and willingness to set Alexander down whenever he needed it. Which was often. Cecelia rather suspected Alexander adored Henrietta for similar reasons. “Not at all, but with them being recently married, I reckoned they’d like a bit more privacy.”

He opened his mouth, no doubt to say more, but his shoulders tensed, and he wavered in place. The chestnut shuffled its feet and let out a snort.

“Are you all right?” Cecelia asked, grateful for the excuse to divert the subject. Good heavens, the man’s knees wobbled so, they looked likely to give way.

“Shouldn’t have dismounted.” He forced the words through his teeth. “Damned leg is too weak.”

He reeled on the spot, like a drunkard at the end of a long evening’s festivities. Nothing for it, if he was about to fall—she didn’t think she possessed the strength to help him up. She ducked beneath his arm and set her shoulder against his chest, lending him her weight, such as it was. He leaned into her, surrounding her with his scent, as crisp as she remembered it. Before she could stop herself, she’d drawn in a deep lungful of his cleanness.

And then she made a colossal mistake. She looked up to find him staring back, jade eyes wide with shock and something else that darkened them. Awareness. Longing. Want. His lips hovered close, so close. All she had to do was push herself up on her toes, and she could meet that invitation. Her fifteen-year-old self would have ached to do so but not possessed the nerve to try. Her adult self could barely believe he was watching her with such frank hunger. It was nearly enough to lend her the nerve she’d lacked as a girl. Not that she possessed such a desire.

Oh, no. She was long over that infatuation. She’d known enough other kisses—from gentlemen and scoundrels alike—that she needn’t be curious about Lindenhurst. One man tasted much the same as the next, of salt and too much wine, generally.

“Do you need me to help you back to the manor?” Drat it all, but her voice sounded oddly husky.

“Take Judas.” He pressed the reins into her hand. “Lead him back to the stables. I’ll manage on my own.”

“Jeremy didn’t want me to hold his hand, either.” She probably should have kept that thought to herself, but wasn’t it just like a man to refuse assistance?

“If you think to shame me into accepting—”

“Clearly you cannot manage the terraces on your own, but if you’re planning on being stubborn about such matters, I’m just as inclined to leave you to your own devices.” She disengaged and stepped back. His coloring had improved somewhat, and he stood steady on his feet.

He glanced away for a moment, jaw working. Sifting through a mental list of possible replies, no doubt, but not finding anything appropriate. Most certainly not anything polite.

“Yes, and you always were full of yourself,” she added, not particularly caring if he took her comment amiss. Her hand tightened on the reins. “One of these days, though, you’ll admit to needing me. You do, you know, whether or not you like the idea. Whether or not you think I’m suited to being a governess, I’m all you have at the moment.”

She led the chestnut gelding up the winding gravel path and sought out the head groom. The stables were large and airy, just as she recalled. She breathed in fresh, hay-scented air in hopes it would calm her racing pulse. It had no business behaving as it had when she was still fifteen and innocent.

She shouldn’t even bother herself with her reaction to Lindenhurst, not when she’d have to face her brother in two days. Not when she’d have to face his outrage—and he would, without a doubt, express his outrage once he learned the exact nature of her position here. He’d never been able to help himself when it came to anything that infringed on his rigid code of honor.

Spotting a grizzle-haired man dressed in rough nankeen breeches, she shook aside her worries and approached. “Your pardon, Mr.—”

At her expectant pause, he touched his cap. “Just Regan.”

“You’ll want to send someone after Lord Lindenhurst. He’s near the copse at the end of the lowest terrace, and I’m not certain he can walk so far.”

The man pitched a forkful of straw onto the muck pile. “You’ll never have me believe old Judas threw him.” He laid aside his pitchfork, took the reins, and patted the beast’s neck. “Gentle old boy, this one is.”

“Oh, no. Lord Lindenhurst dismounted.” Cecelia could say that much, but she wasn’t inclined to confess the nature of their conversation that led to Lindenhurst alighting.

“Why he’d insist on dismounting, I’ll never know.” Regan tied off Judas’s reins and unbuckled the girth. “He can’t get himself into the saddle without a block, what with his wounds.”

“And he could hardly ask me to give him a leg up.” Thankfully, he hadn’t. She’d had more than enough contact with him for one day.

“Stubborn beggar.” He laid the saddle aside and smoothed a hand across Judas’s withers. “Begging your pardon, miss.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “I shall not breathe a word of your thoughts, especially as they mirror my own.”

“Won’t do no good to send someone, at any rate.” He picked up a brush and swiped it across the horse’s broad back. “He’ll make it back to the house under his own power if it kills him.”

She glanced down the row of spacious boxes. Several bony heads poked over the stalls. An enormous blood bay pricked its ears and let out a whicker. She really ought to get back to Jeremy, but a thought stopped her. “How is it Lord Lindenhurst can ride across his estates when his legs give him such trouble?”

“Funny thing about injuries.” In the midst of stroking, he paused. “Sometimes a man has an easy time sitting a horse when he can barely walk. And a clever beast will adjust to his master’s comfort.”

Perfect. The very reply she wanted. “I wonder. Has anyone thought of riding lessons for Jeremy?”

“Lord Lindenhurst hasn’t, to be certain.” The groom’s tone hardened somewhat. “The boy doesn’t even have his own pony.”

“But he might learn to ride one.” She gave him a tentative smile.

Regan grinned in return. “He just might at that.”

“And now I must get back to my charge.” She stopped just short of nodding at him. He was a servant, after all, and she might be just slightly above him in the hierarchy these days. There was no need to become overly familiar. That sort of behavior had led her into trouble in the past.

She pushed the memories aside and hurried from the stables, up the servants’ stairs to the nursery. Outside the door, she hesitated, unsure of her reception. She’d have to convince Jeremy to try lessons after his constitutional had been cut short. Once again, she saw in her mind the way the boy had regarded his father—only to be rebuffed—and her heart turned over. The poor, poor dear. And what sort of father treated his own flesh and blood so coldly?

She’d have to set those thoughts aside for now and get to work, if she were going to make any difference in the situation. If only she could convince Lindenhurst to keep her on, but she’d have to meet his requirements. No time like the present.

Setting her fingers on the handle, she plastered a smile on her face—the sort she generally reserved for the kinds of social situations she’d rather avoid—and pulled.

Her cheery greeting echoed through the room. Jeremy sat in the corner lining up his soldiers once again. He didn’t even flinch at her entrance.

She crossed to him, and still he did not acknowledge her. No matter, though.

“I’ve just had a talk with your papa, and he’s told me he’d like you to learn to write your name.” As she said the words, she smiled all the harder, just like she used to when her aunt cornered her and launched into one of her interminable tales. Smile and nod. But now she only had to smile and smile some more in the hope that Jeremy would catch on.

His troops were apparently far more interesting than the prospect of scrawling his name over a sheet of paper, for all the heed he paid her. He muttered something under his breath, while setting the final soldier in place.

“What was that?”

“I said, I don’t give a fig what Father wants. It’s never anything I can do.”

She knelt beside him, but he still didn’t look at her. “Did Miss Crump try to teach you to write your name?”

“Miss Crump and Miss Barton and Miss Bowman and Miss Ramsey and all the others. Doesn’t matter, though. I can’t do it.”

Well, this was going swimmingly. “Naturally, you can’t do it. You’ve no pen and paper.” While he’d been studiously ignoring her, she’d had a chance to glance about the room and ascertain the lack of writing materials. “I’ll be right back with some.”

A proper governess would no doubt have summoned a servant for such a task, but she needed to come up with a strategy to convince the boy to cooperate. One would think earning his father’s approval might be enough, but he’d clearly tried and failed in the past.

And Cecelia had no idea how to secure his complicity.

At the entrance to Lindenhurst’s study, she ran into Mrs. Carstairs. Not that Cecelia had planned to snoop any further into Lindenhurst’s personal papers, but here, she knew, she’d find what she was seeking.

The housekeeper, however, barred the way. “His lordship has ordered me to ensure you do not enter his private rooms. Which include her ladyship’s bedchamber. No one goes in there but the maids, to clean them. Do I make myself clear?”

Cecelia nearly dropped a curtsey. “Yes,” she lied. Lady Lindenhurst’s rooms? Why, when Lindenhurst’s wife was no longer in any position to make use of them?

“His lordship’s study is also forbidden.”

“Yes, I understand, only…” She chewed at her lower lip. “I was hoping to find some writing materials. His lordship requires the boy to write his name.”

“I see. Well, I might find you some, but I’ve no earthly idea what good you think it’ll do.”

Drat, the woman sounded just as gloomy as Jeremy himself. “Nevertheless, those are my instructions.” She waved a hand in a manner that used to send servants scurrying. “So if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not. Wait here a moment.” She disappeared into Lindenhurst’s study—not scurrying exactly. The woman moved at a ponderous gait in keeping with her bulk.

Presently, she returned with a pen, a pot of ink, and several sheets of paper. Heavy vellum. Quality stock, Cecelia ascertained the moment she took the sheets in hand. She could use some of this and write to Miss Crump for advice, or she could if she had the woman’s direction. “Would you happen to know what agency Lord Lindenhurst used to hire the other governesses?”

Lindenhurst will toss you out before a message has a chance to reach London—that is, if you can convince him to frank a letter for you.

She pushed the annoying voice in her head aside. Blasted reason. She had no use for it. She must move forward with the intention of retaining this position permanently. As for the postage, she’d find her way around that when the time came.

“I expect I can find that out for you, miss.”

“Thank you.” And now she’d opened the door to ask about Jeremy.

When Cecelia didn’t turn for the nursery right away, the housekeeper blinked. “Will there be anything else? I have duties to attend.”

“Mrs. Carstairs, might I ask you what lies between Lord Lindenhurst and his son that he won’t even refer to the boy by name?”

The housekeeper pursed her lips. “You might ask, but it’s more than my job is worth to discuss such things. Lord Lindenhurst cannot abide gossip.”

“But surely it’s not a matter of gossip in my case. If I understood what Jeremy’s problems entail, I could educate him better.”

Mrs. Carstairs stared hard at her for a moment. “And which problems would those be?”

Cecelia cocked her head. Surely the other woman wasn’t about to deny the obvious. “Unless he has something to hold on to, he cannot seem to walk more than two steps without falling. Has he always been this way?”

Once again, Mrs. Carstairs rolled her lips inward, possibly reining in the words that could lead to her dismissal. “Do you realize it’s only me and the butler who have been on staff since before the boy was born?”

“You’ve been here so long?” Cecelia didn’t recall this woman or the butler from years before, but perhaps these servants had come along with Lindenhurst’s marriage.

“I have. He’s replaced everyone else, some more than once, from the scullery maids to the stable boys to the cook and all for discussing matters he wants kept quiet. If he sends me packing as well, I won’t find another position. Not at my age.” That reply, along with Mrs. Carstairs’s expression, told Cecelia a great deal.

“Why should Lord Lindenhurst forbid anyone discussing his son’s condition when it’s so clear to anyone with eyes?”

“Is it not enough to know that he prefers no one discuss it and leave it at that?”

Cecelia crossed her arms. “No, it is not. Not when anything you can tell me might be helpful in the performance of my job. The job his lordship hired me to do. Please,” she added when the housekeeper’s expression remained immutable. “You are not the only one who cannot afford to lose her position here. Tell me as little as you like, but give me something to go on. For the boy’s sake, if nothing else. This endless parade of governesses cannot be good for him. When will he ever learn he can trust in someone?”

Something in Mrs. Carstairs’s expression thawed, if only somewhat. But thank goodness for that small concession. The older woman craned her neck and glanced up and down the hall. “Why don’t we take a spot of tea? Unless I’m keeping you from more pressing duties?” She added that last all too hopefully.

“My position here is already precarious.” But she still had until her brother’s visit at least before she’d have to pack her meager belongings. “A spot of tea shouldn’t change a thing.”

Mrs. Carstairs’s rooms lay near the kitchens at the end of a long passage next to the butler’s pantry. Her chamber was dark, being below ground level, but she had a small sitting area in addition to a comfortable-looking bed sporting a cheery coverlet. Cecelia took a seat in the second chair, a wooden contraption that swayed alarmingly when she sat in it.

Presently, the scullery maid appeared on the threshold bearing a pot of tea, milk pitcher, and two cups on a tray. Mrs. Carstairs quelled the question in the maid’s eyes with a severe look. She may as well have voiced aloud the order to say nothing to anyone. Then she took her time stirring sugar and milk into her cup. “I’d offer you scones, but Cook is out of the habit of baking such. His lordship never receives anyone who might ask for them.”

Surprising they’d been given actual tea, since such luxuries were normally reserved for guests. But then, Cecelia couldn’t recall Lindenhurst ever being much for tea. Not as long as there was port, brandy, or wine to be had.

Cecelia took a tentative sip from her cup. The liquid inside was scalding hot. “That’s quite all right.” She was far more interested in what the housekeeper might tell her.

Mrs. Carstairs leaned forward in her seat. “If anyone asks, we did not have this conversation.”

“What of the scullery maid?”

“I’m not so concerned about the likes of her. She knows better than to talk. The master asks if you’ve been discussing anything with me, the answer is no. You do not let on that anyone’s said anything.”

“Absolutely.” Cecelia was good at keeping secrets. She had enough of her own; though she wasn’t about to tell Mrs. Carstairs that.

“Now, you asked about the boy, and I can tell you. I remember the day quite clearly. He was just a little thing, not even two years old, and he loved nothing better than running about the grounds as far as he could get.” She paused and sipped at her tea as if she had the entire afternoon and into evening to tell this story.

“His mama would take him along on her constitutionals. Now, you might think such a young child would complain about a long walk, but that boy never did. Well, that winter it were cold. Colder than usual. Enough that the well froze and we had trouble drawing enough water for the household. The pond froze, too, but as cold as it got, her ladyship could not keep that child indoors. It would have been better if she did.”

Cecelia set her cup aside. Somehow the cold of that winter had crept into this underground room, settling uncomfortably along her spine. “Good heavens, what happened?”

“The only person that rightly knows for certain cannot tell us. If she ever had a chance to tell his lordship, he doesn’t hold with people asking. But there was some sort of accident. Next thing I knew, people were shouting for help and running for that pond. It’s not close to the house.”

“I remember.” All too well. “I’ve been invited here as a guest a time or two.”

“Before I came on as housekeeper, then.”

“Before Lord Lindenhurst married.”

“At any rate.” Mrs. Carstairs also pushed her cup aside. “Somehow the boy got out on that pond, and it were cold, but not so cold the ice was strong enough to hold him. He fell through.”

Cecelia pressed her fingers to her lips. “Oh dear.”

“Went under, he did. Went under and stayed there. His mama, God rest her, tried to get the boy out, but she couldn’t do it. Soaked herself through and sickened as a result. And the boy…We were all sure he’d follow his mama to the grave. He lay there insensible for the longest time. It was days and days before he came out of it. Once he got his strength back, we could all see he wasn’t the same. Before the accident, he was hale and hearty as you please, running everywhere. Happy. But after, well, you see how he is now.”