Читать книгу The Regency Bestsellers Collection - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 18

Alex woke to darkness.

Disorientation wrapped her brain like a fog. She sat up and shook her head, trying to clear it. Her heart pounded. Perspiration glued her shift to her chest. Worst of all, her stomach pitched and rolled. As if she were at sea.

Dread rose within her, quickly transforming—thanks to Nature’s least helpful of alchemies—into panic.

She fumbled blindly, finding nothing familiar. Her hands grasped bedclothes of the softest flannel. Definitely not her own. Her feet found a solid floor, but as she stood, the floorboards didn’t creak beneath her weight.

Then her knee collided with a chest of drawers. Ouch.

The pain gave her racing thoughts a jolt. Calm yourself, Alexandra. She pressed one hand to her belly and mentally sank through each solid, immovable layer beneath her feet. Wooden floor. Stony plinth foundation. Cobbled London street. The same layer of grainy, musty earth that Romans had packed beneath their sandals, and the bedrock Atlas, supporting the city on his shoulders.

There, now. You’re fine, you ninny.

She wasn’t lost at sea. She was in the Reynaud residence. And she was a governess.

An underqualified, ill-prepared, and thus far unsuccessful governess, but a governess nonetheless.

When she swallowed, her tongue rasped against the roof of her mouth. She was also a thirsty governess.

By now, Alex’s eyes had adjusted to the dark. She went to the washstand and lifted the ewer. It was light in her grip, no sound of sloshing. Empty. Drat. Tomorrow she’d be certain to set a cup of water aside before she retired, but that wouldn’t help her now. She supposed she might ring for a maid, but she hated to bother the staff. She squinted at her compact traveling clock on the washstand. Already five in the morning. She could wait another hour until sunrise, couldn’t she?

Her parched throat objected. No, she couldn’t wait. To most people, the sensation of thirst was an inconvenience. But then, most people didn’t know the minute-by-minute torture of going without water for days at a stretch.

Alex slid her feet into a pair of worn slippers and made her way out of the bedchamber, through the corridor, and down the stairs with silent footsteps. Being small-statured had a few benefits, and stealth was one of them.

In the kitchen, she found the kettle on the stove. It still held some cooled water. She gulped down one cupful, then a second, and yet another still.

Once her thirst was slaked, she turned to make her way back upstairs.

Thump. Thump.

She eyed the closed door to Mr. Reynaud’s private retreat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The dull rhythmic sound ceased, and then started anew, and despite her misgivings, Alex put her ear to the door.

Now the thumping sounded more like banging. Something hitting the wall, again and again. Not just banging, but intermittent grunting.

She shouldn’t be listening to this, but she couldn’t pry her ear from the door. The sense of sordid fascination was irresistible.

All went quiet once again. She pressed her ear tightly to the door and held her breath, eliminating the distracting sound of her own inhalation. Then:

Bang-bang-bang.

Crash.

And a deep, harsh sound that was part growl, part barbaric shout.

She clapped a hand to her mouth. She was so absorbed by the struggle not to laugh, she didn’t notice the heavy footfalls until they were just on the other side of the door. The door latch turned.

No time for escape.

The door swung open.

She jumped back, clapping both hands over her eyes. “I didn’t see anything.”

“I swear it,” she said. “I didn’t see anything at all.”

Chase stared at his governess. She stood there with a finger-blindfold clamped over her eyes, dressed in a simple shift. Shadows skimmed contours of the form beneath it. “I should think snooping is beneath you, Miss Mountbatten.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, still covering her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I only came down for a drink of water, I promise.”

“Pressing one’s ear to a door would seem an ineffective way to quench thirst.”

Her shoulders wilted. “I didn’t mean to intrude. And I didn’t see anything, hand to my heart. I’ll be going to my chamber straightaway.” She covered both eyes with one hand and groped comically with the other. “Turn me around, if you would?”

“Are we playing blindman’s buff?”

“No.” Her throat flushed red. “Turn me the other direction. Toward the door. Point me back the way I came, and I’ll go up to bed.”

Chase went to the basin and worked the pump handle. The scene was so absurd, he’d nearly forgotten the throbbing pain in his hand. “I can’t send you to bed yet. I’m in need of your assistance.”

She swallowed audibly. “Assistance?”

“I can’t deal with this one-handed.”

She reeled a step in retreat, colliding with a shelf of copper butter molds, setting them a-rattle. Even though she’d backed herself into a corner, she still wouldn’t lower her hands from her eyes. “Can’t your . . . your guest provide you some relief?”

His guest?

“I don’t have a guest.”

A single finger peeled away from her face. He caught a glimpse of dark eyelashes through the gap.

“I thought you were entertaining a visitor,” she said.

He looked at the door to his retreat, then back to her. “Why would you think that?”

“I heard . . .” She swallowed and whispered faintly, “. . . banging. And groaning.”

Good God.

He chuckled. “If you hoped to hear something salacious, I’ll have to disappoint you. I was hanging paneling. On the wall. With a hammer and nails. And I seem to have sliced my thumb. Hence the groaning.”

“Oh.” She lowered her hands and gave a nervous laugh. “Thank heavens. What a relief. I mean, I’m not relieved about your wound, of course. I’m sorry about that. I’m just glad you’re not—”

“Bare to my skin and covered in well-earned sweat?”

“Erm . . . yes.”

He gritted his teeth. He would have loved to draw out the amusement, but his thumb wouldn’t be ignored any longer. “The cook keeps a bit of plaster up there.” He jutted his chin toward a high shelf atop the cupboard. “If you’d kindly fetch it for me.”

She didn’t do as he asked, but approached him and had a look at his wound. “You can’t just smear plaster over this.”

“It’s a small wound.”

“But a deep one. It must be cleaned thoroughly.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’ve seen wounds like this one fester. Bigger and stronger men have succumbed to less.”

“It’s truly none of your concern,” he said, growing testy at the suggestion of her tending the wounds of bigger and stronger men.

“It is my concern. If you die of gangrene or lockjaw, I’ll never be paid.”

Fair enough. He offered her his hand for dressing.

She washed the wound thoroughly with boiled water from the kettle and strong lye scullery soap. He winced. Damn, bugger, blast.

Then she slipped the flask from his waistcoat pocket. “May I?” Having uncapped it, she lifted it to his lips. To his quizzical expression, she replied, “You’re going to want it. This will hurt.”

Chase took a sip. He wasn’t about to admit any pain, but he wouldn’t refuse a swallow of good brandy.

As he watched, she poured a stream of amber spirits directly into his wound, letting it trickle until it overflowed. Then she pressed the wound to purge more blood and did it again.

On the outside, Chase was determined to look manful and impervious to pain.

On the inside . . . Christ.

When she capped the brandy and set the flask aside, he exhaled with relief.

She turned to search the kitchen stores. “Now for some vinegar.”

Bloody hell.

He winced as she began her fresh round of torture. “How are the girls’ lessons coming along?”

“Slowly. I’ve been attempting to earn their confidence, but they have the sort of wounds that won’t be easily healed. How long ago did their parents die?”

“I’ve no idea,” he admitted. “I don’t even know if they’re orphans. They could be illegitimate.”

“They’re not . . . ?” She broke off, abandoning the query.

“Mine?” He shuddered at the suggestion. “I would still have been at school when Rosamund was born. It’s true that I possess a natural talent for seduction, but I wasn’t that precocious. All I know is that their father never claimed them, and the woman they called mother died three years ago, and they’ve been passed around relations and schools ever since.”

She clucked her tongue. “Despite all their mischief, I pity them.”

You ought to be pitying me, he thought.

Having a woman this enticing living under the same roof was a constant temptation. And Chase battled temptation with approximately the same success as a seagull battling the Royal Navy.

Out of sight was not out of mind. At night, he found himself thinking of her. Upstairs, alone, in the dark. But worse by far were the mornings. For God’s sake, he began each day holding her hand. That, and trying like hell to make her laugh. He hadn’t managed it quite yet, but most days he wrangled a reluctant smile. That alone was worth four flights of stairs.

Just yesterday, Rosamund had woken him with a single word: “Tapeworms.” He’d all but leapt to his feet with delight.

It wasn’t entirely desire, but it was partly desire. He knew an innocent outward appearance often concealed a tightly coiled spring waiting for release. In the dark of night, with that virginal shift unbuttoned and that plait of dark hair unbound, Alexandra Mountbatten might prove surprising.

No sooner had he conjured the image than she untied the strip of linen holding the end of her plait. As her hair came unbound and fell loose, he stared at a lock of black satin dipping to graze the slope of her neck.

She pursed her lips and blew over his wound to dry it.

God Almighty.

“There’s no doubt that they’re clever,” she went on, winding the strip of linen about his thumb, “but life’s taught them some difficult lessons. One only needs to look at Millicent to know Daisy’s hurting. It’s obvious from spending mere minutes with Rosamund that she’s learned to be wary. She won’t lower her guard easily. It will take time and patience to gain her trust.”

“You have until Michaelmas.”

“We have until Michaelmas.” She deftly tucked the strip of linen in on itself, securing the binding.

“Disciplining children is not among my talents. That’s why I hired you to take them in hand.”

She looked up at him. “Maybe they don’t need to be taken in hand, but taken into someone’s heart.”

Heart? He tugged his hand from hers. “Oh, no. Don’t get ideas.”

“Goodness. Heaven forbid that a woman have ideas.”

“Ideas are all well and good, but not those ideas. I know that look in a woman’s eye. I’ve seen it before, many times. You think you can convince me to settle down.”

“You don’t need to settle down. My father was a sea captain. I was raised on a ship, sailing the globe. We were the least settled family in the world, and yet I never doubted his love for me.”

“Wait. You were raised aboard a ship? Sailing the globe?”

She paused in the act of packing up the unused salves and plaster. “I probably shouldn’t have mentioned that.”

“No, I think you should have mentioned it. And long before now.”

“Does it truly matter? Perhaps I had an unconventional upbringing, but that doesn’t mean I can’t perform my duties. I had a full education. Here in England, at a proper school. I . . . I did warn you I wasn’t gently bred, and you said you didn’t care.” Her voice went small, but resonant with emotion. “Mr. Reynaud, I need this post. Please don’t sack me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I have no intention of sacking you. That’s not what I meant.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. You should have told me straightaway because you should tell everyone straightaway. If I had your life story, it would be the first thing I mentioned to anyone. ‘Hullo, I’m Chase Reynaud. I learned to toddle aboard a merchant ship, and the Seven Seas rocked my cradle. And have I mentioned that no tropical sunset could compare with your beauty?’ The women would fall into bed with me.”

“Don’t they fall into bed with you anyway?”

“That’s true. But they might do so a half minute faster. Over months and years, those half minutes add up. So let’s hear the rest of the tale.”

She put away the soap and vinegar. “My father was American. After the Revolution—”

“The rebellion,” he corrected.

“—he became a seaman. He’d worked his way up to first mate when they anchored in Manila harbor. Theirs was one of the first ships to open trade with the Philippine Islands. Aside from the Spaniards, of course. Anyhow, they anchored for a few months. That’s where he met my mother. And they fell in love.”

“She was a Spanish colonist, then?”

“Mestiza. My grandfather was Spanish, but my grandmother was native to the island.”

Fascinating. This information solved a few mysteries that had been lingering in Chase’s mind. Life on a trading ship would have taught her the value of goods—everything from the ribbon around her neck, to telescopes and comets. He supposed her mother had blessed her with that bounty of dark hair and her delicate snub of a nose—and her father was likely to blame for her stubborn, independent streak. Those Americans just wouldn’t be told what to do.

“So if your father was American, and he met your mother in the Philippine Islands . . . how did you come to be living in England?”

“That’s a long story.”

He looked pointedly at his bandaged hand. “I won’t be doing any more work tonight.”

She paused. “After they married, my father sailed back to Boston. He promised to return once he’d found a partner and bought a ship of his own. It was only supposed to be a year, but in the end, it took him more than three. When he finally returned, he found that my mother had died. He was no longer a husband.”

“But he’d become a father.”

She nodded. “Most men would have left me to be raised by my mother’s family, but my father would have none of it. He took me aboard his ship, and off we went. The Esperanza was our home for the next decade. He’d named it for her.” She smiled a little. “The same way my mother had named me after him. His name was Alexander.”

“That’s appallingly romantic.”

“Isn’t it? And if you think that’s treacly, wait for this part. My father went down with the Esperanza in a storm. Died in the embrace of his true love, you could say. And that’s how I ended up in England.”

“Hold a moment. There are a few bits missing from that story.”

Such as the part that would tell him who to blame for stranding her in a strange country, alone. And whether that someone was still alive and available to be pummeled.

She changed the subject. “How did your parents meet?”

“Let’s see.” Chase drummed his fingers on the table. “My father was a second son. He had connections, but no money. He found a young woman with money, but no connections. He proposed, she accepted, they were married. A year later, I came along. And then we all lived miserably ever after.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I like my story better.”

“I like yours better, too. But coming back to the matter at hand, my history should only underscore the point. I’ve no idea what a family looks like. I cannot be a satisfactory guardian. Hell, I don’t even have dogs. Commitment isn’t in my nature.”

“You’re simply too virile to be tied down, is that it?” Her eyes teased him. “Must be all those antlers.”

“Don’t make light of it,” he said in a warning tone. “And while I’m on the subject, it’s inadvisable to wander the house at night in the home of a known rake. Your reputation could be compromised.”

“I’m not worried. You said the thought of seducing me would never even cross your mind.”

“Yes, but sometimes,” he murmured, “a man acts without thinking at all.”

He leaned in as if drawn to her, trying to convince himself that a kiss would be for her own good. Just a little one, of course. A mere brush of his lips on hers. It wouldn’t be so very terrible of him. It would be a tiny bit terrible of him, and that was the point. To put the punctuation mark on his warning. Beware. Turn back. Here there be monsters. He’d be doing her a favor, really.

Right. He’d bedded Venetian acrobats less flexible than his morality.

She put a hand to his chest. “Wait.”

Wait, she’d said.

“Wait” wasn’t “stop.”

“You can afford to act without thinking,” she went on, “but I have to reason things through.”

“Reason things through,” he echoed, nonplussed.

“Whenever I’m faced with a decision, I consider the arguments for and against.”

“Remind me. What decision are you facing?”

“Whether or not to allow you to kiss me.”

He stared at her.

“That was your intent, wasn’t it? To kiss m—” She paled in horror. “Oh, Lord. It wasn’t, was it? I’ve misunderstood.”

“No, no,” he assured her. “It was my intent.”

“Oh.” She exhaled, and the pretty flush of pink returned to her cheeks. “That’s good.”

“Is it?”

“I’m not certain yet. The ‘against’ pile is rather large.” She plucked lumps of sugar from the sugar bowl and began counting them into a heap on the worktop. “I’m your employee. You’re my employer and a shameless rake. You’re clearly trifling with me. I might lose your respect. I might lose respect for myself. I might give you the idea that I’m willing to allow further liberties—which I am not.”

“I never imagined you were.”

“But in the ‘for’ pile . . .” She gathered a cluster of sugar lumps with her right hand, adding them one by one. “If it would be just the once—”

“It would be.”

“—with no further entanglement . . .”

“I despise entanglements. The mere thought of them makes me itch.”

“And you must have accumulated some talent for kissing, considering your history. So I suppose I could do worse.”

Hold a moment. Worse? He couldn’t let that pass unchallenged.

He lowered his voice to a seductive drawl. “Sweeting, you’d be hard-pressed to do better.”

“Precisely,” she agreed, matter-of-fact. “I may as well have a pleasant experience for my first kiss.”

Chase couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Her first kiss? What a travesty. That lush, rosy mouth was eminently kissable.

She bit her bottom lip, as if she could sense him staring. “Goodness, I suppose it could be my only kiss. That’s rather lowering to contemplate, but the possibility can’t be discounted. Another lump in the ‘for’ heap, isn’t it? Knowing that even if I die a spinster, I won’t be an unkissed one.”

He watched her slide another sugar lump into the pile. “If you truly make all your decisions this way, you must drive shopkeepers mad.”

“I don’t typically ponder them aloud.” Her face flushed.

“Far be it from me to stop you. I have a stake in the conclusion.” He plunked his elbow on the worktop and propped his chin in his hand, studying her. Her little one-person debate had him riveted. As did her fetching features when she was deep in concentration.

As many women as he’d charmed and seduced in his life, he could honestly say he had never, ever encountered a woman like this one. Her background wasn’t the half of it.

She rolled a sugar lump back and forth with the tips of two fingers. He wanted to suck those slender fingers into his mouth and run his tongue over them, between them, lapping up the sweetness until she gasped with forbidden pleasure. The fantasy was so vivid, he could taste it.

Good God.

Chase straightened, cleared his throat, and rapped his knuckles against the worktop in an affable manner. “Let me know when you have your answer, then. I’m available Thursday next, if that suits.”

With her eyes still trained on the sugar, she signaled for a pause. “One moment.”

Naturally, the answer would be in the negative. No woman of her sense, given the opportunity to consider the matter fully, would weigh both sides and arrive at acceptance. That was why he sent his conquests spinning off guard with charm and flattery, why he dazzled them with lush surroundings and sparkling wines. Why he kept his liaisons to one night, and no more.

Because if a woman looked too close and thought too long, she would see the truth: He was a despicable, shameless cad. Alexandra Mountbatten knew it. She’d understood him from the first. Her answer would be no.

So why was he holding his breath in anticipation?

Perhaps the brandy had muddled his senses.

Or perhaps he couldn’t help wondering how it would feel for a rational, clear-eyed woman to see him—truly see him—and still find him worth the risk.

His heart clawed up his throat and battered his eardrums, and all because a tidy little governess was taking longer than usual to reject him. Absurd. Stupid, really.

At last, she put an end to the suspense.

“I don’t want you to kiss me,” she said, “now that I’ve thought it through.”

See? There it was. She was clever enough to see the black, rotted mess where his soul ought to be, and she wanted no part of it.

She lifted her tiny, delicate hand to his cheek. Not to deliver the slap he deserved, but in an exploratory caress. Her gaze drifted over his face like an apple blossom, finally coming to rest on his mouth.

“I think . . .” She wet her lips. “I think I’d rather kiss you.”

And before Chase could begin to reckon with the shock of those words, she did.