Читать книгу The Regency Bestsellers Collection - Bronwyn Scott - Страница 19

The moment she touched her lips to his, Alexandra knew she’d made a severe miscalculation. Her carefully tallied sugar lumps were merely sweet piles of lies. By insisting on taking the lead, she’d told herself she could satisfy her curiosity and retain control.

Control. Hah. She couldn’t control something she scarcely understood. No more than a landlocked, untraveled farmer could board a Yankee clipper and set a course for the moon.

Alexandra hadn’t the faintest idea how to navigate passion.

However, within moments he began to lead the way.

Her kiss became his. A series of light, teasing brushes of his mouth against hers. He tasted her upper lip, then the lower. Taking his time, as though the kiss were a puzzle. As though he found her compelling. Fascinating.

And then he nudged her lips apart and swept his tongue between them.

Oh. Oh, dear.

Alex was startled by the intrusion, reeling with sensations, but she didn’t dare pull away.

To the contrary. She dared to move closer.

This was her first kiss. Good or bad, awkward or accomplished, she’d remember it for the rest of her life. But more than that, she wanted him to recall it, too. He’d forgotten her after their chance meeting in the bookshop. This time, she was determined to etch herself on his memory. No matter how many kisses had come before hers, or how many would come after—this one, he would remember.

No shyness. No hesitation. She meant to give as good as she received, or die of mortification trying.

As he deepened the kiss, she leaned into the embrace, sliding her hands up his shoulders until her fingertips met at the nape of his neck. He wore his hair clipped short there, and she teased her fingers through the dense fringe.

He moaned softly, and the sound was pleading. Resonant with longing. Vulnerable.

Then, with a growl, he caught her up in his arms and lifted her body against him. Her thin shift might as well have been nothing. Her toes barely scraped the floor. His tongue stroked hers in a bold, suggestive rhythm, and she couldn’t catch her breath. Heat built between their bodies, welding them together. His uninjured hand gathered to a possessive fist, gathering and twisting the back of her shift.

He wasn’t leading any longer, but overwhelming her instead.

Perhaps that was his intent. To hide behind intimacy. Draw her close as a way of holding her at a distance. Strange. She would have to ponder it further, once pondering was a viable option again. At the moment, his kisses were erasing her mind.

That was probably just what he desired.

Abruptly, he set her back on her feet. As they parted, her impulse was to lower her eyes and back away slowly. However, she forced herself to stand her ground and meet his gaze. She’d given it her best effort. She’d always have that much. If he found nothing memorable about this encounter, at least she would know that she’d held nothing in reserve. There was pride in that.

She searched his face for any hints of approval or disdain. His expression, however, revealed nothing but confusion.

He blinked down at her. “Christ.”

As reactions went, she couldn’t decide how to interpret blasphemy.

Maybe he didn’t know, either.

He took her hands from about his neck, placed them back over her eyes, turned her by the shoulders, and guided her out the kitchen door. “Go back to bed, Miss Mountbatten. This never happened.”

This never happened.

Not for him, perhaps. But for Alexandra . . . ? That kiss had happened. Really, truly happened, in every part of her body. In the days to come, the kiss occupied almost all of her mind, as well.

She now understood why his attentions as a lover were in such great demand. All reason had deserted her when his lips touched hers. Only feeling had remained. Heat and scent and strength and taste.

He’d tasted like . . . she couldn’t name it, precisely. What was the taste of a deep, masculine growl? Part brandy, part sin . . . and wholly intoxicating. Just the memory sent a languid drunkenness seeping through her limbs.

She gave her thoughts a shake.

She had to stop thinking of it and put the encounter behind her. Ever since last autumn, she’d been wondering how kissing him would feel. Now she knew, and her curiosity was satisfied. For him, it amounted to nothing. A boring evening at home.

This never happened.

She must concentrate on her duties instead. This was a brief period of employment. She had a future to finance.

“I’m hemming a handkerchief, Daisy. Would you like to join me?”

Daisy looked at her older sister. Rosamund shrugged in silent, grudging permission, as though to say, If you must.

“Now, then.” Alex beckoned the younger girl closer. “Why don’t you have a go?”

Daisy obediently took the half-finished work from Alex’s hand. Her stitches were hesitant and clumsy, but Alex showered her with praise and encouragement when she reached the corner. “Well done, Daisy.”

“No it’s not. It’s all crooked.”

“But an excellent start. No one should expect perfection on the first attempt. All you need is a bit of practice. After the edges are done, I’ll teach you to embroider letters. We’ll begin with this one.” She traced a letter in marking chalk. “Which letter is that?”

“D.”

“And can you guess why I’m going to teach that one first?”

The girl smiled shyly. “Because it’s for Daisy.”

“Exactly so.” Alex was pleased. One letter of the alphabet learned, five-and-twenty to go. She would celebrate the smallest of victories. “And once you learn to embroider, you’ll be ready to take on all sorts of projects. Tablecloths, serviettes . . .”

“Serviettes?” Rosamund groaned. “Why would we embroider little flowers and monograms on scraps of cloth meant to catch spittle and dribbled soup? It’s repulsive, if you think about it.”

Alex had never considered it that way, but now that Rosamund mentioned it, it was a bit disgusting.

“It’s not all embroidered serviettes,” she said. “There are countless practical applications for needlework. Every girl should learn to mend a garment.”

“And why don’t boys learn to mend theirs?”

“Some do learn. It was a man who taught me to sew.”

Rosamund arched an eyebrow in skepticism. “Truly?”

“Truly. I was raised on a ship. No ladies aboard.”

“Tell us more,” Daisy urged. “And not about the sewing. Tell us something exciting.”

“What is there to tell?” Rosamund said. “She didn’t meet with any mermaids.”

Alex hesitated. Relating the story to Mr. Reynaud had been imprudent enough. She was supposed to be transforming these two girls into young ladies. Telling her charges about her own wild childhood would scarcely aid her goal.

And if she failed, she wouldn’t be paid.

That was it, then. No tales of the high seas.

Mrs. Greeley came to her rescue. “Miss Mountbatten, you have callers. Two young ladies. They’re outside, on the pavement. I would have asked them to wait on you in the drawing room, if not for the . . .” Her nose wrinkled in disgust. “The animal.”

Two young ladies and an animal? That could mean only one thing.

“Thank you, Mrs. Greeley.” Alex rose to her feet. “Rosamund, if I go down to visit my friends for a half hour, may I trust that I’ll return to find you, your sister, and this room unscathed?”

“Don’t worry. I’m still putting the final touches on our escape plan. We’re not going anywhere today.”

“Good.” She added under her breath, “I think.”

She hurried downstairs and out the front door to find her friends waiting in the center of the square. Nicola, Penny, and a nanny goat exploring the green on a collar and lead, like a lapdog out for a constitutional.

Alex flung her arms around each of them in greeting. Penny gave the most marvelously tight hugs, and Nicola always smelled like burnt sugar. Alex’s heart wrenched. She hadn’t realized how deeply she’d been missing her friends.

“It’s so good to see you both. Why have you come?”

“Emma’s had her baby.” Nic held up an envelope. “The express arrived this morning.”

“That, and Marigold needed a graze.” Penny scratched the nanny goat between her ears.

Alex whisked the letter from Nicola’s hand, unfolding it to read for herself. It was so brief, scanning the contents took but a second. “Oh, it’s a boy,” she said. “How wonderful. I assume he’ll be called Richmond, as it’s the courtesy title. There’s no mention of his Christian name.”

“It’s a terrible letter,” Nicola said. “Ashbury wrote it. Never trust a man to write about babies.”

“No descriptions whatsoever.” Penny sighed. “How are we to know what he looks like? Which of his parents does he favor? What about his temperament?”

“He’s probably pink, wrinkly, bald, and hungry, like all newborn babes. I doubt he’s had time to declare a political affiliation.” Alex folded the letter and gave it back to Nicola. “We’ll have to be patient. Emma will write when she’s well rested, and she’ll tell us every detail.”

“Speaking of details,” Nicola said meaningfully, “I believe a certain governess owes us a few.”

“Yes.” Penny released Marigold’s leash and took Alex by the arm, dragging her to the nearest bench. “Tell us everything.”

They didn’t have to ask Alexandra twice. She unburdened herself of a fortnight’s thoughts. She told them all about Rosamund and Daisy. The daily doll funerals, the petty theft, and the five accomplishments she had been given ten weeks—now eight—to help them master.

“The poor dears are hurting,” Penny said. “They need snuggles, not lessons.”

“I know. But preparing them for school is the task I’ve been employed to complete. If I don’t succeed . . .” Alex propped her elbows on her knees and let her chin fall into her hands. “They’ve no interest in needlework. They’re immune to bribery. And how am I supposed to teach Daisy penmanship when she doesn’t even know her letters?”

“I wish we could be of more help to you with the governessing,” Nicola said, “but traditional ladylike accomplishments aren’t our strong points, either.”

“I know,” said Alex. “That’s why I treasure you.”

They were friends precisely because they didn’t fit in with the finishing school set. They were different, and unashamed of it. The same could be said of Rosamund and Daisy. The world would try to tell them they weren’t good enough, and Alex hated participating in that effort.

Penny lunged to catch the goat’s leash. “What of the Bookshop Rake? Has he confessed his love for you yet?”

“No,” Alex replied. “No.”

“That disavowal was entirely too vehement to be believed.”

“I spend my days with the girls in the schoolroom,” she insisted. “I scarcely cross paths with the man.”

Except for a few minutes every morning, when he holds my hand in his. Oh, and that one foolish, fumbling kiss in the kitchen.

“Come now,” Penny wheedled. “We’re your closest friends. If he’s romancing you, you must tell.”

Nicola groaned. “If he’s harassing her, you mean.”

“There is nothing to tell,” Alex insisted. “Nothing romantic. Nothing villainous. Nothing at all.”

Alex didn’t even consider her statement to be an untruth. This never happened, he’d said. And so it hadn’t. That kiss in the kitchen was the last time she would let herself be carried away. From now on, practicality reigned.

“Believe me,” she insisted once more for good measure. “I’m more likely to find my future in the stars than in the arms of Chase Reynaud.”

Nicola perked. “Oh, I nearly forgot.” She untied her bonnet and removed it carefully, withdrawing a packet wrapped in brown paper, which she handed to Alex. “I finally got the lavender-vanilla shortbread right. Took me seven attempts, but at last I made a batch that didn’t taste like soap.”

Alex accepted the packet. “You carried them here in your bonnet?”

“The goat kept trying to snatch them from my hand, and Penny said she’s not allowed sweets. When are you sending that animal back to the country, anyway?”

“When she’s healed, of course. Marigold has sensitive digestion.”

“Obviously,” Nic said dryly, looking on as Penny coaxed the animal away from a half-eaten shrub. “A delicate stomach indeed.”

Clutching the packet of shortbread in both hands, Alex kissed Nicola on the cheek in farewell. “Thank you. This was precisely what I needed.”

“It’s only shortbread,” Nicola said.

Alex smiled. “Never underestimate the power of biscuits.”

Once her friends had gone, Alex hurried upstairs, entered the nursery, and went directly to the slate.

Seven attempts. Nicola had needed seven different attempts to make edible shortbread before she’d found success. Alex needed to follow her example. These five subjects chalked on the schoolroom slate weren’t the right recipe for an education. They were like Nicola’s first six batches of lavender-vanilla shortbread. Put together, they tasted like soap.

She wiped the slate clean. “No more maths and etiquette. We have a new set of lessons.”

“What are you on about?” Rosamund asked.

“You wanted to buck all the rules, Rosamund? See the world? Be free? Then you have only one option.” She wrote a single word at the top of the slate and underscored it with a thick, decisive line. “Piracy.”

“Piracy?” Rosamund sounded skeptical, but intrigued.

“These are your new lessons.” Alexandra wrote five topics on the board. “Log keeping. Plunder. Navigation. The Pirate’s Code.” She ended the list. “And needlework.”

“Needlework?” Daisy made a face. “Why would a pirate need serviettes?”

“They don’t. But every sailor, law-abiding or otherwise, must know how to work a needle and thread. On the open sea, no one else is going to mend a sail or darn a sock.”

Rosamund’s suspicion won out. “Never mind her, Daisy. It’s only a trick.”

Alex forged ahead, pretending not to hear her. “We’ll have our own ship. Right here in the nursery. I’ll be captain, of course. Rosamund, you’re first mate. You’ll be responsible for log keeping and the money.”

“What about me?” Daisy asked.

“You,” Alexandra said, crouching close, “will be our quartermaster. That means you’ll ration food and water for the crew. And since we’re so undermanned, you’ll also take on the most important duty of all: ship’s surgeon. There are oh so many diseases and maladies that afflict pirates. Scurvy, malaria, tropical fever . . .”

Daisy’s eyes lit up. “Plague?”

“Yes, darling. Even plague.”

Poor Millicent had rough seas ahead.

Alex stood. “What say you, Rosamund? Are you joining our crew?”

Rosamund peered at the slate. “How do you mean to teach us all those things?”

“Personal experience. From the time I was younger than either of you, I was climbing the ratlines. I know how to set a course to Barbuda, I know the worth of a Spanish real in shillings, and I can barter in Portuguese.”

“Does our guardian know you’re proposing this?”

“Not at all.”

“He’s not going to like it.”

Alex lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Pirates don’t ask permission.”

She’d been hired to teach these girls, and she meant to fulfill that duty. Her financial circumstances wouldn’t allow her to do otherwise. But she was going to accomplish it on her own terms. Rosamund and Daisy needed encouragement, not etiquette. Confidence, rather than comportment.

And whether Chase Reynaud wished it or not, Alexandra would make certain they received it. She would not participate in transforming them into well-mannered, empty-headed, docile young ladies who wouldn’t cause him any trouble.

She’d help them become women who couldn’t be ignored.

“Well, Rosamund?”

After a pause, Rosamund set aside her book. “Very well.”

Alexandra suppressed a triumphant grin. The girl was humoring her, and probably out of sheer boredom, but it was a start. “Then we have a great deal to do. To start, we’ll have to rig our ship.” She went to the window and yanked the curtain from its rod. Not precisely sturdy canvas, but for their purposes, it would make an adequate sail. She looked at Rosamund. “Do you know where we might find a coil of rope?”