by Darcy Burke
“You are correct. I do not.” She rose, and Val jumped up to help her. “Let us depart. I’ve correspondence to see to since the weather will not support a jaunt to the park.”
When they reached the coach, the footman helped the dowager step up. Val couldn’t resist asking his sister, “You found Mrs. Cortland clever?”
“Exceedingly. I wish I’d been educated like she was.” There was a wistful quality to her tone. Viola was obsessed with the written word, and had been writing since she’d been old enough to grasp a quill.
“You’ve done all right, despite Father’s insistence that you didn’t need to know anything more than needlepoint, dancing, and simpering.”
“Simpering was not actually a focus.”
He offered her his hand to help her into the coach. “That must be why you’re so bad at it.”
She gave him a sly, pert smile. “Indeed.”
“Would you get in the coach?” Grandmama demanded. “It’s freezing.”
Inside the coach, Val braced himself for what must come next. He couldn’t expect to see his grandmother and not endure an interrogation followed by a lecture.
“What are your marriage prospects, Eastleigh?”
“The same they were last time I saw you, what, four days ago?”
“Don’t be saucy with me,” she scolded from across the coach as they circled to the other side of the square. “You’ll be thirty this year. I understand your reluctance to marry again after that disaster of a first wife, but you’re older and wiser now, and you’ll choose better. If you’d allowed me to choose the first time—”
Viola put her hand on the dowager’s. “If you’ll recall, I let you choose my husband, and you saw how that turned out.”
Grandmama did not appear persuaded by this argument, not that Val expected her to be. They were revisiting old debates. “I still say there was nothing really wrong with him. Even if there was, you would have whipped him into shape—you are my granddaughter, after all.”
Val suppressed a smile. When it came to debate, or anything else, for that matter, Grandmama would never admit defeat.
“What about Lady Penelope?” Grandmama suggested. “She’s well-mannered, beautiful, and her lineage is impeccable. She also looks as though you could frighten her with a stare, so I highly doubt you’d encounter any of the same problems you had with That Woman.” Grandmama never said Val’s wife’s name, which was fine with him.
“Grandmama, you frighten everyone with your stare, so that’s hardly notable,” Viola said.
The dowager’s lips twitched but she did not smile. That would be garish in her opinion. “This is true.”
“I’m not even sure I know who Lady Penelope is,” Val said. He did, of course, because Cole knew everyone, and as Cole’s best friend, Val inevitably ended up knowing everyone too. Not that he knew Lady Penelope. He vaguely recalled a fast introduction a week or so ago. But he couldn’t be sure.
Grandmama turned the full weight of her disapproval on Val. “If you went to Almack’s, you’d know her and many other suitable young ladies. It’s Wednesday. We’ll go tonight.”
He didn’t want to go to Almack’s tonight or any other night, for that matter. He gave her an apologetic wince. “I already have plans.”
“You always have plans.”
“I’m an important member of the House of Lords. I chair a committee and—”
She waved her hand, cutting him off. “Next week, then, and I shan’t brook a refusal.”
Val gritted his teeth but knew better than to argue with her. He’d just ensure something very critical that required his attendance came up. Perhaps he could convince Cole to move up his wedding. To next Wednesday evening.
They’d arrived in front of Grandmama’s house several minutes ago, and he was now quite ready to escape further lecture. “I can walk home.”
“Don’t be silly,” Grandmama said. “The coachman will drive you. It’s about to rain again.”
The footman opened the door, and Val bid his grandmother and sister farewell. The ride to Grosvenor Square took only a few minutes, then he sent the coach right back to Berkley Square.
Val’s butler, Sadler, welcomed him home, but the deep crease in his brow said something was amiss. “What’s going on?” Val asked without preamble.
“We have additional guests, Your Grace,” Sadler said in a low tone as he closed the door.
Val removed his hat and gloves and handed them off to a footman. “Guests plural?”
“Lady Barkley has arrived, and she is not alone.”
Whom would she have brought with her? Had something happened to Barkley’s son at Oxford? “Is it their son?”
“No, I’m afraid it’s a new governess.”
Bloody hell. Val immediately wanted to go find Isabelle. Which he absolutely should not. He allowed logic to tamp his outrage. The girls needed a governess who would teach them—how had Barkley put it, lady stuff?—the things Isabelle couldn’t. That had to be the new woman’s purpose.
Still, he couldn’t quite dismiss a lingering feeling of unease. “We have plenty of room.”
“Actually, we do not. The two governesses will need to share a chamber.”
Val recalled the size of Isabelle’s room, particularly the narrow bed, which, because he was a lecherous scoundrel when it came to her, had commanded his attention. “It’s not large enough.”
“We’ll have to make do, sir. We’re working on it now.”
“Keep me apprised. I want to see how you manage—I have grave doubts. In the meantime, I’ll be in my study.” Because he couldn’t very well seek Isabelle out.
As Val passed the library, he heard voices through the half-open door. Angling himself, he peered inside and saw Barkley leaning against the wall. His face was pinched and his arms were folded tightly across his chest, making him appear distinctly uncomfortable.
“It’s not fair! I will never like her!” The sound of a girl bursting into tears rent the air, and Miss Caroline came running from the library, nearly bowling Val over in her haste. She didn’t even pause as she tore past him.
Her rapid exit had opened the door further, and now Val could see entirely inside—just as the occupants could see him.
“No, I’ll go after her,” Lady Barkley said to Isabelle, who had started toward the door. “She’s my daughter.”
Lady Barkley, a reed-thin woman with prematurely graying hair and a small mouth that was currently drawn into a tight moue, strode toward him. The moment she saw him was reflected in the widening of her dark eyes and her sudden stop. She dropped into an awkward curtsey. “Your Grace. Please pardon my daughter’s behavior.”
“I’m sorry to see she’s upset.”
Nodding, Lady Barkley thanked him for his concern and moved past him sedately, her shoulders stiff as an overstarched cravat.
Val took in the scene in the library. Barkley had pushed away from the wall, but seemed only more distressed given the lines fanning from his mouth and eyes. Miss Spelman had gone to wrap her arms around Isabelle’s waist. An unknown woman—certainly the new governess—stood at the opposite end of the room, her face pale and her hands clasped tightly in front of her. She looked to be a few years older than Isabelle and appeared perhaps even more upset than Barkley. What the hell had happened?
“Beatrice, let Mrs. Cortland go. She’s not leaving straightaway.”
Isabelle patted the girl’s back and bent her head to murmur something in her ear. Miss Spelman nodded, then extricated herself from Isabelle. Tossing a glare toward her father, she turned and started toward the door. Like her mother before her, she offered Val a curtsey before she left.
Barkley sent an apologetic look toward Val. “My apologies for this disruption. Allow me to present our new governess, Miss Shipley.” His attention was not on Miss Shipley but on Isabelle.
Miss Shipley dropped into a deep curtsey. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.” She kept her gaze directed toward the floor.<
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“Welcome.” Val wanted to throw her and Barkley out so he could have Isabelle to himself. No, he wanted to punch Barkley first. He’d said Isabelle was leaving. He’d bloody let her go.
Val got to do none of those things because Isabelle gave him a brief curtsey and murmured, “Please excuse me.”
Then she was gone, and Val had to root himself to the floor to keep from following her.
Chapter 6
By the time Isabelle reached the third floor, she felt as if she might burst. The anger and hurt and sadness had bound together during her ascent and formed a ball of fire that threatened to burn her from the inside out.
The door to her room was open, and a pair of footmen were attempting to wrestle a second bed into the small space.
“I don’t see how it’ll fit,” the one already inside the room said.
“Has to,” the one outside said. “Mr. Sadler was insistent.”
“Then let him come do it.” The first one sounded rather disgruntled.
Well, no more than Isabelle felt.
Spinning on her heel, she went back the way she came and prayed she wouldn’t run into her employers, or worse—the girls. Poor Caroline had been so upset. Isabelle’s heart ached for her. She’d grown quite close to both her and Beatrice, and hated that she wouldn’t get to see them reach their full potential.
Isabelle swallowed against the ache in her throat. She’d faced and, more importantly, overcome disappointment before. This was not the worst that could happen to her, not the worst that had happened to her. She’d clawed her way back from destitution and hopelessness, and she refused to go back.
Thankfully, she encountered no one as she returned downstairs, not until she reached the entry hall. The footman stationed at the door looked in her direction, but she hurried on her way.
Turning to the right, she moved quickly past the library and went to Val’s study. Though she’d been here only a few days, she’d made a point of mapping the house so she could better avoid her host. Until now.
Now, she was torn between wanting to find him inside and hoping he was elsewhere so she wouldn’t have to suffer the embarrassment of facing him in her current unemployed state.
Why should she be embarrassed? It wasn’t her fault Lady Barkley had suddenly decided to hire a new governess. Was it even sudden? For all Isabelle knew, she’d been planning it for some time. Perhaps every “visit” to her “sick” aunt had been an interview for Isabelle’s replacement. That thought only rekindled her anger and hurt at being so shockingly dismissed.
Why hadn’t the baroness told Isabelle she wanted to replace her? Then Isabelle could have been searching for a new position while Lady Barkley had sought a new governess. For whatever reason, Lady Barkley hadn’t wanted to afford Isabelle that courtesy.
The door to the study was ajar, but she had to push it open to go inside. Val looked up from his desk, where he pored over a sheaf of documents stacked before him.
He stood and came around the desk. He was so handsome, even more so than he’d been ten years ago, the faint lines around his eyes giving proof that he still laughed as much as he had when she’d known him.
He stopped short of taking her hands in his, but it was clear he’d been about to. Instead, he dropped them back to his sides. “Isabelle, I’m so sorry about your position.”
“I came to see if I could borrow some parchment. And a quill. Well, not borrow the parchment since I plan to write on it and send it away. The quill, however, I shall return. I must also borrow your study so that I may conduct my business. I’m afraid I can’t use my chamber as two footmen are currently squeezing another bed inside, and I’d rather stay away from the library in case—”
Abandoning his hesitation, Val took her hand in his, and she was instantly calmed by his warmth and strength. “You still ramble when you’re upset.”
“When did you ever see me upset?”
He arched a brow at her. “When one of your father’s students stole the essay you wrote about Voltaire’s Philosophical Letters on the English.”
She remembered that, of course. Val had understood her outrage. In fact, he’d even taken the matter into his own hands, if memory served. “Didn’t you black his eye at the pub that night?”
Grinning, he looked as proud now as he had then. “With glee.” His smile faded. “Shall I plant a facer on Barkley? I’d like to.”
“As satisfying as that may be, you are no longer the Wicked Duke of Eastleigh. At least I hope you’re not. Surely you’ve matured.”
He perched on the front edge of his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. “I thought you liked the Wicked Duke of Eastleigh.”
She had—perhaps too much. “His wickedness rubbed off on me. That isn’t fair. I was just as…wicked.” She shook her head. “I didn’t come here to reminisce. I need to write some letters as I find myself in need of employment.”
He winced and gestured toward one of the wingback chairs angled in front of the hearth, where a low, pleasant fire burned. “Will you sit?”
She didn’t want to sit; she wanted to write. First she needed him to provide her the implements she required. Grasping a thread of patience, Isabelle went to the chair and perched on the edge.
Val sat in the other chair, which put their knees only a foot apart. She scooted back on her cushion. His brow shot up, then slowly lowered, indicating he’d noted her movement. Thankfully, he said nothing, though she was more than ready to tell him it was best if they kept their distance.
“I would be happy to frank your letters,” he offered. “And please don’t tell me you can’t accept my assistance. This is an inconsequential thing. Furthermore, I can’t imagine you’d want to ask Barkley.”
In fact, she’d planned to ask Val to do just that. “Thank you. You’re right. I don’t want to ask Lord Barkley.”
Val scowled. “Why didn’t they just hire this additional governess for the things you can’t teach them? Surely she isn’t as well educated as you and can’t possibly tutor the girls in all the subjects you can.”
His praise chased away some of her despair. “I made the same argument. However, Lady Barkley said the girls didn’t need to learn everything I was teaching them, that it was too much.” That might be true, especially to a woman as ill educated as Lady Barkley, but Isabelle feared the real reason she’d been fired was because Lady Barkley was jealous of the close relationship she’d formed with Beatrice and Caroline.
“That’s incredibly short-sighted of them. We shall simply find you a better position. There are far more influential families than Lord Barkley’s. My grandmother will ensure you have the finest appointment—”
She cut him off. “No. I do not require, nor do I desire, your grandmother’s assistance. It was clear to me she found I lacked certain skills. I highly doubt she’d recommend me as a governess.”
He frowned. “Perhaps it’s wrong to call you a governess, then. You are a tutor. You could be teaching young men in addition to women.”
She didn’t disagree, but that wasn’t possible. “No one will hire me to teach their sons.”
“Have you considered teaching at a school? It’s bloody ridiculous you can’t teach at Oxford. You’re smarter than many of the dons,” he added.
She’d done more than consider. She wanted to be headmistress of her own school, and she’d saved nearly enough money to either buy one or start her own within the next year or two. The loss of her employment would set her back, unless she could find another position immediately. Perhaps she ought to accept the dowager’s help—if she was willing to offer. Isabelle wasn’t as certain as Val, but then she didn’t know his grandmother like he did.
And yet, she hated to take another governess position when she’d only plan to leave it in the near future. She’d wondered how she would be able to say goodbye to Beatrice and Caroline, had dreaded it, in fact. Now that the moment was here, she was overcome with sadness. Did she really want to endure that again?
“I can see you’re thinking rather deeply,” Val said softly. “This must be a blow.”
She lifted her gaze to his. “It is what happens, I’m afraid. I do appreciate you dispatching my correspondence.”
He exhaled. “I’m glad you’ll let me. I am going to offer you something else, and you can’t refuse it. You’ll move to one of the guest rooms on the second floor.”
She wanted to refuse it. She should refuse it. “What happens if I decline?”
“As I said, you can’t. I’m going to instruct Mrs. Watkins to move your things right now.” There was his arrogant streak.
“I should decline.”
“You can’t. I don’t have enough room, and unless you want to share your closet with your replacement, you’ll stay in a guest room.”
Put like that, he was right. “No, I can’t decline,” she murmured. She hated not having choices, but then one would think she’d be used to that by now.
He stood. “Help yourself to parchment and quill. The latter is on the desk, and the paper is in the topmost drawer on the left. Just move my documents aside.”
“What are they?” she asked, eyeing the desk.
“It’s a draft proposal regarding weights and measures. My friend Colehaven is going to present it. His betrothed helped write it.”
Isabelle stood and went to the desk. “A woman?”
“She’s rather brilliant. In fact, the two of you would get along famously.”
Too bad they would never meet. Unless she needed to hire a governess, which she obviously did not since she was not even married yet.
“You remember Cole?” Val asked.
She looked over at him, recalling the two wicked dukes who’d set Oxford on its ear for a time. Some had found them beyond infuriating, but Isabelle’s father had liked them both. And of course Isabelle had been utterly captivated by Val. “I do. He’s getting married?”
“Yes, soon.”
She couldn’t help but think of Val’s marriage. She’d read about his wedding in the paper right around the time her husband had died. Her relief at being free had been eclipsed by her sadness at learning Val was not. Had she thought she’d had a chance to become his duchess? No, that was absurd. She’d known it then just as she’d known it ten years ago. Just as she knew it now.