by Emily Larkin
Someone caught him around the waist when he reached the landing.
Octavius struck out instinctively, but his assailant was larger than him, stronger than him. He was lifted off his feet and shoved against the wall so hard that his head struck the paneling and he saw stars. “Ow!” he cried, and that high-pitched female voice shocked him for a moment, because it wasn’t his. “Stop! Let me go!” He kicked out, just as he’d shown Miss Toogood, but his skirts were in the way and his attacker was crowding him. There was no space for a kick, let alone a punch, so he jabbed with his elbows and struck with his head and gathered his breath for a shout—
And then someone else was there, ripping him from his attacker’s grasp, pushing him away.
Octavius stumbled and fell to hands and knees on the landing. Two shadowy figures faced off in the candlelight. Dex! he thought, but someone said, “Back off, Donald,” in a low, fierce voice that was nothing like Dex’s drawl.
Octavius blinked and shook his head to clear it. The shadowy figures resolved themselves into two men.
One was the baron’s valet, the man who’d smirked last night and left him to his fate in Rumpole’s bedroom.
The other was a footman. “Back off,” he said again. His face was narrow and angular and as fierce as his voice.
Octavius climbed carefully to his feet, while the valet balled his hands into fists and raised them pugnaciously.
The footman did the same, and while he was significantly thinner than the valet, he was taller and every bit as pugnacious.
For a moment it looked as if there’d be a fight—then the valet sneered and lowered his hands and stalked off down the corridor.
The footman waited until he was out of sight, then turned to Octavius. “You shouldn’t be on these stairs.”
“I’m sorry,” Octavius said. “I got lost.” He ventured a smile. “Thank you.”
The footman didn’t smile back; he frowned. “Did Mrs. Clark not warn you about Mr. Donald?”
Octavius had no idea who Mrs. Clark was, so he shook his head.
The footman looked him up and down. His frown deepened. “She doesn’t usually hire girls like you.”
Octavius glanced down at himself. His apron was askew, but he didn’t appear to have ripped open any more seams. “Like me?”
“You’re too pretty,” the footman said. “You need to take care. If Donald catches you alone, he’ll try again.”
Octavius nodded soberly.
“Us footmen will help if we can, and Mr. Daley, the butler, but don’t look to the baron for help. He’s as like to tup you himself.”
Octavius nodded a second time, even more soberly.
The footman looked Octavius up and down again. His mouth pinched tightly. “If you’ll take my advice you’ll leave this house first thing tomorrow morning. It’s no place for someone like you.”
Octavius had already come to that conclusion.
“The servants’ staircase is that way.” The footman pointed. “Stay away from the baron—and stay as far as you can from Mr. Donald!”
“I will,” Octavius said. He gave the man a respectful curtsy. “Thank you.”
The footman nodded curtly back.
Octavius walked in the direction of the servants’ stairs, and then past them. He waited five minutes, then tiptoed in the opposite direction. He let himself into his bedchamber, frowning thoughtfully.
Dex was slouched in the armchair, looking bored, but he sat up as soon as he saw Octavius’s face. “What happened?”
“I had a run-in with the baron’s valet,” Octavius said. “And I found myself a protector.” He sounded as surprised as he felt.
“You found what?”
“A protector,” Octavius repeated, locking the door behind him. “A footman.”
“A footman?”
“He came to my aid when Rumpole’s valet attacked me.” Octavius took off his mobcap and apron and tossed them on the bed. “Apparently the housekeeper doesn’t hire pretty housemaids. Have you noticed?”
“Can’t say I have. Don’t usually look at the maids.” Dex leaned back in the armchair and smirked. “Pretty widows are more my thing.”
Octavius snorted at that particular truth, then crossed to the mirror and twisted to see over his shoulder. “I didn’t rip another seam, did I?”
Dex stood. “I bloody hope not. Mending your seams is not what I came to Hampshire for.”
But another seam had been ripped.
“Damn you, Otto,” Dex said, exasperated. “I told you not to try any more cross-buttock throws.”
“I didn’t. Rumpole’s valet did this.”
Dex’s eyebrows came together sharply. “He what?”
“He was quite rough,” Octavius said, and then revised this statement: “Very rough. And very fast. Very strong. In fact, I think . . .”
“You think what?” Dex said, as he began to unbutton the dress.
“I don’t think we’ve taught Miss Toogood enough.”
Chapter Thirteen
Pip watched the sun rise that morning, the sky filling with colors—a dozen different shades of orange and pink—and as she watched she felt uneasy.
Because of Lord Octavius.
Because of that kiss.
Had it been a joke? Or had it been the first step in an attempt to seduce her?
A joke, she told herself. Definitely a joke. Lord Octavius wasn’t the sort of man to seduce governesses . . . was he?
She thought he wasn’t, but she didn’t know he wasn’t, and so she watched sunlight spill across the parkland, tinting everything golden, and worried.
Lord Octavius’s kiss had most likely been a joke—but it was imperative that she proceed as if it hadn’t been, because if she was wrong, if he was attempting to seduce her, she could find herself in trouble. The sort of trouble that resulted in positions being lost and lives being ruined.
“I shall be courteous, professional, and distant,” she told herself, and tapped the windowsill three times. The three taps made it feel like an oath, a vow she’d made to herself, something binding and unbreakable.
No more climbing trees. No more lessons in defensive techniques. And definitely no more wagers. Not if she wished to keep both her reputation and her position.
Courteous.
Professional.
Distant.
Strung together, the three words sounded like a protective spell. Pip ran them over in her head while she ate breakfast with the girls. If she could be those three things, then everything would be all right.
Even so, unease still lingered in her belly.
Lord Newingham and his friends appeared at the schoolroom door not long after nine o’clock. Pip’s stomach tried to tie itself in a knot. She laid her hand on her desk and surreptitiously tapped three times with a fingertip, and the knot loosened slightly.
“What adventures do you have planned for us today, Miss Toogood?” Newingham asked cheerfully.
“Rambling,” Pip said. She smiled impartially at all three men, avoiding Lord Octavius’s eyes.
“Rambling!” Newingham repeated. “Doesn’t that sound just too good?” He winked at the girls, and they giggled at this pun on her name.
Edie and Fanny put away their books and they all trooped out of the schoolroom. For the briefest of moments, Pip and Lord Octavius stood exactly where they’d stood when he’d kissed her and she found herself wondering again why he’d done it—joke, or evil intent?—and then they were on the stairs, Newingham talking loudly with the girls, and Pip realized that it didn’t matter what Lord Octavius’s intention had been. All that mattered was that it never happened again.
Yesterday they’d explored trees; today they explored creeks. The girls took off their footwear and paddled, and the men did, too, but Pip couldn’t bring herself to remove her half boots and peel off her stockings and hold up her skirts. She would have if Lord Octavius hadn’t kissed her last night, but now she was afraid it might be interpreted as an invitation.
“Do come in, Miss Toogood,” Newingham urged. “The water’s just too good.”
“Perfect, in fact,” Lord Octavius said, with a hopeful smile, but Pip merely shook her head.
She saw disappointment on the girls’ faces, and on Lord Octavius’s face, too, as if he wanted her to paddle in creeks quite as much as he’d wanted her to climb trees yesterday, and that brought a flash of memory—holding his hand while climbing the perfect tree—and she knew she’d made the right decision.
No paddling. No climbing trees. No wagers. And definitely no kisses.
So she sat and watched while two children, a viscount, and two duke’s grandsons explored a creek, turning over rocks and combing through reeds, looking for tadpoles and mayfly nymphs.
It was an unusual occurrence to see men without stockings. Pip tried very hard not to look at their legs, but it was almost impossible not to, given that they were all splashing around in a rather small creek. She pinned her attention on the girls and endeavored not to notice how muscular the men’s naked calves were or how much hairier their skin was than hers.
“Please come in, Miss Toogood,” Edie begged for the fifth time.
Pip shook her head. She would come paddling here with the girls once Newingham and his friends had gone, but today she didn’t dare, because she didn’t want to give a certain gentleman the wrong idea.
It wasn’t safe for governesses to give gentlemen the wrong ideas.
After the creek, they rambled in the lanes and meadows. Three times Lord Octavius attempted to walk alone with her, and three times Pip moved closer to the girls.
They came to a stile. The men exchanged a glance, the significance of which eluded Pip until she found herself on one side of the stile with Lord Octavius, while everyone else was on the other side, scattering through an apple orchard, the girls shrieking with laughter as Newingham and Mr. Pryor chased them.
She set her foot hurriedly on the lowest step to follow, but it was too late: Lord Octavius blocked her path. “Miss Toogood, I apologize for last night.” His voice was low and urgent. “It wasn’t my intention to offend you or make you afraid of me. You must believe that!”
His expression was as earnest as his voice, his eyes were dark and intense, and he was so unmistakably contrite that any words Pip might have spoken dried on her tongue.
His brow creased at her silence. “Miss Toogood?” he said, and he looked even more earnest and even more contrite, as if he, a marquis’s son, was afraid of what she, a mere governess, might have to say.
It scrambled her wits to have him look at her like that. Pip wrenched her gaze away and looked instead at the bottom step of the stile, at the gnarled wooden plank and the grass growing up around it, the daisies and the dandelions. “I’m not afraid of you,” she told him.
“But you’re not comfortable in my company, are you? It’s why you didn’t paddle with us.”
Her gaze returned to his face. After a moment, she nodded.
His lips moved, forming neither a smile nor a scowl, but something sad and regretful. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed you. It was an impulse of the moment. You see . . . I’ve been wanting to kiss you since the moment I first saw you.”
It took a few seconds for the words to sink in, and when they did Pip felt her cheeks go scarlet. “Me?”
Lord Octavius nodded. He gave her a smile that was wry and lopsided, but also slightly hopeful.
“Me?” Pip said again. “But . . . but why?”
“Because I like you.”
Pip’s heart was beating rapidly. “Thank you,” she said, in a stifled voice. “But I cannot . . . A dalliance isn’t something I could ever contemplate.”
Lord Octavius’s eyebrows drew sharply together. “I should hope not.”
“But . . . is that not what you mean?”
He looked quite affronted. “Of course not! My intentions towards you are wholly honorable.”
“Oh,” Pip said faintly. She stared at him for a long moment, while bees hummed and birds sang and the girls laughed in the orchard. “But you’re a marquis’s son.”
His eyebrows twitched slightly upwards. “Yes?”
“Marquises’ sons don’t have honorable intentions towards governesses,” Pip told him—and then she flushed scarlet again, because it sounded as if she thought that all marquises’ sons were depraved seducers of governesses. “I beg your pardon. That came out wrongly. I mean . . . I mean that marquises’ sons must marry within their own class, of course, and that governesses aren’t suitable. That’s all I meant. It wasn’t a slur upon marquises’ sons.”
His lips twitched as if he was trying not to laugh. “Quite a few marquises’ sons marry gentlemen’s daughters,” he assured her.
“They don’t marry vicars’ daughters.”
“Sometimes they do.”
“Not vicars’ daughters who have to work for a living. Not governesses!”
He smiled at her, warmth in his eyes. “Only perfect governesses.”
Pip found it impossible to look at him, not when he was gazing at her like that. She stared at the ground, at the grass and the dandelions. “I’m not perfect,” she told him.
“No?”
She shook her head fiercely.
His tone became serious: “In case I haven’t made myself clear, I admire you greatly, Miss Toogood.”
“But you can’t! You’ve only known me for three days.”
“Three minutes was enough.”
The words drew her eyes to him. Lord Octavius’s face was as serious as his voice, all traces of amusement gone, his gaze steady and earnest.
Extraordinary as his statement had been—unbelievable as it was—it appeared that he truly meant what he’d said.
“But . . . I’m a governess, and I have red hair and freckles!”
“So?” He smiled at her and held out his hand. Pip took it without thinking. She climbed the stile before she even realized she’d done it.
They made their way through the orchard, following the sound of voices. Bees staggered in the air, seemingly drunk on pollen. Pip felt a little intoxicated herself.
Lord Octavius liked her?
He had honorable intentions towards her?
He’d admired her after knowing her for only three minutes?
She realized with a sense of shock that he was still holding her hand. It felt deliciously dangerous. Heat tingled up her fingers, up her arm, making her heartbeat flutter, and how could something that felt so exhilarating be so wrong?
Very easily, a little voice said in her head.
Pip carefully removed her hand from his.
Think, she told herself. Think hard. Don’t get swept up in a Faerie tale, because Faerie tales aren’t real. If you make a mistake now, you’ll have to live with it for the rest of your life.
But she wasn’t certain which would be the mistake: encouraging Lord Octavius’s attentions, or spurning them. She didn’t know him well enough to make such a decision. How could she? Three days wasn’t long enough to form an opinion of a person’s character. That took weeks. Months. Years.
But sometimes it only took three minutes.
They came upon Newingham, Mr. Pryor, and the girls. Edie was explaining something to the viscount. Her expression was animated; his was perplexed. He looked up at their approach. “Miss Toogood, can you please explain to me what the crawls are?”
“Crawls?” Pip said.
“It’s something to do with a dole,” Newingham said. “I think?”
“You mean the Tichborne Crawls?”
“Yes!” Edie said triumphantly. “You see, Uncle Robert, it’s true!”
“What is?” the viscount said, still looking perplexed.
“Several centuries ago, Lady Tichborne crawled around an area of land,” Pip told him. “Every year after that, the grain from that land went to the poor. It’s called the Tichborne Dole.”
“Twenty-three acres!” Edie said. “And she crawled it.”
&nbs
p; “How big is twenty-three acres, Uncle Robert?” Fanny asked.
“Um . . .” Newingham glanced around the orchard, and then at Pip, a look of hopeful entreaty on his face.
“One acre is ten square chains,” Pip said.
“Yes,” Newingham said. “One acre is ten square chains, which means that twenty-three acres is . . . um.”
Pip came to his rescue again: “It will be easier to calculate if we can write it down. We’ll do it at luncheon. We can work it out in yards, and then come out here and see exactly how big twenty-three acres is.”
That was what they did, and the calculation occupied Pip’s mind quite effectively. It was difficult to think about the honorable intentions of marquises’ sons while one was wrestling with feet and yards, furlongs and acres.
Twenty-three acres turned out to be rather larger than she’d thought. More than one hundred thousand square yards. They paced it out up on the sheep-down and Pip tried to imagine crawling that far, but couldn’t.
Neither, apparently, could the viscount. “Why on earth would someone crawl twenty-three acres?” He turned on his heel, surveying the area they’d paced out, and scratched his head. “It makes no sense.”
“She was dying,” Edie said. “She couldn’t walk.”
“Then it makes even less sense.”
“It was so there’d be food for the poor,” Fanny told him.
“Yes, I understand that,” Newingham said. “But what I don’t understand is why she had to crawl. Why not just put the land aside?”
“Her husband was a miser,” Pip explained. “He didn’t want to give anything to the poor. He said he’d only put land aside for a dole if she crawled it.”
“He didn’t think she could do it, but she did,” Edie said. “I think it was very brave of her!”
“She was undoubtedly a heroine,” Newingham said, smiling down at the girl.
“And as for her husband, I can think of several names for him,” Mr. Pryor said, sotto voce. “Alas, none of them are suitable for present company.”
Pip glanced in his direction, then her gaze slid past him and fastened on his cousin. Who was looking at her with warm admiration in his eyes.