A Rake for All Seasons: A Regency and Victorian Romance Boxset

by Samantha Holt

  “I am aware of that, Mr Avery, thank you.”

  He took a step back and eyed her, the movement almost sending him toppling the other way so she gripped his arms.

  “I say,” he said, though he did not sound offended, rather more... excited? Some excitement of her own thrummed through her body at the feel of those muscles undulating against her fingers. He must have removed his jacket downstairs.

  “You’re an attractive woman, Mish Davis, but... but nevertheless, you are the nurshmaid. No, the governess. Or some such.” He waved a hand, drawing attention to the cut on his finger.

  “Governess,” she said, unsure now why the distinction was so important. Governess seemed respectable. Somehow, it didn’t remind her that she had dropped her dreams for the moment in pursuit of money. Plenty of well-bred young ladies became governesses. Ignoring his comment on her attractiveness, promising herself she wouldn’t mull over the words later, she urged him towards his bedroom.

  It took them several stumbling steps to get them into his room and deposited on the bed. She fumbled for the tinder box on the fireplace and lit a candle. Then she used it to get a lamp lit and turned up the wick so it burned brightly enough for her to see the damage on his finger.

  Her breath clogged her throat when she faced him. His room was decorated similarly to her room, in shades of burgundy, only the pattern on the wallpaper was bolder, more masculine than that in her room with sharp lines dissecting the floral patterns. It reminded her that she was in a man’s room.

  Her master’s room.

  And with the tingling sensation of having been pressed to his side still running up and down her body, she eyed her master. One leg hung off the bed, an arm was sprawled above his head. His chest rose and fell against that pristine white shirt.

  It looked as though his waistcoat hadn’t been buttoned properly but she recalled he had been perfectly turned out when he had left. Had someone taken it off? A woman perhaps? The oddest stab of something uncomfortable struck her. He was a bachelor. Of course he had to take his pleasure somewhere, and it certainly wasn’t any of her business.

  Ivy lifted the lamp and strode over to his bedside to place it on the table next to the bed. She took a moment to eye his peaceful expression. His lips were parted and that scowl she was slowly getting used to was gone. But the crease between his brows remained. What caused that permanent line even in sleep?

  A smile teased her lips as she allowed her gaze to skim over his mouth and features once more. His dark lashes were thick against the harsh planes of his cheeks. A fluttering sensation resided in her chest. She’d never paid much attention to men—her focus had been on singing—but this one was certainly one of the most handsome she had ever seen.

  “Mr Avery,” she called softly. He didn’t stir so she tried again, “Mr Avery.”

  She dare not speak too loudly for fear of waking Elsie or worse—Mrs Cartwright. For an older lady, she seemed to have excellent hearing. She had already complained several times about the time it had taken Ivy to drag herself out of bed to tend to the child the previous night. The disturbed sleep wasn’t much fun but her previous lodgings had hardly been the quietest.

  Ivy darted a look at the door as she eased herself down onto the bed beside her master. The housekeeper could have no reason to come upstairs but if she caught her in the master’s room—on his bed no less—she could be in quite a pickle.

  “Mr—” A snore escaped his mouth and she shook her head. “Oh dear, Mr Avery. You are the one who is in a pickle I think. Or more likely utterly foxed.”

  Leaning over, she went to grasp his hand to study the damage and froze when he grunted and rolled towards her. His arm landed near her backside on the bed and his head was almost on her lap. Ivy attempted to take his hurt hand from behind her but he wriggled it out of her grasp and released a low mumble. She gasped when his hand curved around her backside. She wore only her chemise and her drawers. Mr Avery’s warm hand fairly burned through the cotton, feeling as though she would wake up with a handprint on her bottom.

  She twisted to yank his hand away, only to end up with his head pressed against the side of her breast. Mr Avery nuzzled his face against her breast and she stilled. She should draw away, press him back, but for some reason her body refused to cooperate. Hands to his head, she found his hair to be soft and thick.

  Oh dear. One part of her body seemed to be working—her fingers. They twined into the softness, so at odds with the rest of him, from his stern features to what she suspected was a body that rivalled the statues of London. He released a muffled groan against her and she heard him inhale deeply.

  “Smell so good,” he murmured.

  Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. She was going to lose her job not two days into it if she was not careful. Her nipples were tight and hard. Lush heat rolled through her as he burrowed closer and his hand splayed across her back to hold her to him.

  A creak from somewhere else in the house startled her into action. She jerked back and clasped his wrist to force his hand back. At least in his foxed state he wasn’t particularly strong. She had no doubt if he really wanted to keep hold of her, he could, but had he been sober, she was positive he’d want nothing to do with the governess. A man like Mr Avery likely enjoyed the company of women less... interesting-looking than her. Blonde ones with soft features and a delicate manner.

  He rolled onto his back, a grin cracking his face. His eyes were at half-mast and she wasn’t sure what amused him. Recalling her original reason for being on the bed, she grasped his hand and inspected the cut. It had already stopped bleeding so couldn’t be deep. Ivy rolled her eyes to herself. All this for a tiny scratch. At least he was so foxed he would never recall any of it.

  She came to her feet and checked the jug of water beside his bed. He would need some fresh water. She wasn’t one for drinking but her father had enjoyed a tipple and always needed a lot to drink after a night of indulgence.

  “I’ll get you a drink, sir” she told him, though she knew better than to expect a response and wasn’t even sure why she used the formality at this point.

  “Playing hard to get, eh?” he murmured as she hastened out the room to refill the jug from the bathroom.

  While she filled the jug, she allowed herself a smile. She wasn’t sure she knew how to play hard to get. She supposed the men her mother had introduced her to might think she did, but she had genuinely never been interested in males of the species. They were dull, tiresome creatures, who either feigned interest in her in the hopes of getting her in their bed or for her money. Not that she had any now but her parents did. They might not be titled, but her father was richer than even some of the most titled of men.

  Mr Avery wasn’t tiresome though. Indeed, he had showed little interest in her. He was quite endearing when he was foxed though, and not at all like the stern employer she thought he might be. Likely he’d be back to scowling and seeming serious indeed tomorrow.

  Jug in hand, she returned to his room. She was halfway across the plush carpet before she had registered what he was doing. He had somehow dragged himself off the bed and was busy divesting himself of his shirt, his back to her. She spotted his waistcoat discarded on the floor by the bed, and his cufflinks lay atop the dark blue fabric. She wanted to scoop them up and ensure they were safe, but he was already thrusting his shirt from his shoulders.

  Ivy gulped. Apparently the carpet had turned to glue for she could not seem to move her feet as rolling muscle came into view. The lines of his arms were stark and strong. Each movement revealed the strength sitting behind skin that glowed golden in the lamplight.

  He turned then, a lazy brow rising as he spotted her. He didn’t seem to care she was there. “Give me a hand will you?”

  All that muscle. That wide chest. Oh dear Lord. She released a squeak and her feet became unglued. She scurried across the room, placed down the jug and retreated, her face hot. Part of her wanted to ensure he got to bed safely but this was too much. Ivy flew
out of the door and slammed it shut behind her.

  As she paused to take a breath and press a hand to her hammering heart, she heard his annoyed snort. Then there were footsteps and the creaking of his bed.

  Good, he was going to sleep.

  She lifted both hands to her cheeks. Her second day as a governess and she had already seen her employer half-naked. She would not be able to look at him without recalling the image of his chest and those ripples that led down his stomach, or that slight scattering of dark crisp hair that covered his chest. And the little path of it that vanished into his trousers.

  “Oh dear,” she murmured to herself. How did she get herself into these situations?

  Sucking in a long breath, she drew her shoulders straight and headed back to her room. He wouldn’t remember. Tomorrow they would be back to master and servant. She slipped into the cool, crisp sheets of her bed and sighed. If only she could forget so easily...

  Chapter Four

  Who had filled his mouth with sand? August rolled over and groaned to himself as his head pounded. Dragging open his eyes, he peered at the bleary light creeping in through the gap in the curtain. His head thumped some more when he rolled onto his back and peered up at the burgundy canopy above him. What had he been thinking drinking so much?

  He tested the dryness of his mouth again, feeling his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, and transferred his gaze to the slit of light streaming onto his bed. Dust swirled in it and it made his eyes ache, but he forced himself to stare until the pain retreated.

  Then he rolled the other way and pushed himself up to pour a glass of water. He didn’t recall filling the jug, but maybe he had not been entirely foxed when he had come in. Draining the glass of water, he refilled it and took another few sips before swiping a hand across his mouth. The thumping in his head refused to subside so he rested against the headboard while the cool water trickled down into his belly.

  His gaze landed on his waistcoat and shirt, discarded in a pile on the floor. August lifted away the bedding and discovered he still wore his trousers. He smirked. He scrubbed a hand across his face in an attempt to rub away the foggy haze.

  When had he last drunk so much? He couldn’t recall. As a young apprentice probably. He supposed it being his first night of freedom since adopting Elsie had meant he had indulged a little too heavily. He certainly hadn’t meant to get thoroughly foxed.

  A sting in his hand drew his attention to a small cut on it. He scowled and stared at the red mark for several moments. He hadn’t been fighting at the club, he knew that much. He saved his punches for the boxing ring. Damn, he’d intended to visit the boxing club tonight. He’d never make it in the state he was in.

  Forcing his feet to the floor, he pressed his toes into the thick red carpet and drew in several deep breaths before stretching his arms above his head and flexing them experimentally. Yes, he’d definitely not been fighting. So how had he cut himself?

  He stared at his hand for a few moments and memories of blue and white fragments flitted through his mind. Blue and white...? “What the devil...?” He scrunched up his eyes then hauled them open. “Bloody hell.”

  Miss Davis. She’d helped him to bed. He’d broken a vase and he recalled being pressed against her now. He considered his half-clothed state. She hadn’t undressed him, had she? No, he didn’t believe so. He’d remember those hands upon him surely?

  “Bloody, bloody hell,” he muttered.

  A vision of her in a white chemise scalded his mind. If he thought about it carefully, he recalled her lush dark hair in a thick braid over one shoulder with her curls tied around her face in silly little bows. It had made her look youthful and wildly endearing.

  And then... then what? She had helped him to bed and... He shook his head. Surely not? His scalp tingled in remembrance. He felt like she had touched him, that maybe he had touched her. The scent of violets, the warmth of soft flesh.

  August pinched the bridge of his nose. Whatever he had done, he had a few apologies to make. He only hoped he hadn’t frightened her away and he’d be forced to find a new nursemaid—no, governess.

  Grimacing, he forced himself up. He didn’t do apologies well. Too used to defending himself, he supposed. Being relatively young in railway engineering meant many of the older men didn’t trust him. Yet he’d proved himself time and again.

  Would there ever be a point where he didn’t have his every move questioned? Hell, even George Stephenson would have to bow to him once this tunnel was finished. In spite of having worked together in the past, the man still didn’t trust August’s vision for the future. But, damn it, he’d saved the tycoons huge amounts of money and achieved things no other man could.

  Dread curdled in his gut. He only hoped this tunnel didn’t prove a futile pursuit. He felt sure if he could just complete this, he’d finally be regarded as one of the great railway engineers. He’d show everyone who had doubted him exactly what he could do.

  With a sigh and another grimace, he drew off his trousers and flung them on top of the pile of clothes. Then he made his way to the armoire and dug out clothes for the day. His mouth still felt like the desert and some tiny person with a hammer still inhabited his head, but he felt better once he’d washed with the frigid water in the washbowl and dressed.

  He hunted for his favourite cufflinks but was forced to use a set of garnet ones instead. He’d have to ask Miss Davis where the other ones were. His father had given them when he’d first apprenticed under Stephenson. He dreaded that conversation, but those cufflinks were more important than his pride.

  Damn it, as if he dreaded a conversation with one of his staff. He pictured her wide, expressive eyes and vibrant glow of her skin. In truth, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to look at her. He’d be far happier if he could lock himself in his study and forget about her presence. She did something disturbing to him, created some kind of uncomfortable tension inside him.

  Slipping the cufflinks through his sleeves, he fastened them and drew on a deep red waistcoat with gold embroidery before adding a necktie in a similar colour and pulling on his jacket. He paused to eye himself in the floor-length mirror next to the armoire. He didn’t look nearly as bad as he felt though there were certainly dark rings around his eyes, and his jaw was rough.

  He scrubbed a hand across his chin. He’d visit the barbers for a cutthroat shave tomorrow. He hoped to visit the site of the tunnel and check on progress now he could leave Elsie with Miss Davis.

  Finally slipping on his shoes, he drew in a breath and smirked at his reflection. Scared of a woman. Ridiculous. His stomach grumbled. Whether he wanted to face her or not, he needed sustenance. Bile rose in his throat. And fast.

  He opened the door cautiously and peered out into the hallway. He’d have to talk to her eventually and apologise, but he was half-hopeful he might at least do it on a full stomach.

  August hastened downstairs to the dining room and found Jamieson laying out the final touches to the breakfast table. Crisp linen was dotted with several plates—too much for him normally, but this morning he felt as though he could eat an entire hog roast to himself.

  “Morning, Jamieson,” August greeted the aged butler and winced at how gritty his voice was.

  “Good morning, sir. You are a little late this morning, but Mrs Cartwright kept the porridge warm for you and sent me up with it as soon as she heard you rise.”

  August swore that woman was half-bat or dog or something. She heard everything.

  “Thank you, Jamieson.” He sat, flicked out the napkin and laid it on his lap before sliding closer. “Could I get some more coffee?”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Jamieson shuffled off at his usual deathly slow pace and August was grateful for his own foresight in sending the butler off now. By the time he had finished the pot of coffee on the table, perhaps the butler would be back in time. He urgently needed something to clear his head.

  Drawing close the bowl of porridge, he sprinkled sugar fro
m the sugar bowl over it and ate several spoonfuls before eyeing the five other empty chairs around the table. He drew in a breath, closed his eyes and tried to savour the quiet.

  Where was Miss Davis? Her image fluttering through his mind broke his solace. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had breakfast without a squalling child in his arms yet he couldn’t enjoy it. Instead of appreciating the peace and quiet, all he could think on was what it would be like to sit opposite Miss Davis and to watch her endless expressions as she spoke on whatever it was young governesses spoke on.

  Oddly he missed the squalling of Elsie too. To not see her chubby arms and the occasional beaming smile first thing left a strange emptiness inside him.

  Snorting at himself and his idiocy, August finished his porridge and piled his plate with kippers, bacon, sausages and mash. He dug into it greedily, breaking briefly to take great gulps of coffee. Gradually the headache eased and he began to feel more like a civilized human being again. He’d never been one for drinking huge amounts and he swore he would never do it again.

  By the time he’d finished his breakfast Jamieson had returned with more coffee. August was just rising from his seat when the butler hobbled in with a fresh pot. August took the pot from him before his shaking hands could drop it and prayed the old man would go and sit down before he fell down. He didn’t think he was the most demanding of masters so he tried to keep Jamieson’s duties light.

  “My thanks, Jamieson.”

  He made a show of pouring a fresh cup and adding some sugar so the old stick didn’t feel useless. August couldn’t help smile at the man who he remembered from his boyhood. Even then he’d seemed old. If only the butler would take the hint and let August set him up in a nice cottage with his own housekeeper. But the old boy insisted that he wanted to continue working. He had spent all his days by an Avery’s side, he said, and he would die by an Avery’s side.

  August tried not to think how soon that could very well be. Mrs Cartwright could hardly be considered the friendliest of people and Tilly was always stoically polite. Jamieson was the only member of his staff to whom he could have a grumble.