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

by Samantha Holt

  Draining the coffee and masking a curse at the burning sensation the coffee created in his mouth, August straightened his waistcoat and patted his jacket pocket. “Goddamn it.”

  Jamieson raised a brow. “Sir, there’s a child and a lady in the house now.”

  August glowered at the butler. Apparently because he had known him since he was a child, that also gave Jamieson free speech. “She’s a governess, not a lady.”

  “She looks like a lady. You really should watch your language, sir.”

  He waved a dismissive hand at the butler. “I shall try.”

  He didn’t mean to be so coarse, but the fellows working on the railway never watched their tongues and it rubbed off on him. Nearly ten years of being around the kind of men who travelled the country following the railway had erased some of the manners learned during his upbringing. However, it was all very well talking like that to oneself but he should watch his tongue around Miss Davis.

  “Where is the lady anyway?”

  “She’s in the drawing room with Elsie. She joined us for breakfast this morning.”

  August nodded and noted the slight rise of the butler’s shoulders. The codger had enjoyed her company it seemed. He fought the urge to press a hand to the man’s shoulder in case he straightened himself so far up that he snapped his back in two and had to spend the rest of his life laid out on a bed.

  “Well, have these things taken down please, Jamieson, and then why do you not polish my boots?”

  There, that would keep him sat down and quiet for a while.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Placing down the coffee cup, August filled his lungs and tried not to recall the scent of violets. What a fool. Frightened of seeing a damned woman.

  With long strides, he left the dining room and pivoted with all the mastery of a soldier. He paused outside the drawing room door and listened. He must have been in quite the fog if he had missed this when he first walked past this morning. The girl was singing.

  Beautifully.

  Her voice was muffled by the door but it was soulful and melodic. Surprisingly low for a woman too but simply divine. He loved music but rarely had time to listen to it. He certainly never went to concerts, but something told him she would fit well with the great singers on stage. A few words reached his ears, and he groaned to himself.

  “Home! Sweet, sweet home!”

  She hadn’t miraculously forgotten his drunken stupor then. Hand to the back of his neck, he rolled his shoulders and pressed open the door. Miss Davis sat on the floor with Elsie, who was sitting opposite her clapping her hands. The child’s clothing looked a little askew and her light hair was mussed.

  Miss Davis looked similar if he was honest. Her curls were pinned up haphazardly and a few spiralled down her neck. Her dark green gown was crumpled and he spotted a little baby spit on her shoulder.

  He could well sympathise. He felt crumpled himself and he had spent most days with baby spit on his shoulder but, still, should he be anxious? After all, she was a woman. She should be better able to manage a baby without appearing as though she had thrown her hair up in a flash and forgotten to use a cloth when she patted the baby’s back.

  August cleared his throat and her head spun in his direction.

  “Oh.”

  She scrabbled to her feet and brushed down her skirts before glancing at Elsie. Her eyes rounded in horror as though she had done something terrible and she bent to grab the child but August put out a hand—not touching her but close enough for her to see it.

  “Leave her there. Time on the floor is good for her. As long as you don’t let her near the fireplace.”

  “I would never let her near the fire!”

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t, but what I mean is near the unlit fire. She likes to steal the coals and stick them in her mouth.”

  August recalled the moment he had discovered that when he had taken his gaze off her for all of one minute only to turn and find her mouth and face black like a chimney sweep, and her pristine white gown covered in smears of coal dust. He hadn’t learned either. It had happened several times before he had figured out he needed to keep a close eye on her even when around the fire.

  “You could get a fireguard, sir. Some go all the way around.”

  He narrowed his eyes, trying not to take insult at the woman’s words. He was hoping not to have to change everything about his home for the baby. She would grow out of it before long surely?

  “I have one. It just hasn’t been brought out because the weather isn’t cold enough for a lit fire yet.” Hands clasped behind his back, he cleared his throat again. “How are things... erm, how are you settling in?”

  “Very well, sir.” Miss Davis cast her gaze down, fanning her lashes against her cheek. They were the same chocolaty colour as her hair and infinitely tempting as they dashed across her dark complexion.

  He tightened the clasp of one hand on the other behind his back. “Good. Mrs Cartwright has shown you around and made sure you have access to everything you need?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Guilt jabbed him at having dragged this poor woman into a job and leaving her on her own to find her feet but then was he not paying her a generous amount?

  However something about Ivy Davis urged him to wrap his arms around her and shield her from the world. He wasn’t sure she’d appreciate it. The few conversations they’d had, she appeared to have a sort of self-assurance one didn’t see in many young women. She did not preen or seem overly concerned with garnering his good opinion, in spite of him being her employer.

  “I, uh, must apologise for last night. You understand that will not be a regular occurrence?”

  “Oh, of course, sir. I was sure you hardly knew what you were doing. I hope you will forgive my impertinence of being in your bedroom.” A blush rose in her cheeks. “I did not see much, I promise. I just wanted to ensure you were safely to bed.”

  August found himself nearly choking on a breath. “See much?”

  Her lush mouth dropped open. “You... you were undressing. I... oh dear. You were very drunk, sir. I don’t think you realised who I was. I’m sure you wouldn’t have tried to... well... Oh dear.” She pressed her lips together as if to stop the spilling of all these words.

  “Tried to what, Miss Davis?” He perfected his most commanding glare. What the devil had he done last night?

  That elegant throat worked. “Well, you had a cut, sir. On your hand.” She pointed as though he’d forgotten where his hands were.

  He drew one out from behind his back and inspected it. “Yes, I remember breaking the vase.”

  “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t hurt yourself too badly and you appeared to have fallen asleep so I sat on the bed to inspect it but then you... oh, sir...” She put a hand to her mouth and the colour that darkened her cheeks appeared to spread all over her face.

  What the bloody hell had he done? And did she really have to speak that way? Oh, sir. Did she have any idea how she sounded? Like a lover in the throes of passion, her breathy response summoned up flashes of images he had no desire to imagine. It had been too long. Since work had become so busy, he hadn’t been with a woman. How long ago was that? Eight months? A year? No, longer.

  Inwardly, he groaned. No bloody wonder he was having inappropriate thoughts. Why, it was almost excusable that he was wondering what her chocolate hair would look like when pulled it out from those chaotic curls and around her bare shoulders. Over a year was far too long for a man.

  No, it wasn’t excusable. She shifted as though she might be stepping from foot to foot under those voluminous skirts.

  “What did I do, Miss Davis?” he asked tightly.

  “It wasn’t much, sir. Just you... you nuzzled me a little.”

  “Nuzzled?”

  “Around here...” She fluttered hands up and down her person but he had a fine idea of where she meant. “It was harmless. You didn’t know who I was. I should not have gone in your room.”

&nbs
p; Bugger it. He’d been nuzzling her breasts. That was why he recalled the scent of her and the feel of warm flesh against cotton. What was wrong with him? And here she was blaming herself?

  “You did absolutely nothing wrong, Miss Davis, please let me assure you of that. And let me assure you of this too—I will never allow it to happen again.”

  August kept his back straight and attempted a stern expression—an attempt to look respectful and hopefully trustworthy. He certainly did not nuzzle unwilling women and certainly not someone he employed—someone in a vulnerable position.

  If he was a better man, he’d release her from her role and send her away with a year’s pay. But he wasn’t. He needed her. Without her, he’d have to search for a new nursemaid. Governesses were easy enough to come by, nursemaids not so much. And few other governesses would be willing to take on such a young charge. He simply couldn’t afford to be away from the tunnel site much longer.

  Miss Davis opened her mouth to say something then clamped it shut.

  “I will not touch you again, Miss Davis, I swear it.”

  She nodded slowly. He wasn’t entirely sure she believed him.

  “I swear it,” he said firmly.

  “Of course, sir.”

  Blast, that breathy quality was back in her voice. And now he would be recalling not only the way she spoke but her singing voice too. It would be hard enough catching up on work with a head thick from alcohol, but now he had to live with the shame of being an utter cad and suffer her voice ringing around his head all day.

  “What are your plans for the day?”

  “I-I’m not sure. I thought I might take Elsie out for a walk.”

  “A fine idea. The pram is in the old outhouse.”

  Miss Davis tucked her bottom lip under her teeth. Further unwelcome sensation rolled through him and he forced his gaze to the top of her head, eyeing one of those unruly curls. “I shall be in my study for most of the day. Should you need anything, please ask Mrs Cartwright. She knows Elsie’s routine well.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He eyed her for far too long before dipping his head and swivelling on a heel. August paused when she called his name.

  “Yes, Miss Davis?”

  “Do you... do you work from home every day?”

  “No. I am on site much of the time.”

  “Oh, I see.” A smile broke her face. It spoke of relief.

  She was relieved he wouldn’t be around. Dash it all, he really had scared the woman. But did it matter what she thought of him? Yes, he didn’t want her fearful of him, but she could do much worse than have him for an employer. There were many men who would see her as a fine opportunity for an affair. They would not hesitate to try to bed the exotic Ivy Davis.

  Before he could ponder if any man had tried or even succeeded, he offered her a curt nod.

  “Have a good day, Miss Davis.”

  “And you, Mr Avery,” she said to his back as he strode out.

  Drawing the door shut, he tugged at his necktie and willed the heat inside him to disperse. Having Miss Davis in his house was meant to save his sanity and allow him to concentrate on his work, but he wasn’t at all sure she would help rather than hinder.

  The governess was far too distracting.

  Chapter Five

  Ivy had never been very good at driving carriages. Apparently her lack of skill crossed over the pushing prams too. She cursed quietly to herself while she attempted to manoeuvre the pram over the rise of the pavement. Elsie smiled at her and stuffed a fist in her mouth, apparently unaware of Ivy’s ineptness.

  Ivy was just grateful the infant decided to be quiet. Who knew a baby could be so demanding? Between feeding, removing soiled nappies and trying to stop her from crying, the morning had flown by. She suppressed a yawn. How much longer could she do this? It was simply exhausting.

  It was only until she found a singing job, she reminded herself. Unfortunately Manchester wasn’t the best place to make ones way as a singer. London was where she wished to be but Ivy had followed news of auditions up here and become well... stuck. Her lack of funds meant she was trapped here for the time being.

  Of course not being able to perform didn’t help. She pushed the pram past the rows of identical houses, dipping her head in acknowledgement of the few men who touched their hats in greeting. It was those auditions though, surely? She had confidence in her voice, confidence in being a performer yet as soon as she had stepped on the stage her voice had vanished.

  As had her dreams. All those years of believing she had been blessed with a fine voice for a reason. It didn’t matter she was not overly intelligent or blonde and beautiful. She had a beautiful voice. Her looks would make her stand out and would look wonderful on stage. But now she was a governess, stuck in a house with a dour master, doing a job she was not entirely sure she was up to.

  Elsie squeaked a protest as Ivy pushed her around the corner towards the market. The red and cream tops of the stalls billowed lightly in the breeze. The mid-week market was not as busy as the Saturday one and, for that, she was grateful.

  Directing the pram through the crowds was not a pleasant experience and she ran over a few toes as it was. Some politely ignored the solid wheel crushing their toes while many grunted or declared their annoyance at her. If it wasn’t for her sun-kissed colouring, she would look like a beetroot, she was sure.

  Triumph burst through her when she spied the newspaper boy. She had just enough to pay the one penny for the paper now she had a roof over her head. Regardless of how she felt about her master, at least she had a fine room to sleep in and food in her belly. The boy handed her a copy of the Manchester Guardian and she drew a coin out from the purse slung around her wrist.

  “Let’s find somewhere to sit, shall we?” she said to the baby who sucked on a fist.

  The day was dry and not overly warm, and the thought of returning to the house sent a curl of dread through her. Embarrassment still heated her cheeks at the memories of that morning’s exchange. Mr Avery had been full of sharp apologies.

  Honestly, Ivy would have rather he had not said a thing. She didn’t feel at all concerned he might do something untoward. The man walked as though he had a rod holding up his back and his expression remained just as rigid. She didn’t doubt he never usually indulged heavily.

  Astonishing to think such an uptight man was built like he was, however. Perhaps those muscles were responsible for his rigid posture. How did a wealthy whatever-he- was have such a body? She’d been around men enough to know that few were built like that—not that she had ever seen them unclothed—but their portly bellies were far removed from the firm lines of Mr Avery’s rippled stomach.

  Ivy spotted a bench at the edge of the park and swiftly crossed the road, scowling at a carriage that was most certainly being driven recklessly. Several bicyclists and those taking an afternoon stroll followed the paths through the park. Oak trees cast shade across the lawns. Flowers were sprouting—yellow splashes of colour against the green backdrops. Ivy allowed herself a smile. There were no parks like this in Northside.

  Wheeling the pram towards the bench, Ivy sat and tucked Elsie’s blanket around her. This wasn’t too bad. Elsie seemed quite content and the day was beautiful. The scent of grass and the elegant people strolling around reminded her of home. Wyndcombe had been much like this area of Manchester. There had been no slums or overpopulated areas in her hometown.

  A sharp stab of sorrow pierced her as she unfolded the paper. It had been over a year since she had been home. Did her parents think her dead?

  Perhaps. But if she returned, what would await her? An arranged marriage? A life hidden away because of the shame of having run away to London? She doubted she would be welcome in the small town of Wyndcombe anymore. The shame she would bring to her family would be great indeed. It didn’t matter she had done little with her time except search for a singing role. Even attempting to be on stage brought shame enough. In her mother and father’s eyes, she was
no better than a whore.

  She sighed. Being unable to perform hindered her ambitions unfortunately.

  Ivy flicked open the paper and searched for the advertisements page. It was simply those roles. They weren’t right for her, that was all. She just needed to find the right place to perform and she would have no problems. Then someone would spot her and she would become the toast of London. All talk of her being a whore would end and she could travel and perform in great concert halls.

  “It will just take time,” she said to Elsie. The child offered her a soggy fist and Ivy grinned. “Thank you, but I am quite full. You go ahead though.”

  As though acknowledging Ivy’s permission, the infant stuffed her hand back in her mouth. Was that usual? Did children really enjoy sucking on their limbs quite so much?

  She shrugged and turned her attention back to the paper. She skimmed the stories—something to do with the empire in India. Tiresome. Talk of new factory laws and the annoyance of the masters. Ivy huffed. Well, of course they were annoyed. They wouldn’t be able to work their employees to the bone. She might be from a more privileged background but her time in London and Manchester had certainly opened her eyes to the deprivations. She flicked again. An outbreak of cholera. A shudder wracked her.

  She paused when a name flashed up at her under the next story. Avery. She narrowed her gaze and focused on the photo. Her mouth dropped open. August Avery. Of course. She should have realised. He was slowly becoming a renowned railway engineer. There was even talk of him being smarter and more efficient than Stephenson. His name was fast becoming better known than Brunel’s.

  Oh dear. She was working for quite the powerful man and she hadn’t even realised. The article spoke of his latest project, a tunnel not far from Manchester. It was one even the newspapers thought could not be done. The project was too ambitious apparently. Ivy wasn’t sure why but she imagined digging a hole in a great hill was no easy feat.

  Elsie drew her attention away from the paper with a flail of arms and a look of annoyance. Dread made her stomach sink. She might have only spent two days in Elsie’s company but that red-faced look of frustration was becoming familiar. The child was hungry.