by Farr, Diane
She should have known she couldn’t slip that sigh past him. He quirked a brow and fixed her, again, with that keen and penetrating gaze. “Are you content with your lot, Miss Whittaker?”
She shrugged and looked away. “I lack for nothing,” she said evasively.
“That’s not the same thing,” he said quietly.
Natalie looked down at her hands, clasped lightly in her lap. It was difficult to speak past the sudden constriction in her throat. “Whether I am content or not is entirely beside the point,” she said. Her voice sounded strained, but composed. “Most people—certainly most women—have little choice in such matters. We must bloom where we are planted.”
She felt, rather than saw, his body lean forward beside her. His deep voice rumbled again, softly and much nearer to her. “Miss Whittaker, you do have a choice. I just offered you one.”
Her eyes flew to his, startled. His face was nearer than she had guessed; disturbingly near. His eyes were very blue indeed, she thought, distracted. She could smell the sandalwood scent of his shaving soap. It drove whatever she had been about to say directly out of her brain. For some reason, her toes were curling. Gracious.
He didn’t appear to guess the direction of her thoughts. Amusement lifted the corners of his mouth. “All I need do, it seems to me, is ensure that my offer is better than the life you currently lead. You have just given me hope that my task is not impossible.”
“H-have I?”
He rubbed his chin and squinted at her, in the manner of a man sizing up a horse. “Let me see. What is the source of your discontent? I don’t pretend to share your powers of intuition, but I wonder if I can deduce something about you from the information you have given me.”
She tensed. This was a dangerous game. “Don’t be absurd.”
He leaned back in his chair, stretching out his long legs and crossing them lazily at the ankle. “No, no, it shouldn’t be that difficult. Hmm. Two brothers, close in age to yourself. I have it! You fill the role of an unpaid housekeeper. Your brothers work you to death and take you for granted.”
Natalie bit back a laugh. “Wrong.” Thank goodness. “The elder of the two doesn’t even live at home. He acts as secretary to the Earl of Stokesdown, so we seldom see him these days.”
The gentleman looked impressed. “Stokesdown! He’s a man of influence.”
“Yes. We’re very proud of Derek.”
His eyes narrowed in thought once more. “Elder brother employed in a nobleman’s household. Your father is still living, then. You didn’t mention him.”
“No.” She hesitated. It went against the grain with her, to divulge the details of her family’s peculiar situation. On the other hand, it wouldn’t do to let him assume that her family had no property. He might think that she was, after all, a suitable candidate for a governess post.
“If you must know,” she said stiffly, “Derek accepted a position with Lord Stokesdown because my father’s estate passed to my youngest brother.”
His brows flew up in an expression of surprise—and sympathy, she thought. “What a pity. Your father and Derek had a falling-out, I suppose, and the estate was not entailed.”
“Wrong again,” said Natalie, trying not to laugh. The game was rather fun after all. “The estate was entailed. But the eldest son did not inherit.”
She watched him, mischief bubbling in her as she waited to see what he would make of that. But then she saw the doubt in his eyes. He had thought of a reason why the first-born might not inherit. Oh, dear—she couldn’t let him think what he was thinking. She blushed, holding up a warning finger. “If you are thinking that there was something untoward about Derek’s birth, you are wrong yet again. So pray do not think it.”
He looked at her very hard. “Miss Whittaker, I think you are making a May game of me.”
“Still wrong! Astounding.” She shook her head with mock severity. “Really, sir, I think you had better give over. You’ve taken shot after shot, and you’ve missed every time.”
He threw up his hands in a gesture of defeat. “Very well. I give up. Now explain to me how an entailed estate could bypass the eldest son.”
Her eyes twinkled. “It could, and did, because my great-grandfather had an amazing ability to hold a grudge—and eccentric ideas about how to exact revenge. He was the youngest son of a prominent family, and he loathed his eldest brother. Alas, the hateful eldest brother, in the way of great families, inherited everything, and Great-grandfather, as a younger son, was given nothing. So he went to India, made a fortune of his own, came home, purchased Crosby Hall, and set up a most peculiar entail. Crosby Hall always passes to the youngest legitimate son.”
“Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing,” he exclaimed. “It hardly sounds legal. In medieval times, I daresay the oldest brother would eliminate his brothers one by one as they arrived.”
“Yes, but Great-grandfather set up the entail during the Age of Enlightenment,” said Natalie demurely. “So far, no male infants have met a mysterious end.”
“You astonish me.” He scratched his chin in bafflement. “So your unfortunate brother Derek must make his own way in the world.”
“Yes. Having missed his chance to smother Hector in the cradle.”
“I daresay he was a little young, at the time, to think of it. Did he not have an embittered uncle who might have assisted him in the endeavor?”
She choked. “No, alas. My father was the only son of his parents, so there was no help to be found in that quarter.”
“And I suppose your mother could hardly be expected to act on Derek’s behalf, under the circumstances.”
Her smile faded. “No, but not for the reason you suppose,” said Natalie softly. “My mother did not live to see her boy Derek displaced.”
He looked chagrined. “I am sorry,” he said gently. “I should not joke about such things. I didn’t know you had lost your mother.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment. “Never mind. And you are right, of course. We should not joke about murdering Hector.” Her mouth twitched mischievously. “Although I will admit that this is not the first time I have done so. Sometimes one simply must laugh. It seems to me that the more dire your circumstances, or the more wretched you are, the more you need it. Derek and I ...” She halted in mid-sentence, vexed with herself. She had no business talking so freely to a man she had just met.
While she cast about for a new train of thought, he studied her again, compassion in his face. “I’ve done a poor job of unraveling your mysteries thus far, Miss Whittaker, but I feel disposed to take another stab at it,” he said softly. His deep voice rumbled in his chest. “I have now deduced that you live at home with your younger brother. Your half-brother. And I would bet that he has a wife, or a mother, or both.”
“Both,” she agreed reluctantly. Having told him so promptly when he was wrong, it was only fair to let him know when he was right.
“And I think you are fonder of your brother Derek than you are of—what was the name? Hector.”
“Right again,” she acknowledged, even more reluctantly. “Much fonder.”
“Aha.” He rubbed his hands together. “I think I have the picture now. Parents gone. Favorite brother away from home. Stepmother, stepbrother and stepsister-in-law very much alive and probably underfoot.”
She felt her cheeks burning and sat very straight in her chair. “My dear sir, I am not Cinderella.”
“No, but Derek’s departure from the family scene has isolated you. Circumstance has taken from you your closest ally, perhaps your only ally. I imagine you now live in a tense and hostile household, filled with people who ...” He stopped and thought for a moment. “Resent you, perhaps? Yes, I think a young woman of intelligence, a woman with such quick and decided opinions, would encounter resentment from her stepmother or her sister-in-law—or both. Do they belittle you, I wonder? Do they quarrel with you outright, shout you down, and remind you that you are not the lady of the house? Or are they,
perhaps, more subtle than that? I have known women who were highly skilled at making others miserable while appearing, outwardly, mild and sweet. Tell me, Miss Whittaker. Are your in-laws shrewish or simply mean?”
Natalie pressed her palms against her cheeks to cool her face. “Neither,” she said unsteadily. “I have no complaints. I want for nothing. I am a very fortunate woman.”
He straightened in his chair, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I am not persuaded,” he said softly. “Try again.”
She dropped her hands and looked away, willing her voice to not shake. “Nonsense. I’ve nothing to prove. You may believe me or not, as you choose.”
He snapped his fingers; another idea had occurred to him. “A fortunate woman who wants for nothing! Now I have it. You live on the largesse of others. This would be an idyllic life for some, but not for you. You are forced to hang on young Hector’s sleeve, the brother of whom you are less fond—and you dislike it. You are strong and capable and intelligent and active. You pride yourself on accomplishments and hate being idle. Ergo, you are unhappy in your current situation. Your life lacks meaning. You feel useless.”
He had hit so near the mark, she did not dare to reply. All she could do was lift her chin and stare straight ahead, stubbornly refusing to meet his eyes.
“My dear Miss Whittaker.” His voice was deep and rough. “I am offering you a supremely useful life. And independence, which I think you will prize nearly as much.”
Independence. Heavens! He was right. Independence. What a lovely word.
For a moment she imagined herself free of Hector and Mabel, earning a living on her own merits, her days filled with things to do and problems to solve. A reason to get out of bed every morning. A chance to see some part of Britain other than the parish she had lived in all her life.
She knew it was ridiculous to picture it that way—a governess’s life was notoriously hard. But a tiny voice whispered to her that she, unlike the majority of governesses, would love it. Perhaps the women who hated that life had bad employers. Bad employers and nowhere else to go. Perhaps they weren’t cut out for teaching, or disliked their charges. Too many women became governesses out of necessity rather than choice. There were so few respectable options for a woman who did not marry ... but Natalie had options. She could choose to be a governess on a whim, if she liked. Why not? If she found that it wasn’t to her taste after all, she had somewhere else to go. She could always come back to Crosby Hall. And perhaps Hector and Mabel would respect her more. Perhaps they would learn to value her during her absence. Stranger things had happened.
Oh, but this was fantasy! She couldn’t accept a governess position on a lark. She had no experience. She had no references. She wouldn’t know where to begin. Besides, she didn’t even know this man—or the child, for that matter. And what she had seen of them was hardly reassuring. The little girl was obviously eccentric, and the father might be dangerously unbalanced. What sort of man offered to hand his child into the keeping of a chance-met stranger? No. She had to decline.
She turned to tell him so ... but when her eyes met his the words died on her lips, unspoken. There was stark need in his eyes. She saw a proud man, a man accustomed to command, humbling himself for the sake of a beloved daughter. She saw pain there, a torment deeper than anything she had experienced. There were depths to this man, facets she had not yet glimpsed but sensed nevertheless—a complexity of raw emotions held on a tight leash. She saw darkness and trouble and grief, and her heart went out to him.
He seemed to sense her compassion. All he said was, “Please.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. “Please help me.”
Oh, dear. His words hit her where she was weakest. He needed her. How could she refuse?
She couldn’t think straight when she looked at him. She tore her eyes away, but they fell on Sarah, still playing quietly in the corner of the room. Poor Sarah. Even in play, her pinched little face was too pale, her eyes too large. Natalie remembered the sadness and fear she had seen flashes of. Surely Sarah displayed the confusion of a child who had faced grief and loss while still too young to understand it. She may have been punished, too, for reasons she did not understand or infractions she could not help. Could Natalie wash her hands of Sarah—leave her to the harsh rule of Mrs. Thorpe?
Natalie closed her eyes in anguish. “What should I do?” she murmured to herself. “I can’t agree to this. I can’t possibly.”
“Yes, you can.”
She opened her eyes and threw the man a look of exasperation. “I’ve never done such a thing before. I’m not an impulsive person.”
His smile was disarming. “I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t like to lose you to the next needy family you encounter.”
“I have no references,” she warned him.
“No? Ah, well. You have an honest face.”
She choked. “I’m not even particularly well-educated. If you advertised, you might find someone who had attended one of the best schools. Or someone who had had a top-flight governess of her own.”
“Such women rarely answer advertisements. They are generally too busy dining with earls and dancing at Almack’s.”
She bit her lip, then went gamely on. “If you treat me shabbily or make me unhappy in any way, I shall not hesitate to give my notice.”
“Then I must try very hard to treat you well.”
She threw up her hands in despair. “Is there nothing I can say to make you see reason?”
He pretended to think for a moment, then shook his head with the appearance of regret. “I’m afraid not.” His smile slipped out again. “Come, Miss Whittaker. Give me your hand on the bargain and we’ll work out the details later.”
He stretched out his hand to her. It was a large hand, well-kept. It looked strong and warm and confident. He had the long, lean fingers of a pianist. Or a strangler, she told herself sternly, trying desperately to remind herself how crazy this was. But it was no use. Her own hand, seeming to move of its own volition, reached out. As if in a trance, she placed her hand in his. Those long, strong fingers of his closed around it. For a moment she stared bemusedly at the sight of her hand in his, then lifted her eyes to his face.
A frisson of feeling shot through her—surprise and warmth and something half-remembered, like a dream she had just woken from. The French had a name for it: déjà vu.
She should be frightened. Why wasn’t she frightened? It felt right, being with him. It felt like ... coming home.
A slow smile crept across her features. “When I was a little girl,” she murmured, “my grandmother used to tell me that the stars control our destiny.”
An answering smile softened his features. “It’s a pretty thought.”
“She said they dance in the heavens, charting the course of our lives here on earth. I always thought it was a fairy story ... but now I wonder.”
He smiled outright. “Did the stars bring you to me, Miss Whittaker?”
She tilted her chin saucily. “I rather thought it was the other way round. They brought you to me. After all, I’ve been here all my life.” Waiting.
“You may be right.” He seemed to realize, then, that he was still holding her hand. He dropped it hastily and bowed from his chair, appearing disconcerted. “Excuse me for a moment. I must let Mrs. Thorpe know that her services are no longer needed.”
She watched him depart, her thoughts in a whirl. What a strange encounter. She was glad, now, that she had not told him the rest of the story. Grandmama had told her that the stars, as they dance, pull on the heartstrings of mortals below. And that sometimes, when the celestial music swells, you can feel the tug of the dancing stars.
Natalie felt the tug.
She looked across the room at Sarah. Sarah had watched her papa leave the room and was now looking gravely toward Natalie, a question in her face.
She walked over to Sarah and knelt beside her. “Sarah dear,” she said gently. “Would you like it if I came to live with you for a while? If I
were to teach you, instead of Mrs. Thorpe?”
Sarah’s face lit with a joy that was almost blinding. She scrambled into Natalie’s lap and buried her face in Natalie’s shoulder, as if afraid to show her face. As if someone might steal the happiness from her if they saw it written on her features. “Yes, please,” she whispered into Natalie’s shoulder. “I would like it very much.”
Natalie closed her arms around the tense and quivering child and surrendered to the stars. Let them lead. She would follow the dance as best she could, learning the steps as she went. The adventure would be well worth it.
Chapter 4
First came the sound of a sharp female voice, ranting in some distant room at an increasingly elevated pitch. One sentence floated down to the coffee room, crisp and clear: “Frankly, my lord, I’ll be happy if I never see you or that wretched child again!”
My lord. Good heavens. Natalie, startled, suddenly realized she did not know her new employer’s name. Somehow, incredibly, it had never come up.
She was distracted from these thoughts by the sound of a slammed door, followed by footsteps overhead. The footsteps had the brisk and noisy ring of well-shod feet carrying a furious human being, and they were interspersed with the unmistakable sound of drawers being opened and shut with unusual force. Bang, bang, bang. Rasp-thump. Rasp-slam. Bang, bang, bang. Mrs. Thorpe had obviously been sacked, and was packing her bags in a flurry of outrage.
Natalie felt oddly guilty. Sarah, however, did not seem to attach any importance to the storm raging upstairs. Even when the angry feet pounded down the wooden stairs perilously close to the coffee room—evidently on their way out the front door—Sarah paid no attention. She sat happily beside Natalie on the floor, prattling away and showing Natalie her toys.
“Mrs. Mumbles” turned out to be a porcelain-headed doll with a human hair wig, dressed in a lavishly detailed court gown. She must have cost a pretty penny when new, but she no longer looked her best. The golden hair had been diligently brushed and combed by Sarah’s busy hands until there was little left of it, the court dress was looking much the worse for wear, and almost all the paint had been scrubbed from her china features.