by Shana Galen
“He touched you?” Julien asked. “Voluntarily?”
Wordswordswordswords.
Some he knew, some he did not. Armand knew they were discussing him again. He hated this, hated they were doing it in front of her. He considered marching out of the room indignantly, but that would mean leaving Miss Bennett. He wanted to hear her voice again, see if her cheeks turned any darker. He could not seem to look away from her.
“Yes, he…” She looked at Sarah. “When you entered, he had pulled me close. I think to press his cheek to mine.”
Sarah shook her head. “He wanted to touch you?”
“I think so.” She looked down, obviously uncomfortable. Armand again felt the urge to go to her, this time to protect her.
But Julien and Sarah were staring at him now. Damn it. Obviously he had been right about breaking The Rules. This was the look they often had on their faces when he broke a Rule.
“I’ll take him downstairs,” Julien said and gestured. “Armand, let’s go.”
Armand fisted his hands. He would go when he wanted, if he wanted. He did not take orders. A gasp sounded across the room. “That man is Armand?” he heard her ask, but this time her voice was neither light nor high. It was heavy and disbelieving.
“Yes,” Sarah answered. “If you’ll just give me a moment, I’ll explain everything.”
But Armand did not wait to hear anything further, little as he understood it all. He understood that tone in her voice, and it made him remember who he was. What he was in their eyes—disgusting, revolting, monster.
Giving his brother a shove as he passed him, Armand strode out of the drawing room.
Four
“I can explain,” the duchesse said, holding up a hand. “There’s no need to be afraid.”
Felicity stared past her, at the drawing-room door where that man had just exited. That man was Armand? That man was her charge? She had imagined a little boy, sweet and shy—not a full-grown man with chestnut hair and cobalt eyes. Not a man who was taller than she, stronger than she, and—dare she think it?—a man who made her heart race.
With a curse, the duc strode after his brother. Felicity glanced at the duchesse. “I wasn’t afraid.” Oh, no, far from it. Though perhaps it would have been better had she been afraid.
The duchesse blinked. “Weren’t you?”
“I own that I was startled at first, but I could see he meant me no harm. He was simply…” She gestured, finding it difficult to put the emotions she had seen on his face into words. “He was moved by the music. Enraptured by it.”
The duchesse nodded absently. “Music. Yes. I don’t know why we didn’t think of it before.” She tapped a finger to her chin and then gave Felicity an assessing look. “And you can play the pianoforte?”
“Yes. I apologize for not asking first. I saw it and was tempted. It’s been so long since I was able to play.”
“That’s quite all right and, now that we’ve seen Armand’s reaction, a talent in your favor. I don’t suppose you would still be interested in the position?”
Felicity blanched. “Your Grace, I had assumed you were looking for a governess. That—man—is far from need of a governess.”
The duchesse sighed. “But he does need a tutor. Please, won’t you sit down and finish your tea?” The duchesse gestured to the sofa Felicity had occupied before, and then, without waiting for Felicity to agree, resumed her seat on the chair.
Felicity had little choice but to comply with the duchesse’s suggestion. One did not refuse a duchesse her request even if one did not care overmuch for titles and peerages. She had only to glance about her at the opulent room or the view from the windows overlooking Berkeley Square to know that title or not, this family was wealthy and powerful—and not to be ignored.
Felicity peeked out those large windows at the peaceful view of the square as she crossed to the sofa. She sat and straightened her skirts. But she did not lift the tea cup or take another bite of the cake, though her throat was parched and her stomach protested. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than time to think about this governess position that was not a governess position, about this man who was not at all the boy she had envisioned.
Felicity bit her lip. She rather thought she wanted more time to think about the man than the position.
“I was hoping to tell you about Armand before you met him,” the duchesse said, lifting her tea cup and sipping delicately. “He’s my husband’s brother. Until they were recently reunited, they had not seen each other for twelve years. They were separated during the revolution in France. Their family château was attacked, but the boys were able to escape. My husband and his mother, the dowager duchesse de Valère, who also lives here, escaped together. Neither brother had any idea if the other lived. In fact, there was a third brother, Armand’s twin, and we still don’t know whether or not he survived the attack. Unfortunately, the boys’ father, the duc de Valère, was guillotined in Paris shortly after the attack, so we know his fate.”
Despite her own desire to escape, Felicity could not help but find herself drawn in by the story. An attack on the family home. Brothers separated as children and reunited as adults. Their poor mother. “It’s fortunate the two brothers were reunited.”
“It is, but the circumstances are quite tragic. My husband found Armand—I suppose I should refer to him as the comte de Valère—rotting in a cell in Paris only a few months ago. He had been left there, forgotten for… well, I don’t know how long. Possibly twelve years. You see, when we rescued the comte, he was unable to speak.”
“But he can make sounds. He’s not a mute.” Felicity finally relented and lifted her cup. It seemed as though hours had passed since the tea had been poured, but it was still warm.
“No. He is capable of speech. My husband assures me before the attack, the comte spoke and read several languages, including French and English. But we have not heard him speak since he was rescued. I think that, when he chooses, he can understand our conversations. And I think he can speak, but for some reason he does not want to. We need a tutor to gently coax language out of him again.”
Slowly, carefully, Felicity set her tea cup on the saucer. “Coax language out of him?”
“That’s not all,” the duchesse said hurriedly. “He needs lessons in manners and social etiquette, as well. Your aunt said that in Hampshire you oversaw something of a finishing school for the girls. We hoped the skills you taught there might also be useful for Armand—the comte. As you saw, he has forgotten many of the social graces.”
Felicity swallowed, feeling as though the beautiful drawing room was closing in on her. This was no little boy. This was a man. How could she coax a full-grown man to speak if he did not want to? And how could she teach him social graces? It was true she had tutored some of the village girls in etiquette, but to say that she ran a finishing school was nothing more than extreme exaggeration. God bless her aunt. She had obviously wanted to help her niece, but now Felicity would have to reveal the truth. “Actually,” she began. “I wouldn’t call it a finishing school.”
“Well, that was a disaster,” the duc said as he strode through the doors. The duchesse turned to look at him, leaving Felicity in midsentence. “I can’t imagine what got into him. I—” His eyes met Felicity’s. “Oh, you’re still here.”
She smiled wanly, watching as he turned to his wife for explanation. Not surprisingly, the duc looked a good deal like his brother. Both had dark hair and blue eyes. Both were tall and long-legged, but the duc was trimmer, more refined. He wore a tailcoat, a cravat and… shoes. The comte, despite his years in prison—or perhaps because of them—was larger and more imposing. And his eyes—those passionate, wild eyes—were darker blue, cobalt in color and filled with mysteries. Unlike the duc’s carefully styled hair, the comte’s was long and unruly. She wondered if he had cut it since escaping prison.
“O
f course she’s still here,” the duchesse said, rising. She went to him and linked her arm with his. “I’ve hired her to tutor Armand.”
“What?” The duc looked from his wife to Felicity and back again. “Do you really think that’s wise?”
The duchesse turned to him, and for a moment Felicity thought they had forgotten she was present. “Julien, we have been working with Armand for months. We have tried everything, and nothing gets through to him. Nothing. But this young lady appears, and within moments of her playing the pianoforte, Armand reacts. She did more in the space of ten minutes than we have in hundreds of hours.”
“Then we’ll bring someone in to play for him. Hell, I’ll get him a whole string quartet if that will help.”
The duchesse lowered her voice. “We have someone to play for him. Miss Bennett is obviously an accomplished musician and a tutor. She’s precisely what we’ve been looking for.”
Now the duc looked past his wife to study Felicity again. She smiled tightly, feeling now might be the time to mention that she was not as accomplished as they might think. “Actually,” she began again.
“I don’t like it,” the duc said, looking at his wife again. Apparently, they had forgotten she was there. “I don’t trust Armand with her. I don’t think it’s safe.”
“Very well, then we shall have a chaperone with them at all times. I can sit with them or your mother or one of the servants. But I have to tell you truthfully, Julien, I’m not concerned. I have been alone with Armand dozens of times, and he has never behaved inappropriately. None of the servants has ever complained of inappropriate behavior.”
“And yet today you walked in here, and he had Miss Bennett in his arms.”
Felicity felt her cheeks heat again. She could not deny the truth of the duc’s statements. The comte’s behavior toward her was far from appropriate.
The duchesse waved a hand. “He was overcome by the music he heard. Perhaps he was surprised by the sight of a pretty girl. I don’t know, but what I do know is Armand was touching her voluntarily. It may not be appropriate, but it is progress.”
“Progress toward what?” the duc asked darkly.
“Recovery. And don’t crease your brow like that.” She touched the line between his brows lightly. “Miss Bennett will be perfectly safe. As I said, we’ll have a chaperone with them at all times.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, Miss Bennett does. You’re not afraid, are you, Miss Bennett?” The duchesse turned to her, and Felicity could see she was waiting for her to repeat her earlier declaration. It would be easy enough to repeat. She was not afraid of the comte. She supposed she should have been, but she had seen in his eyes he meant her no harm. She had been unnerved by him, made breathless by him, but she had not been frightened.
She opened her mouth to say as much, but then realized that if she confirmed the duchesse’s statement, she would be doing nothing less than accepting employment as the comte’s tutor. While she might not be afraid of the man, she could not imagine spending hours in his presence, coaxing him to speak. She had no idea how to even begin a lesson like that!
No, she should tell the duchesse she was afraid, or she could not accept employment. And then—
Felicity paused.
Precisely. And then—what?
Where would she go? What would she do? Marry Charles? Oh, she would rather try to teach the occupants of Bedlam than marry Charles St. John. And the only way to be rid of him was money. This position—strange as it might be—would provide her that.
Felicity glanced at the duc and duchesse again. The position might not be what she had anticipated, but her father had often said God made a way. Perhaps this was His way. And what other employment could she find on short notice? Charles wanted money before the end of the year, only two short months.
But could she really help the comte? How did one teach a man who had been imprisoned for twelve years to speak again, to live again? What did social graces mean to a man who had endured all of that?
“It’s all right, Miss Bennett,” the duc said, breaking her long silence. “You’re under no obligation to accept a position. We’ll pay for your return passage—”
“I want to stay,” Felicity said quickly, feeling as though she had no other choice. She needed this position.
“Oh, wonderful!” the duchesse exclaimed, clasping her hands together.
“Are you certain?” the duc asked, looking dubious.
“Perfectly,” Felicity answered with a brisk nod. Mentally, she wished she would stop sounding so confident. She was terrified she was going to be a complete failure. But she had to try. She had to succeed.
“Very good, then,” the duchesse said. “Do you think you can begin tomorrow?”
“Absolutely. Right after breakfast.” Her heart pounded a little faster at the prospect of seeing the wild, handsome comte again, but she tried to tamp down her excitement. She was here in a professional capacity. There was no room for schoolgirl crushes. She was the schoolteacher this time.
Or at least until the Valères realized how inadequate she was for the position.
***
Several hours later, Felicity sat at a small dressing table in her room and gazed at her reflection in the looking glass. Her heart was pounding with nervousness. The duchesse and her housekeeper had showed her the house and grounds and then escorted her to this room. Felicity expected to be led to a small cupboard suitable for a servant, but this room was of a decent size and amply furnished.
It had a small bed with a brass head- and footboard, a clothes press, and this pretty dressing table. The wood was light brown and gold in color and complemented the walls, which were papered in a simple yellow design. The curtains on the windows were white with yellow stripes, and the coverlet was white satin. With a cheery fire in the fireplace and a vase full of daisies—where had those come from?—on the bedside table, the room was comfortable and warm. It was probably the nicest room Felicity had ever occupied and certainly the cheeriest. She rose, went to the window and looked out on a small garden in the back. It was winter, the middle of November, and there was not much green to be found, but the ground was clear of snow. The winter had been mild thus far, but Felicity could feel the chill coming off the glass. The sky was growing dark, the shadows in the garden lengthening. She squinted when she saw something move in the shadows.
Charles? Her heart slammed in her chest. Please, no…
Felicity leaned closer to the window and peered hard at a small gate in the back of the garden. As she watched, it swung open, and two silhouettes crept forward. One was a large man, stout and solid, with arms the size of ham hocks. The other was a child; at least, she thought so at first. Then he stepped into the light streaming from the town house, and she could see in his hard expression that he was no child. He was diminutive in size but gnarled and wrinkled in appearance.
The two men moved stealthily forward, and Felicity realized she was holding her breath. What were they going to do? Burglarize the house? Should she alert someone?
The men crept forward and finally knelt down beside a flower bed flanking the house. All greenery was almost completely absent from the bed, and the men took out trowels and began to weed.
Felicity shook her head and went back to the dresser. How silly everyone would have thought her if she had told the duc and duchesse she was afraid the gardeners were burglars. She needed to stop thinking foolish thoughts and ready herself to go down to dinner.
The duchesse had asked Felicity to eat with the family, which surprised her greatly. She had assumed she would eat with the upper servants. Now she went to the clothes press where she had placed all of her belongings, opened the heavy drawer, and studied the bare shelves. Her blue cloak was folded and lay on one shelf, as well as another day dress, which she would wear tomorrow. On another shelf there was an assortment of under things—
a shift, a night rail, a pair of stockings. On the third shelf was her music.
She frowned at the music then down at the white muslin gown she wore. She knew she should have brought a change of clothing. Her dress was a day dress, not at all suitable for dinner with a duc and duchesse. Without any jewelry, it looked utterly plain and terribly simple. It would have been providential if the remainder of her luggage had arrived before dinner, but she suspected it might be another day or so.
With a sigh, Felicity went to the door, pausing at the bedside table to gaze at the portrait of her father beside the vase of flowers. She wondered vaguely how much the duchesse paid for fresh flowers in the midst of winter, and those thoughts reminded her of the garden.
Curious as to what the two gardeners had done with the flower bed, Felicity pulled the curtains back and stared down. The garden was empty, and it was too dark to observe any changes in the landscape. The shadows were long now as twilight crept in, and Felicity assumed the gardeners had ended their work for the day. She was about to drop the curtains back into place when her skin prickled, and she stared at the gate the men had opened earlier.
The small, gnarled man stared back at her. His expression was surprised, and she realized he had been watching the house and happened to notice her at the window. His eyes were hard, expression fierce, and Felicity gasped then dropped the curtains.
But she lifted them again immediately. Why should she be the one to turn away? She was doing nothing wrong. That man, on the other hand, did not appear to be gardening at all. Perhaps her fears about burglary had not been entirely unfounded.
Felicity stared out into the violet evening, but the man was gone. Had she simply imagined him at the gate, or had he run away that quickly?
With a sigh, she dropped the curtains again and rubbed her eyes. She was probably overly tired. The journey from Hampshire to London had been long, and her meeting with the comte quite a shock. Doubtless a good night’s sleep would chase away shadows and phantom gardeners.