by Liz Carlyle
“Good afternoon, Martha,” he said quietly. “How is everything?”
Martha’s brows lifted in a neutral expression. “Much as usual, m’lord. Miss Ariane’s terrible interested in looking out the window. I dessay ’tis the brightly colored leaves ... so pretty, the reds and golds are.”
Cam wanted to remind the girl that half the leaves were already gone, and that they both knew Ariane spared no thought for what was left. But he saw Martha’s inaccuracy for what it was; kindness. And really, what else could one say? Ariane often stared out the window when she wasn’t hiding in the closets or attics or cupboards.
“Thank you, Martha,” he gently returned. “Why do you not go down to the kitchen and have your tea? I’d like to sit with Ariane for a bit.”
Martha bobbed gratefully and left without comment, for this was a routine they often shared. As was his habit, Cam crossed the room to the old oak rocker that sat in one corner. As if just now sensing his presence, Ariane turned to look over one shoulder at him. Cam crooked a finger, motioning her to him. “Come, minx, and bear your poor old papa company, eh?”
With what looked like the ghost of a smile, Ariane turned and came swiftly toward him, crawling into his lap and curling against his chest. Cam slowly rocked her, just as he had done since she was a babe. As he tipped the chair back and forth in that familiar, soothing rhythm, Cam settled one cheek against the soft blonde hair and remembered those sweet, sweet days of—not happiness, exactly—but promise, because Ariane’s future had seemed so bright.
She had been more than just a healthy, happy babe. Within six months of her birth, Ariane had begun crawling off her blanket to tug at Cam’s trouser hems—and at his heartstrings. Oh, he had not wanted her, it was true. But it had been impossible to resent the beautiful, blue-eyed child. Later, it seemed as if he’d loved her on sight. And Ariane’s development had proceeded with alarming speed. At nine months, she could toddle about unaided, and before the year was out, she could form simple sentences.
“A veritable prodigy!” their old family doctor had often proclaimed, cheerfully ruffling Ariane’s cornsilk hair. “You must provide this one with the very best, Mr. Rutledge! Fine picture books! Excellent governesses! And grand finishing schools, I do not doubt, for I daresay she’ll be something special!” And instead of hiding or crying, Ariane would giggle; her eyes sparkling with mischief as if she and the doctor shared some sort of joke.
“Oh, you may be sure I will, Masters,” Cam had laughingly promised. “You may be sure I will.” In his heart, however, he’d already known Ariane was something special.
But old Dr. Masters was dead these four years past. And the promises Cam had made to him—and to Ariane—had gone more or less unfulfilled. Oh, he’d bought the picture books and hired the governesses. But what good did it do anyone when Ariane could not avail herself of them?
With a little choking sound, Cam pulled his daughter tighter to his chest and prayed as he rocked her back as forth. It was almost too much to bear.
“Please, please,” he inwardly chanted, in rhythm with the squeaking sound of the old rocking chair. “Please—just this once—let my instincts be right! Please let Helene know what to do.”
Helene pushed back her bonnet just a fraction in order to better view the handsome young man before her. Randolph Bentham Rutledge was already as tall as his brother, almost as handsome, and twice as charming. Moreover, unless one looked beyond his artful smile to the youthful innocence which lingered in his eyes, he looked far older than the seventeen Helene had believed him to be. Indeed, Bentley was startlingly like his namesake in both looks and charm.
If this was the sight Cam’s mother had beheld when she first met Randy Rutledge, it was little wonder the poor woman had succumbed to his flattering guile. Young Bentley, attired in heavy boots and a long, drab duster, stood well over six feet. In the crook of his arm, he balanced an elegantly carved fowling gun, and beneath his broad-brimmed hat, he wore a smile that could have melted the Arctic.
Despite the boy’s youth and Helene’s hard-won experience, she felt a little unsteady under the onslaught of Rutledge charm. She forced her most governess-like smile. “Pray continue with your hunting before the light entirely fails us, Mr. Rutledge. I can assure you that I am perfectly able to make my way home alone, since it is but another three hundred yards.” She nodded her head toward the rear gates of the courtyard.
Bentley Rutledge looked momentarily crushed, but the effervescent smile quickly returned. “You know, I fancy it really is too near dusk for hunting now, ma’am. You are exceedingly good to remind me! Come, let me enjoy your charms but a few moments more—?”
“I think not, Mr. Rutledge,” she firmly interjected.
Bentley’s full lower lip came out just a fraction. “A game of backgammon in the yellow parlor, perhaps? I vow, it’s awfully dull at Chalcote, and I’m exceedingly glad you’ve come to give us a spot of distraction.”
“I’ve come, Mr. Rutledge,” she answered in a slightly scathing tone, “to care for your niece, not to distract handsome young men who’ve more time than sense.”
“Oh—!” he exclaimed in a soft, appreciative voice. “I do like a woman with spit and fire, Miss de Severs. May I call you Helene?” His smile ratcheted up another notch.
“No.”
“I am crushed,” answered Bentley Rutledge, with no discernible loss of enthusiasm.
“I rather doubt that, Mr. Rutledge,” returned Helene dryly. “And now I bid you a good evening. It was an interesting experience making your acquaintance. And to meet your dog. And to help drag you to your feet—”
“Ah, yes! And it takes the very best sort of woman to pull a man up out of the mud, ma’am, or so I have been told.”
“Pray do not regard it, Mr. Rutledge. Now, please go away.”
“Come now, ma’am—just a game of backgammon? And perhaps just a little glass of sherry?” he wheedled, suddenly sounding like the boy he very nearly was.
Unexpectedly, Helene sensed an undertone of genuine loneliness in his voice, and she was struck with how dissimilar he was from his elder brother. At seventeen, Cam’s strength and maturity had helped him bear his unhappiness in stoic silence. But Bentley Rutledge would never be the silent type; he would demand what he wanted of life, and probably get it. Nonetheless, the brothers had shared one thing. Neither of them, she was certain, had had a happy childhood. Her expression must have betrayed her sympathy.
“Oh, splendid, Miss de Severs!” he cried, clapping his hands together in a most appealing gesture. “You’ve taken pity on me.” He offered her his arm and with an exasperated sigh, she slid her hand lightly beneath his elbow.
“One game, Mr. Rutledge,” she said through clenched teeth. “But only if you agree to my terms.”
“Your wish is my command, Miss de Severs.”
“I want you to invite Ariane,” explained Helene as they set off toward the rear gate. “I’m eager to spend time with her, but she’s still a little frightened of me. I want you to use that charm of yours to coax her into joining us. I somehow imagine you’ll have no difficulty.”
Bentley nodded. “Fact is, the chit’s dashed fond of me, ma’am.”
“Why am I not surprised?” asked Helene dryly. “And whilst we play, Mr. Rutledge, you shall explain to me precisely what an Oxford man is doing here at Chalcote in the midst of Michaelmas term. I’ve not been so long from England that I’ve forgotten the school calendar.”
As they reached the walled courtyard, Bentley had the good grace to blush. “Well, I’ve just this week been sent down, you see.”
“No, Mr. Rutledge, I do not see at all,” she crisply responded as they turned into the gate. “That is my point.”
Along with a starless night, a hint of a chill had fallen across the Cotswolds. In the shadows of his study, Cam sat, sprawled in Boadicea’s deep armchair by the hearth, dutifully scratching the cat, and trying without success to enjoy the fire.
Just then,
his clock struck eight. Cam drew out his watch to confirm the hour. “Helene is late,” he announced to the cat. Somehow, he was surprised, for despite her reckless ways, Helene had always been a punctual, capable sort of female.
It was, oddly enough, a contrast he had never before considered. Indeed, during their years apart, it seemed that Helene had become a study in contrasts, as mysterious to him now as ice layered over a core of fire. So intriguing. So dangerous. As he stared into the depths of the empty room, Cam tried to remember that with one sidelong look from those dark blue eyes, Helene de Severs had once been able to turn him into a besotted fool.
That appeared to be pretty much what she had done to Bentley, though granted, Bentley had been halfway there when she crossed his path. Cam was no longer a green lad, yet he was beginning to fear that his self-discipline amounted to about as much as his brother’s where Helene was concerned. While staring at them through his window, Cam had kept telling himself that it was Helene and Bentley for whom he worried; that Helene was too friendly for her own good, and Bentley so wholly lacking in common sense as to be a danger to them both. But when he looked a little deeper, Cam had to admit that the larger part of what he had felt had been envy.
Upon leaving Ariane’s room with his emotions still unsettled, Cam had turned to his work. He had gone downstairs to review his plans for a series of new tenant houses, but upon entering the sanctuary of his study, he’d been further incensed to hear Helene’s laughter, mingled with Bentley’s, floating from the adjoining yellow parlor. It sounded unnatural, almost out of place.
It was then that he realized that laughter had become far too rare a commodity at Chalcote. Yet at that particular moment, he could find no gratitude in his heart, for he had been irrationally angry that it was his brother, and not himself, enjoying Helene’s good cheer.
Cam had yanked open the connecting door, strode through the narrow service pantry, and walked into the parlor to see them, heads bent low over the marquetry card table, which had been opened to reveal what looked to be a boisterous game of backgammon.
To add insult to injury, Bentley had had one arm around Ariane’s waist, bouncing her on his knee as he effusively explained just what a “bang-up governess Miss Helene was going to be!” The warm, familial atmosphere had been palpable, and the child—who just this morning had had to be all but dragged from the cupboard—had looked almost contented! And she’d had been watching Helene with decided interest.
Helene had noticed it, too. Soon, she had coaxed the child to her side of the table. Though Ariane had refused the offer of Helene’s lap, she had stood by her side, listening attentively as Helene explained the moves of the game. In marked contrast to Ariane’s previous teachers, Helene had used words which were simple, but in no way condescending.
Cam had spent a quarter-hour trying to feel a part of it all, while watching Helene issue the coup de grace to his laughing brother. Then abruptly, Cam had turned on his heels and walked out of the room. He still did not know why he had left in such haste.
All he knew was that as he had studied Helene’s hand moving deftly back and forth across the board as his daughter smiled shyly at her side, Cam had been inescapably drawn toward the scene by some slow, exquisitely tormenting emotion. He had felt ... something much more intense and compelling than physical desire, when all he wanted to feel was nothing, at least where Helene was concerned.
“Do warlocks have familiars?” From the shadows of the doorway, the throaty, seductive voice severed his concentration.
Much to the cat’s displeasure, Cam jerked abruptly from his chair. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, as Helene stepped smoothly into the lamplight.
“It’s just that you look so dark and sullen,” she said lightly. “Rather intimidating, really, lurking there in the shadows. And since that cat seems determined to follow you everywhere—”
“I would not be at all surprised to learn that Boadicea is possessed of unnatural powers,” said Cam dryly. He crossed the room to stand behind his desk. “Unfortunately, I am all too mortal. Won’t you be seated?” He motioned toward the chair opposite.
After an exchange of pleasantries, Cam leaned back in his chair to stare across the desk at her. Despite his request to speak with Helene this evening, he was determined to keep his distance. He could hardly afford a repetition of what had occurred in the schoolroom. Oh, he had wanted Helene to stay at Chalcote, he told himself. Because Ariane needed a teacher. But he had not wanted to laugh with such spontaneity, to let down his guard so gratefully, or to confide in her with such ease. And yet, Helene had unwittingly encouraged all those things and worse. She had made him feel a spike of long-suppressed lust. And she had made him yearn for something he dared not give words to.
Perhaps both he and Bentley were just too much like their father. The critical difference was that Cam fought it, while Bentley seemed determined to flaunt it. And Cam’s fight was proving much harder with Helene around. Indeed, yesterday afternoon he’d felt unaccountably like a young boy in her presence. His emotions had run rampant, his reason had melted, and he felt as if he could not breathe, as if his bloody collar was too tight.
And last night, wallowing in old memories, had he not stripped off his clothing to pull on his nightshirt, his breeches would have been too damned tight as well. And in the wrong place. It had been a hellish, hot, sleepless night, and he was not about to suffer another. Nonetheless, he had important things to discuss with his new governess, and it was best to get it over with quickly.
“I suppose you are wondering why I asked you here this evening?” he began, glancing across the desk at her.
Tonight, Helene’s heavy black hair shimmered like silk in the firelight. Beauty like the night ... Byron’s evocative words kept running through his head. Cam let his eyes drift appreciably down to the long column of her neck, and then further, to the low scoop of her bodice, seductively veiled beneath the lace of her fichu. Jerking his attention back to his desk, Cam began to meticulously organize its surface, placing his wax jack, pounce box, and other assorted desk items in a perfectly straight row across the back edge.
Helene seemed to stare at his fingers rather intently, yet her voice was cool, and perfectly even. “Not at all, my lord. I am your employee. I assumed there was something we need to discuss.” She lifted her gaze to meet his, her expression one of polite concern and nothing more.
“Just so,” he replied, squashing an idiotic wave of disappointment. Shifting his attention to his pile of correspondence, Cam began to shuffle through it. “I did not feel that we had finished our discussion about Ariane,” he continued. “I spoke to her at some length just before dinner. I explained that you were not an ordinary sort of governess. And that you were a ... a friend of mine.”
“Did you indeed?” Helene sounded surprised.
“I did,” he confirmed, pausing to flawlessly position a sheet of foolscap to one side of his desk, then following suit with each in turn, forming a neat row down the left edge. “And it seemed to help. Also, I thought she looked rather at ease with you this afternoon.”
“Yes, I was inordinately relieved,” she murmured.
“As am I. Why do we not begin work in the schoolroom tomorrow? I see no need to wait, unless she is resistant.”
“Thank you.” Helene paused, then drew a deep breath. “But first, my lord, there is something further I would ask—?”
“By all means,” he replied, flicking his gaze up at her. Helene’s tone had sounded unusually tentative.
“What can you share with me about the circumstances surrounding Ariane’s loss of speech?” she asked, her voice gentle. “I have no wish to pry, nor to open wounds, but I was in the churchyard—”
“The churchyard?” he responded sharply. “Pray whatever for?”
Helene watched her employer as he took out his penknife and began to whittle on the first of several quills. “I took a walk,” she answered, studying the precise motions of his fingers. Cam had such per
fect hands; a little too big and rugged to be those of an artist, but deft and graceful all the same. Yet, his need to control not only himself, but almost everything around him, was made apparent by his every move.
She drew a deep, steadying breath and forced herself to focus on his eyes instead. “I was strolling through the churchyard and noticed your late wife’s gravestone. The date—it caught my eye. Given Ariane’s age, one cannot help but notice how closely the date corresponded with—”
“Yes,” interjected Cam rather sharply, tugging open his top desk drawer. “I know what you are going to say. You are right. Ariane’s ability to speak vanished after her mother’s death.”
“Poor child,” Helene mused. “It must have been the shock.”
For a moment, Cam stopped straightening his desk and pens and papers. His expression held a deep, weary sadness. “Initially, it seemed so,” he softly agreed. “But the more we tried to question her, the less responsive she became. Over time, the shock has seemingly lessened, but the power of speech has not returned.”
“Then we are dealing with something a vast deal more complex than grief,” said Helene.
Cam nodded. “I agree. Moreover, Ariane and her mother were not particularly close.”
“Not close?” Helene was sure she’d misunderstood. “Forgive me, but I cannot imagine ...”
Cam’s broad shoulders seemed to slump a little, but his voice was unwavering. “The sad truth is that my wife was not content with her role in life. In hindsight, I realize that Cassandra was not ready to be a mother. Nor had she much interest in being the wife of a country squire, which is essentially what I am.”
Helene felt a sting of outrage. “And yet she married you?”
Cam flashed her a cynical look. “My father-in-law wanted his family elevated to a title, Helene. Father was heir to his uncle’s earldom, and Uncle was old, unwed, and unwell.” His mouth pulled into a wry half-smile. “Oh, it was all done subtly enough, but Cassandra’s family forced her to have me, just as surely as my father forced me to have her.”