by Syrie James
Alexandra forced herself to concentrate on the matter at hand. Julia had handed the book to Lillie, who was playing up her part for all it was worth:
“‘Upon my word, Sir, cried Elizabeth, your hope is rather an extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time.’”
Julia and Alexandra laughed with delight. Alexandra was soon caught up in the performance, focusing all her attention on Lillie, who threw herself into the role of Mr. Collins, her sense of comic flair eliciting further bursts of laughter from her audience.
Sometime later, one of those laughs came from the doorway, and had a distinctly masculine ring to it. Alexandra’s gaze darted in that direction, and she gasped in surprise.
The Earl of Longford was leaning against the doorjamb, his arms casually crossed as he watched them, his twinkling eyes and wide grin expressing his delight.
Chapter Fifteen
Julia and Lillie froze in astonishment.
“Thomas!” Julia seemed to be struggling to hide her happiness at seeing him.
Alexandra stood and curtsied. “My lord.” She hoped her own expression didn’t show just how pleased she was to see him. He seemed to still be dressed in his traveling clothes, the shabby gray suit he’d always worn while in London.
Longford strode into the room, smiling. “Pray, do not stop on my account.” An awkward silence fell. He made no move to hug his sisters, nor did they rise from their chairs. He turned to Lillie. “Well done, Lillie. You captured Mr. Collins to a T.”
Lillie’s eyes were as wide as saucers, all her former shyness returned. She seemed incapable of a reply.
To Julia, he added, “You were excellent as well. I heard you from the hall. I had no idea you could read with such personality and flair, Julia.”
Julia blushed and looked down at her hands.
Alexandra’s cheeks also burned as she recalled what had happened the last time she’d been in his presence. She dared to lift her eyes to his, and caught him looking at her. For the briefest of seconds, their gazes touched. She couldn’t read his expression. Was he aware of the riot of feelings within her chest, or that she’d spent the past week in embarrassed longing? Quickly, she tore her glance away.
“Why so quiet, everyone?” Longford demanded abruptly. “Are you not glad to see me?”
“Yes,” Julia responded slowly. “Of course we are. But . . . you never come to the nursery.”
“That is not true. I have come up here before.”
“You have not,” Julia insisted.
“Well, I am here now.”
“Martha said you were not coming home for months,” Julia further observed.
He made an irritated sound. “I changed my mind. I missed you. A brother can miss his sisters, can he not?” He seemed to be looking anywhere but at Alexandra.
Alexandra found her voice again. “It is nice to see you again, my lord. Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Miss Watson.” He gave her a brief smile, then changing the subject, said: “So. What have you all been up to since I was away?”
“Miss Watson has added new subjects to the schedule,” Julia admitted.
“So I see,” Longford commented. “What else, besides reading aloud from classic works?”
“Oh, heaps of things.” Julia’s enthusiasm mounted as she spoke. “Science, geography, mathematics. Miss Watson invented the most marvelous game.” She went on to gushingly describe the shopping game.
“It was fun!” Lillie blurted, the first words she’d uttered since Longford entered the room.
“Was it? It certainly sounds imaginative.” Longford glanced again at Alexandra, then added, “Well, I have interrupted what appeared to be a lovely moment. I will therefore take my leave. I wish you all a good evening.” With a formal nod, he turned for the door.
“Your Lordship.” Alexandra stepped forward, her words stopping him. “There is something I’d like to speak to you about, if I may?”
“Pray, what is it, Miss Watson?”
She lowered her voice. “I would rather discuss it in private, if you don’t mind?”
His eyebrows lifted. “Very well. You may come to my study after the girls have gone to bed. Do you know where it is?”
Alexandra nodded. “I’ll see you there.”
At half past eight, Alexandra knocked at the half-open door of Longford’s study.
“Come in,” his deep voice intoned.
She entered. The chamber was both elegant and masculine. Longford sat facing the door, behind a carved walnut desk that would have looked at home in the palace of Louis XV. An elegant lamp on the desk, along with several candelabras, cast the room in a golden glow. Through the mullioned window at the back of the room, the vanished sun had painted the sky in deepening shades of orange, gold, and indigo.
He gestured toward a worn tapestry chair that faced the desk. “Please, have a seat. I will just be a moment.”
Alexandra placed her candle on a small table and sat. As Longford finished some paperwork, she made a casual perusal of him. He’d changed from his worn gray suit into an embroidered green waistcoat and tweed frock coat. His short blond hair was neatly combed. He was so handsome, it made her ache. Her mind drifted, imagining what she’d do if he stood up, crossed to her, and took her in his arms.
A fire grew in her belly at the thought and she forced such thoughts away, taking the moment to glance around the room. Paintings of horses, dogs, and hunting scenes adorned the walls, which were covered in silk brocade that might have once been red, but had faded to salmon. She found the choice of artwork odd. Although she hadn’t known Longford all that long, he’d shown no signs of being a hunting enthusiast.
After signing several pages, he set them aside and looked up. “Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I do for you?”
His expression and tone were so formal and aloof, it was like a blow to Alexandra’s senses. He was regarding her as if they were total strangers, or at the very most, as merely employer and employee. Which, admittedly, they were. But they had kissed. Clearly, that kiss had meant far more to her than it had to him.
She recalled his words that night: I should not have kissed you like that. It was unbelievably inappropriate. I hope we can forget my brief lack of self-control. And finally: That can never happen again.
She’d taken that to mean that although he didn’t make a habit of kissing the serving staff, he’d felt something special for her; she’d been an anomaly. Maybe that wasn’t true. Maybe he’d “lost control” and kissed—or more than kissed—lots of governesses and maids before she came along, and felt guilty every time. The idea sent a stab of jealousy spearing through her, a foreign feeling she didn’t much like.
She swallowed hard and struggled to gather her thoughts. “Your Lordship.”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering . . . that is . . .” Why was she so tongue-tied? She should get right to the points of her visit. Instead, she blurted: “How long are you home for?” The question sounded as if it were infused with hope, causing a blush to rise to her cheeks. “I suppose this is a brief visit?” she added quickly. “Did you take new portrait commissions while you were in town?”
“I did not. As it happens, I gave up my rooms there, and arranged for all my things to be sent home.”
“Oh!” Alexandra’s heart skipped a beat at the realization that he would be staying on. “But why? What happened?”
His voice dropped slightly as he glanced at her, a look that made her pulse race. “I find that I would rather be here at present.”
It was killing Thomas to sit there behind this wide expanse of desk, to act as if nothing had passed between them. For a solid week, he had thought of nothing but her. The minute he had arrived at Polperran House, he had tossed his hat and coat to Hutchens, then taken the stairs two at a time, and without quite planning it, had
found himself at the door to the nursery. Where he had stood, drinking in the sight of her as she’d sat deeply engrossed in his sisters’ performance, laughing with delight.
He had felt obliged to talk to the girls. It was awkward, but he had gotten through it, all the while wishing for a moment alone with Miss Watson. He hadn’t had the nerve or the presence of mind to arrange it. Then, to his delight, she had suggested it herself.
Here they were at last. Together again. He wanted nothing more than to walk around this infernal, ancient piece of furniture, take her in his arms, and kiss her senseless. To reprise what they had started that night in the library. To see where it might lead.
Which of course, he couldn’t.
He would have to take pleasure in the simple fact of their being in the same room.
Thomas cleared his throat. “Miss Watson. I am glad you came down. I wanted to say . . . I was impressed by what I saw in the nursery a little while ago. You seem to have come a long way with the girls in a short time. I am grateful.”
“I’m glad you approve, my lord.”
“Speaking of which, I have something for you.” He retrieved a small stack of books from a nearby bureau and set them on the desk before her. “I bought these in town. Although it sounds now as though you might not need them.”
Miss Watson picked up the volumes and glanced over the titles. They were schoolbooks in French, Mathematics, World History, Physical Science, and Italian. He had only been able to afford used editions, but hoped they were modern enough to be valuable.
“Thank you!” She appeared extremely pleased. “I can only go so far with lessons of my own devising. These will be wonderfully helpful.”
“Good.” Her enthusiasm made all his efforts worthwhile. He sat back in his chair, drinking her in. She was wearing a new dress, presumably the one she had ordered in London. She had been beautiful to him before, even in that severe black thing she always wore, but in this gown, prim and simple as it was, she looked radiant. The pale shade of blue complemented her eyes and sienna hair, and brought out the roses in her creamy complexion. “So. You said there was something you wished to speak to me about?”
“Yes.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Three things, actually. First: I wonder if I could have the fire lit in my room on cold evenings, such as this one? I like to sit up for a while and read or do lesson plans, and it’s freezing up there.”
“Of course. But that is a question for Mrs. Mitchell.”
“I asked her. She said that fires were only allowed when absolutely required, and with your permission.”
His cheeks grew warm. He felt humiliated to have ever given such an edict, to be so short on funds that his staff was obliged to sit shivering in the dark. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I will take care of it.”
“Thank you. And thank you again for the schoolbooks. I was hoping, though, to add one more subject to the curriculum. For that, I need a few more materials. Nothing expensive, I promise.”
“What do you need?”
“Three sketchbooks and a box of pencils. A set of colored pencils would also be nice.”
He frowned. “You want to teach drawing?”
“I do.” From the pocket of her gown, Miss Watson produced a scrap of paper and slid it across the desk to him.
It was a pencil sketch of a fashionable woman, and rather well done. “Who did this?”
“Julia.”
“Julia?” He was surprised.
“As you can see, she has real talent, and a particular interest in the subject.”
He considered her request, but shook his head. “I wasted too much of my life on pencils, charcoal, watercolors, and oils, Miss Watson. I will not have my sisters repeat my mistake.”
“How can you view that time of your life as a mistake?” She seemed troubled. “Art for its own sake is a reward. Even now, you earn an income from it.”
“A miniscule income, Miss Watson, from something that gives me not an iota of pleasure.” He handed her back the sketch. “I stopped my sisters’ drawing lessons for good reason. It is a childish pursuit, which will be of no value to them in their future lives.”
“I disagree. What difference does it make if they don’t draw when they are grown? To have that opportunity now could make such a difference in their lives. Julia is struggling to find her place in the world, desperate to discover something she’s good at. She’s drawing in secret because she knows you disapprove. She’ll continue to draw whether or not she’s taught. And she’s good. Very good. Only think what a difference a little guidance would make. It’d give her such a sense of self-confidence. And I think Lillie would enjoy it, too. She . . .”
She continued speaking. He was so distracted, however, by the pink glow of her cheeks and the way her eyes were sparkling, like the blue at the center of a flame, that the words no longer made an impression on his brain. She spoke with such fervor, it was as if she were lit from within. He loved that about her, hadn’t seen passion like that since . . . well, since ever.
It made him want to give in, give her anything she desired. It made him fantasize about what she would be like in bed. All that fire, simmering beneath the surface—he had felt it ready to combust the night they had kissed.
He held up a hand, regretful that he had to stop her. “Miss Watson. I can see that you have deep feelings about this. But my mind is made up. You have a great deal to offer Julia and Lillie, beyond a subject as trivial as drawing.”
“But—”
“There will be no further discussion on the matter.”
Her face fell, all that passion and enthusiasm vanishing in an instant like a pricked balloon, as if he had deflated all her dearest hopes. He felt bad.
“Very well.” She put the scrap of paper back in her pocket and paused, then said somberly, “On to my next inquiry, which I hope meets with more success. I wanted to discuss the quality of our meals in the nursery.”
He had not expected that. “What is wrong with your meals?”
“Mrs. Mitchell is of the opinion that plain, wholesome food is all a child requires. We are thus served nothing but porridge for breakfast, boiled mutton and overcooked peas for lunch, and soup and bread for dinner.”
“Precisely what I was fed at their age, and while at school.”
“Did you like it?”
“I did not really think about it. I ate what I was given to eat.”
“Do you feel differently now?”
“Now? You mean, do I care what I eat?”
“Yes.”
“I look forward to a good meal as much as the next man.”
“When did you begin to feel that way?”
He paused. “When I got to Oxford, I suppose.”
“So, it wasn’t until you were eighteen years old that you were introduced to the delights of other, more delicious foods? All your young life, the same boring, wholesome menu was forced upon you?”
“What are you saying, Miss Watson? That I should feed my sisters champagne and caviar?”
“No. But what about bacon and eggs? Apples? Strawberries? Cucumbers? Ham? Roast beef? Cookies? Cake?”
“By cookies, I presume you refer to biscuits? We have all those things, Miss Watson, on special occasions: birthdays, holidays, parties, and the like. I recall, as child, attending a strawberry-picking party once or twice.”
“Once or twice?” Miss Watson shook her head in disbelief.
“I regret that you find your meals so unsatisfactory. If you like, I can ask Mrs. Nettle to send up something different for you, whatever she is dishing up in the servants’ hall.”
“This is not about me, Your Lordship. Yes, I find the food tiresome. But it’s your sisters I worry about. I have studied nutrition. You are denying these children a proper, varied diet, which is essential to their growth and development.”
“I believe British experts on the subject think differently.”
“That doesn’t make them right.”
H
e sighed. “In any case, the menu at Polperran House is not my province. I defer that responsibility to Mrs. Mitchell.”
“Mrs. Mitchell relies solely on Mrs. Beeton, a journalist, not a nutritionist. There are many excellent books on the subject. I beseech you to read them, and give the matter further consideration.”
“I will take your suggestion under advisement, Miss Watson.”
“The same advisement you gave to my request for sketchbooks and pencils?” She rose, upset. Before he could respond, she dropped a short, reluctant curtsy. “Thank you for your attention, my lord. I won’t take up any more of your time. Good night.”
She picked up her candle and swept from the room. He let out an irritated breath. The last thing he wanted was to argue with her. Why did she have to make things so difficult?
Alexandra stalked up the servants’ staircase, greatly annoyed. How could Longford deny her requests? It wasn’t as if she’d been asking for the moon. She might have understood if he’d claimed that he simply couldn’t afford it. Although even on the smallest budget, he ought to have been able to spring for some paper and pencils, and a bit of variety in their meals!
But no. He’d denied her on grounds that her suggestions were contrary to his ideology. As if allowing his sisters to draw or to eat beef would somehow stoke a revolution! What backward-thinking, aristocratic nonsense. The man was a Neanderthal. How could she ever have imagined that she liked him?
Even though Martha brought up a basket of wood shortly thereafter, and laid a fire that kept Alexandra toasty, she couldn’t forgive Longford’s bullheadedness on the other issues. She spent half the night stewing about it before finally falling into a fitful asleep. The next morning, she awoke grouchy, with a headache.
She and the girls strode into the nursery almost at the same moment. The table was already laid with a white cloth, and Martha was setting out silver-domed-dishes at three place settings. To Alexandra’s surprise, a new and delicious aroma was emanating from said dishes. Could it be . . . ?