A young woman who would find him repugnant when she found out how he meant to earn his living and the loathsome secret forcing him to do so.
Somehow, the whole exercise had become a test of endurance.
She spoke and he, barely listening, focused his gaze on her lovely mouth, watching in fascination as sumptuous lips flickered over pearly teeth.
“You are holding your hand like a rag doll. You are the man and you must lead your partner firmly so she knows where she is going,” she commanded. “Like guiding a horse.”
“Enough for today,” he sighed, dragging his gaze away from her delectable mouth. “Pity the poor student.”
Damnation, he had reached a point that he awoke in the middle of the night counting and trying to remember the steps. Anything to coax a smile from her.
She cocked her head and gazed at him unsympathetically. “Hardly poor, I should think. It’s a matter of concentration and practice. After one reaches a certain level of competence, it becomes an enjoyable pastime.”
Christopher doubted that sincerely.
“Be that as it may, I’ve had quite enough for today.” He put on his jacket. “I have several urgent matters to attend to.”
Thankfully she accepted his explanation without question.
“Shall I see you at tea?” Her cheeks were flushed with exertion and she fanned herself with one hand.
With a perverse sense of satisfaction, he noted she had found today’s lessons demanding as well. He assured himself the short lesson benefited Lady Josceline only and had nothing to do with his aching feet and yes, aching loins. To put it simply, he was doing the gentlemanly thing by acceding to her lesser physical prowess.
At his nod, she inclined her chin then turned and swished away. Her dress rippled with the sway of her hips and he found he couldn’t tear his gaze away, even tiptoeing to the library door to watch her step down the hall. A glimpse of a trim ankle rewarded him.
She disappeared from sight and he sagged against the door jamb. Frankly, he didn’t like the way his heart beat faster when he caught her fragrance – violets and a hint of sandalwood, as far as he could tell - or when she beamed at him in approval for a figure well executed.
He needed that handkerchief and he needed it now or he was sure to turn into a raging madman.
He had inspected her sleeves every day in search of a tell tale bulge but had seen nothing. She must have hidden it somewhere. The next time she went out to take some air, he would search her room.
When he found it, he could send her on her way. Of course he wouldn’t leave her destitute. He would pay her enough to assuage his guilty conscience.
Besides, the whole business had diverted him from gaining the debt owed him by that rogue Lord Candel.
Yes, the sooner he located the handkerchief, the better.
* * *
Josceline knew Christopher watched her as she walked away – his eyes burned a hole in her back. She held up her head and shoulders until she turned the corner at the far end of the hall then let her shoulders slump, dropping her chin to feel the pull against the tension in her neck and upper back. Slowly she rolled her head from side to side, circling her shoulders until the stiff ache disappeared.
It was just as well the lesson had been cut short today. If it had gone on much longer, she would have collapsed, skirts and all, into a puddled heap on the floor.
As she had feared, the dance lessons were taking their toll on her. Every brush of his hand, every graze of his shoulder, every glance caught with hers, set her gasping for breath and her heart to pounding.
To be sure, she put on a brave face, giving him encouragement and praise when it was due but it was becoming more and more difficult to instruct the man when other distractions kept arising.
Like his easy smile. And his hearty laugh. And the way his brows quirked in disbelief when she showed him a new step as if to say, “You are in jest, are you not?”
Josceline sighed. What had she agreed to? It had been, what, five days? And already she was reduced to a quivering lump inside. What state would she be in by next week? Next month? How long had she agreed to stay? Three months? It seemed forever.
“Josceline, whatever possessed you to consent to this mad scheme?” She leaned against the wall and cradled her head against the palm of her hand. “What have you done?”
No matter the toll on her, she couldn’t see her way clear to leave immediately. She had no choice but to fulfill her pledge if she had any hope of acquiring the wherewithal to find another position. When she left, she would give him the handkerchief so as to have nothing to remind her of him.
A walk, she decided. A walk would be just the thing to settle her unruly thoughts. She stood there for a few moments, waiting until her knees stopped trembling then marched up to her room to get her cloak before making her way to the slatted bench she’d found several days ago. Grey with age, the bench sagged against a brick wall at the far end of the garden in a sunny, sheltered spot. When the days warmed a little and leaves began to bud it would be a lovely locale for Christopher’s water color lessons. They had not begun those as the supplies had yet to arrive from London.
Josceline dropped onto the bench then tilted her face to the sky and closed her eyes. Sparrows twittered beside her and the sun warmed her cheeks. She opened her eyes and a hawk floated high above, a circling black speck. Her eyes followed its path, a path she fancied traced the letter “E”. Elizabeth.
It reminded her she must write to her friend and tell her all is well. Lady Oakland had said she would inform Elizabeth’s mother that Josceline had found a position but one never knew if Elizabeth had received the news.
She must write her father as well but not yet.
A single tear rolled its lonely way down her cheeks to disappear into the fur lining her cloak.
Her father. How he had loved Amelia, her mother. And when her mother died, she could understand the sorrow that had gradually consumed him, turning him into a pathetic semblance of a man. It was as if he had lost the will to live. No matter how he tried to numb his senses with drink and gambling, he was doomed to live without his true love. Amelia.
It was Josceline’s middle name and as a girl she loved to recite the two together. Josceline Amelia.
Nonetheless for all his sorrow, she could not forgive him for trying to sell her to the highest bidder. He did not seem to understand she wanted the same thing he had shared with her mother. Now, as a governess no one would offer for her, putting marriage out of reach. The bitter irony was that was exactly what she had told Elizabeth she wanted.
But that wasn’t the problem, not really. Something else nagged at her.
She was afraid she was falling in love with the handsome Mr. Sharrington.
An absurd notion. The man would never love her because she existed in a grey vacuum of neither family nor servant.
Another tear rolled down her cheek.
She and only she herself was responsible for the spot she found herself in. She had made a bargain and she would keep it.
Her stomach rumbled.
It was time to leave her maudlin musings in the shadow of the weathered bench and make her way inside for tea. However, first she must go and wash the tears from her face.
At the door to her room, Josceline stopped. Something was not right. Wrinkling her brow, her gaze swept her room. It had been disturbed. The bedspread hung a trifle uneven and the drawer in her night stand sat open a crack. A faint wisp of leather and citrus hung in the air.
In a flash, she knew.
“The handkerchief,” she whispered.
In a panic, she flew to the mirror and pulled it away from the wall. The handkerchief was still there, neatly folded and tucked in behind the frame. She pulled it out and held it close to her nose. It carried the same scent of leather and citrus.
A sudden chill rippled down her spine. Christopher had been in her room.
Carefully, she slipped the square of cloth back in behind the fr
ame.
She would have to take care. If he found it, he would send her on her penniless way.
Chapter Seven
From the library windows, Christopher spotted a visibly drooping Josceline walk towards the house. Sympathy flooded through him at the sight, along with the sudden urge to clasp her close and pull her head onto his shoulder. He shook his head at the unexpected reaction. Lud, but genteel life was making him soft.
So soft, in fact, that a quick search of Josceline’s room for his handkerchief earlier this afternoon had yielded nothing. He, who had run a naval ship with an iron fist, was being befuddled by a mere slip of a woman. He would have to search her room again, when he could do a more thorough job of it.
The light cadence of Josceline’s footsteps echoed through the hall and he had to stifle the impulse to dash to the door and see her. An odd notion struck him: Perhaps genteel life was not making him soft. Perhaps it was the allure of the lovely Lady Woodsby.
Nonsense. He shook his head. It was simply disappointment in not finding the handkerchief bewildering him.
He headed to the sitting room for tea, but not before tidying the papers on his desk. If only thoughts were that easy to arrange.
On his way, he picked up a heavy cream envelope from where it lay on the brass tray in the entry hall. The strokes were firm, splashed across the page with the panache only Lady Oakland could master. Beneath it rested a second envelope, the paper smudged and grimy, addressed to Josceline in spidery and irregular handwriting. He tucked it into the pocket of his jacket to hand to her later.
He returned his regard to Lady Oakland’s note and turned it over to break the seal. He scanned the missive, then, in disbelief, scanned it again.
“Damnation.” He slammed the wall with one hand. “Lady Oakland is coming to visit to give her regards to Lady Josceline and to meet my son.”
All thoughts of the handkerchief fled from his mind.
This was an unforeseen bit of nasty business. When the woman realized he had no son, he and Josceline would be left in a compromising position. He needed Lady Oakland’s continued approval to be included in the local social functions and Josceline needed her good name if she intended to find herself a respectable position after she left Midland House.
Frowning, he checked the date on the note. Yesterday. Lady Oakland meant to visit the day after tomorrow giving him a scant forty eight hours to devise a plan to forestall catastrophe. How, he had no idea but to begin he would seek Josceline’s counsel. She had as much at stake as he did.
Christopher charged to the sitting room, bursting through the doorway with such urgency the door slammed into the wall with a shuddering bang.
A startled Josceline looked at Christopher with round eyes. The accusation she was about to make about him searching her room died on her lips.
Something had upset him. His cheeks were flushed and his hair tousled as if he had run his fingers through it not once but many times. His mouth was a taut line, his eyes bleak.
“Whatever is the matter?” she asked, dreading his answer. The man looked as if he faced the Grim Reaper.
“Lady Oakland is coming for a visit,” he growled. His lips barely moved. “To see you and my son.”
“Oh,” she breathed, feeling the color drain from her face. “You have no son.” She felt idiotic stating the obvious.
“Aye. Your reputation shall be in shreds.”
“Yours too.” She grasped the enormity of the situation. Her heart sank. “Could we not tell her your son is still with your mother?”
He shook his head. “You’ve been here for almost a week. She would find it odd he wasn’t here. After all, that is why I engaged your services.”
“True.” An idea occurred to her and she brightened. “When Lady Oakland comes, we could tell her I have taken your son out riding on his pony.”
“No. Unspeakably rude. It will be all over the county in a matter of hours that my governess and my son snubbed Lady Oakland.”
She stared at him, both hands covering her mouth. “Could we not borrow a boy for a day?” she asked finally, dropping her hands to rest them on her lap. An outrageous solution but it could work.
“You mean a sham?” He gave her an incredulous stare.
“Yes.” She nodded.
“Where do we find a boy?” The words came out grudgingly, as if he thought the idea splendid but did not wish to pounce on it too quickly.
“Are there no children on the estate?”
“There are.” He nodded thoughtfully. “But it may be hard to keep it secret that I borrowed someone’s child.”
“I know.” She clapped her hands. “Could we not ride into Bristol and find a child in a workhouse?”
“That seems rather cruel, does it not? To borrow a child for a day and then return it?”
“Could you not find a position for him in the stables, say? Or perhaps in the house? I’ve heard horrid stories about the workhouses. Anything you could provide would be better than a life of brutal poverty.”
He looked at her long and hard and she imagined she could see the thoughts whirling through his mind.
His hesitation was blatant and she hastened to reassure him. “It shall work, you will see. In three months time my position here is terminated regardless. If anyone should ask, you can say I’ve prepared him for school and he has been sent off.”
It was not an ideal plan, riddled with loopholes. Josceline knew it but it seemed the only answer to stave off imminent disaster.
Finally he nodded. “A plausible solution. Jefferson, the head groom, has been asking for a stable boy. I shall take the carriage into Bristol tomorrow.” He slanted a glance at her. “Do you care to accompany me?”
“Me?” She gaped at him.
“Yes, you. I know nothing of children.”
“Nor do I.”
“I should imagine you have a much better idea of it than I.”
She did not have any idea, not anymore than he did. The only exposure she had had to young children was in Hyde Park. At a distance.
Josceline simply looked at him, speechless. There seemed nothing to say.
“Good.” Christopher gave a curt nod apparently not bothered a whit by her silence. “It’s settled. Off to Bristol tomorrow.”
* * *
The little clock chimed a dozen times. Midnight. Josceline groaned and flopped over onto her back.
Over and over she had reviewed in her mind the plan she and Christopher had devised to mislead Lady Oakland. First, they would find a boy of suitable age, say, six or seven years. Next, the boy would need decent clothing which they could doubtless find at a rag shop in Bristol. A scrub down, of course, but that would not be until he arrived at Midland House. Finally, the boy need only remain silent during the meeting with Lady Oakland in order to hide his rough dialect.
It seemed a sound strategy yet her mind refused to calm.
She gave up and sat upright in the bed.
The letter to Elizabeth would clear her mind. Surely her employer would have no objection to her using paper and ink from the library.
The cheerful fire warming her room earlier had collapsed into a glittering pile of coals. The red hue from them would be enough for her to find her shoes and light a taper.
“Balderdash,” she whispered at the thought of creeping through the cold, dark house. But it seemed silly to lie tossing and turning when the time could be better spent accomplishing something useful. Before she could change her mind and wriggle back under the bedclothes, she slid off the bed and jammed her stockingless feet into cold slippers. Her toes curled in protest and she cast a longing glance to her still warm bed.
Resolute, she threw her winter cloak over the thin wrapper that would be no barrier to the chill air in the rest of the house. Taper in hand, she tiptoed through the silence. Shadows from her candle skipped over the wood paneled walls until she reached the library.
It was empty. With a sigh of relief, she slipped through the door, clos
ing it behind her with a soft ‘snick’.
Josceline made a beeline to Christopher’s desk, putting down the candle on one corner. She knew the carved box inlaid with ivory held paper for it had been open once during one of their lessons. The location of the quills, she was not so certain – in a drawer, perhaps.
She started with the top drawer. It was locked. The drawer immediately beneath it slid open easily and she picked up the candle to peer inside. Ledger books. Not quills. She put down the candle again and bent over to try the next drawer down. It didn’t slide as easily. It stuck and she pulled at the handle with both hands.
It gave with a sudden jerk. In a twinkling she landed smack on her bottom with the drawer and its contents upside down on top of her. She had found the quills. And a spare inkwell. Its contents dripped slowly onto her lap.
“Josceline, you ninnyhammer!” The words spurted out of her mouth. Her tailbone ached from the tremendous thump and dismayed, she looked at the spreading ink stain on her cloak. Ruined. Her one and only cloak was ruined.
A floorboard creaked and she froze.
She was not alone.
Slow, measured footsteps sounded across the bare floor.
The taper flickered.
Fear filled her. She could taste it rising into her throat like bile. She did not believe in ghosts, she told herself sternly. There was no use cowering behind the desk. A show of bravado would stand her better than nothing at all. In a clatter of falling quills, she grasped the edge of the desk and pulled herself up.
To look right into the amused face of Christopher Sharrington.
“Oh!” she gasped. “I assure you, Mr. Sharrington, I was not prying. I was only looking for paper and quills. I could not sleep and thought to write a letter to my friend Elizabeth. The drawer stuck and -.” The words died in her throat at the predator-like glint in his eyes.
“And you have ruined your cloak.” He pointed to the stain.
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