by Julia Quinn
He took a moment to reflect on that, then nodded, his head jerking a little to the side as he did so. He was uncomfortable, Anne realized with surprise. He was not used to being complimented for such things.
She smiled to herself. There was something rather endearing about watching him shift in his seat. She supposed he was used to being praised for his charm or his good looks.
But for his good behavior? She had a feeling it was long overdue.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“My cheek?” He shook his head, then contradicted himself. “Well, a little.”
“But the thieves look worse than you do?” she said with a smile.
“Oh, much worse,” he said. “Much, much worse.”
“Is that the point of fighting? To make sure one’s opponent emerges in a worse state than oneself?”
“Do you know, I think it might be. Foolish, wouldn’t you think?” He looked at her with a strange, ponderous expression. “It’s what got me sent out of the country.”
She did not know all of the details of his duel, but— “What?” she asked. Because really, even young men could not be so foolish.
“Well, not exactly,” he allowed, “but it’s the same sort of inanity. Someone called me a cheat. And I nearly killed him for it.” He turned to her, his eyes piercing. “Why? Why would I do that?”
She didn’t answer.
“Not that I tried to kill him.” He sat back in his seat, the motion oddly forceful and sudden. “It was an accident.” He was silent for a moment, and Anne watched his face. He did not look at her when he added, “I thought you should know.”
She did know. He could never be the sort of man who would kill so trivially. But she could tell he did not wish to say any more about it. So instead she asked, “Where are we going?”
He did not answer immediately. He blinked, then glanced out the window, then admitted, “I do not know. I told the coachman to drive aimlessly about until given further direction. I thought perhaps you needed a few extra minutes before returning to Pleinsworth House.”
She nodded. “It is my afternoon free. I am not expected anytime soon.”
“Have you any errands you need to see completed?”
“No, I— Yes!” she exclaimed. Good heavens, how had she forgotten? “Yes, I do.”
His head tilted toward her. “I should be happy to convey you to wherever you need to go.”
She clutched her reticule, finding comfort in the quiet crinkling sound of the paper inside. “It is nothing, just a letter that must be posted.”
“Shall I frank it? I never did manage to take my seat in the House of Lords, but I assume I possess franking privileges. My father certainly used his.”
“No,” she said quickly, even though this would have saved her a trip to a receiving house. Not to mention the expense for Charlotte. But if her parents saw the letter, franked by the Earl of Winstead . . .
Their curiosity would know no bounds.
“That is very kind of you,” Anne said, “but I could not possibly accept your generosity.”
“It’s not my generosity. You may thank the Royal Mail.”
“Still, I could not abuse your franking privilege in such a way. If you would just see me to a receiving house . . .” She looked out the window to determine their precise whereabouts. “I believe there is one on Tottenham Court Road. Or if not there, then . . . Oh, I had not realized we were so far to the east. We should go to High Holborn instead. Just before Kingsway.”
There was a pause.
“You have quite a comprehensive knowledge of London receiving houses,” he said.
“Oh. Well. Not really.” She gave herself a swift mental kick and wracked her brain for an appropriate excuse. “It is only that I am fascinated by the postal system. It’s really quite marvelous.”
He looked at her curiously, and she couldn’t tell if he believed her. Luckily for her, it was the truth, even if she’d said it to cover a lie. She did find the Royal Mail rather interesting. It was amazing how quickly one could get a message across the country. Three days from London to Northumberland. It seemed a miracle, really.
“I should like to follow a letter one day,” she said, “just to see where it goes.”
“To the address on its front, I would imagine,” he said.
She pressed her lips together to acknowledge his little gibe, then said, “But how? That is the miracle.”
He smiled a bit. “I must confess, I had not thought of the postal system in such biblical terms, but I am always happy to be educated.”
“It is difficult to imagine a letter traveling any faster than it does today,” she said happily, “unless we learn how to fly.”
“There are always pigeons,” he said.
She laughed. “Can you imagine an entire flock, lifting off to the sky to deliver our mail?”
“It is a terrifying prospect. Especially for those walking beneath.”
That brought another giggle. Anne could not recall the last time she had felt so merry.
“To High Holborn then,” he said, “since I would never allow you to entrust your missive to the pigeons of London.” He leaned forward to open the flap in the landau’s top, gave the driver instructions, then sat back again. “Is there anything else with which I might help you, Miss Wynter? I am entirely at your disposal.”
“No, thank you. If you would just return me to Pleinsworth House . . .”
“So early in the afternoon? On your day off?”
“There is much to be done this evening,” she told him. “We go to— Oh, but of course you know. We go tomorrow to Berkshire, to . . .”
“Whipple Hill,” he supplied.
“Yes. At your suggestion, I believe.”
“It did seem more sensible than your traveling all the way to Dorset.”
“But did you—” She cut herself off, then looked away. “Never mind.”
“Are you asking if I had already intended to go?” He waited a moment, then said, “I did not.”
The tip of her tongue darted out to moisten her lips, but still, she did not look at him. It would be far too dangerous. She should not wish for things that were out of her reach. She could not. She’d tried that once, and she’d been paying for it ever since.
And Lord Winstead was quite possibly the most impossible dream of all. If she allowed herself to want him, it would destroy her.
But oh, how she wanted to want him.
“Miss Wynter?” His voice filtered over her like a warm breeze.
“That is—” She cleared her throat, trying to find her voice, the one that actually sounded like herself. “That is very kind of you to adjust your schedule for your aunt.”
“I did not do it for my aunt,” he said softly. “But I expect you know that.”
“Why?” she asked softly. She knew she would not have to explain the query; he would know what she meant.
Not why did he do it. Why her?
But he didn’t answer. At least not right away. And then, finally, just when she thought she might have to look up and into his face, he said, “I don’t know.”
She did look then. His answer had been so frank and unexpected that she couldn’t not look. She turned her face to his, and when she did, she was gripped by the strangest, most intense longing to simply reach out and touch her hand to his. To somehow connect.
But she didn’t. She couldn’t. And she knew that, even if he did not.
Chapter Eight
The following evening, Anne stepped down from the Pleinsworths’ traveling coach and looked up, taking in her first glance at Whipple Hill. It was a lovely house, solid and stately, situated amidst gently rolling hills that sloped down to a large, tree-lined pond. There was something very homey about it, Anne thought, which struck her as interesting since it was the ancestral estate of the Earls of Winstead. Not that she was terribly familiar with the great homes of the aristocracy, but those that she had seen had always been terribly ornate and imperious.
The sun had already set, but the orange glow of twilight still hung in the air, lending just a touch of warmth to the rapidly approaching night. Anne was eager to find her room and perhaps have a bowl of hot soup for supper, but the night before their departure Nanny Flanders had come down with a stomach ailment. With Nanny remaining behind in London, Anne had been pressed into double duty, serving as nurse and governess, which meant that she would be required to get the girls settled into their room before she could tend to any of her own needs. Lady Pleinsworth had promised her an extra afternoon off while they were in the country, but she had not been specific as to when, and Anne feared that it would slip her mind completely.
“Come along, girls,” she said briskly. Harriet had run ahead to one of the other carriages—the one with Sarah and Lady Pleinsworth—and Elizabeth had run back to the other. Although what she was talking about with the ladies’ maids, Anne could not begin to guess.
“I’m right here,” Frances said gamely.
“So you are,” Anne replied. “Gold star for you.”
“It’s really too bad that you don’t have actual gold stars. I shouldn’t have to pinch up my pin money each week.”
“If I had actual gold stars,” Anne replied with a quirk of her brow, “I shouldn’t have to be your governess.”
“Touché,” Frances said admiringly.
Anne gave her a wink. There was something rather satisfying about earning the regard of a ten-year-old. “Where are your sisters?” she muttered, then called, “Harriet! Elizabeth!”
Harriet came bounding back. “Mama says I may eat with the adults while we are here.”
“Ooooh, Elizabeth is not going to be happy about that,” Frances predicted.
“Not happy about what?” Elizabeth asked. “And you would not believe what Peggy just told me.”
Peggy was Sarah’s maid. Anne quite liked her, although she was a terrible gossip.
“What did she say?” Frances asked. “And Harriet will be eating with the adults while we’re here.”
Elizabeth gasped in righteous outrage. “That is patently unfair. And Peggy said that Sarah said that Daniel said that Miss Wynter is to eat with the family as well.”
“That won’t happen,” Anne said firmly. It would be highly out of the ordinary—a governess generally only joined the family when she was needed to bolster the numbers—but beyond that, she had work to do. She popped her hand lightly on Frances’s head. “I shall be eating with you.”
The unexpected blessing of Nanny Flanders having taken sick. Anne could not imagine what Lord Winstead had been thinking, requesting that she join the family for supper. If ever there was a move designed to put her in an awkward position, that was it. The lord of the manor asking to dine with the governess? He might as well just come out and say he was trying to get her into his bed.
Which she had a feeling he was. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to fend off unwanted advances from her employers.
But it would be the first time a part of her had wanted to give in.
“Good evening!” It was Lord Winstead, come out onto the portico to greet them.
“Daniel!” Frances shrieked. She did a 180 degree turn, kicking up dust all over her sisters, and ran toward him, practically knocking him down as she launched herself into his arms.
“Frances!” Lady Pleinsworth scolded. “You are far too old to be jumping on your cousin.”
“I don’t mind,” Lord Winstead said with a laugh. He tousled Frances’s hair, which earned him a wide grin.
Frances twisted her head backwards to ask her mother, “If I’m too old to jump on Daniel, does that mean I’m old enough to eat with the adults?”
“Not even close to it,” Lady Pleinsworth replied pertly.
“But Harriet—”
“—is five years your elder.”
“We shall have a grand time in the nursery,” Anne announced, walking over to pluck her charge off Lord Winstead. He turned to face her, his eyes flaring with a familiarity that made her skin turn warm. She could tell he was about to say something about her joining the family for supper, so she quickly added, in a voice that everyone could hear, “Normally I take my supper in my room, but with Nanny Flanders sick, I am more than happy to take her place with Elizabeth and Frances in the nursery.”
“Once again, you are our savior, Miss Wynter,” chimed Lady Pleinsworth. “I don’t know what we would do without you.”
“First the musicale and now this,” Lord Winstead said approvingly.
Anne glanced at him, trying to discern his motive for saying such a thing, but he had already turned his attention back to Frances.
“Perhaps we shall stage a concert while we are here,” Elizabeth suggested. “It would be great fun.”
It was hard to tell in the twilight, but Anne thought she might have seen Lord Winstead blanch. “I did not bring your viola,” she said quickly. “Nor Harriet’s violin.”
“What about—”
“And not your contrabassoon, either,” Anne said to Frances before she could even ask.
“Oh, but this is Whipple Hill,” Lady Pleinsworth said. “No Smythe-Smith home would be complete without a generous assortment of musical instruments.”
“Even a contrabassoon?” Frances asked hopefully.
Lord Winstead looked dubious, but he said, “I suppose you can look.”
“I shall! Miss Wynter, will you help me?”
“Of course,” Anne murmured. It seemed as good an enterprise as any to keep her out of the way of the family.
“With Sarah feeling so much better, you won’t have to play the pianoforte this time,” Elizabeth pointed out.
It was a good thing Lady Sarah had already entered the house, Anne thought, because she would have had to stage an elaborate relapse right then and there.
“Let us all come inside,” Lord Winstead said. “There is no need to change from your traveling clothes. Mrs. Barnaby has seen to an informal supper, of which we may all partake, Elizabeth and Frances included.”
And you, too, Miss Wynter.
He didn’t say it. He didn’t even look at her, but Anne felt the words nonetheless.
“If you will be dining en famille,” Anne said to Lady Pleinsworth, “I should be most grateful to retire to my room. I find myself weary from the journey.”
“Of course, my dear. You will need to reserve your energy for this week. I’m afraid we shall be working you to the bone. Poor Nanny.”
“Don’t you mean poor Miss Wynter?” Frances asked.
Anne smiled at her charge. Indeed.
“Never fear, Miss Wynter,” Elizabeth said. “We shall go easy on you.”
“Oh you shall, shall you?”
Elizabeth assumed an innocent mien. “I am willing to forgo all mathematics for the duration.”
Lord Winstead chuckled, then turned to Anne. “Shall I have someone show you to your room?”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Come with me. I shall see to it.” He turned to his aunt and cousins. “The rest of you, go along to the breakfast room. Mrs. Barnaby had the footmen set up supper there, since we are so informal this evening.”
Anne had no choice but to follow him through the main hall and then to a long portrait gallery. She appeared to be at the early side of it, she thought, judging from the Elizabethan ruff on the rather portly man staring down at her. She looked about for a maid, or a footman, or whoever it was he planned to have show her to her room, but they were quite alone.
Except for two dozen Winsteads of years gone by.
She stood and clasped her hands primly in front of her. “I’m sure you wish to join your family. Perhaps a maid . . .”
“What kind of host would I be?” he asked smoothly. “Pawning you off like a piece of baggage.”
“I beg your pardon?” Anne murmured with some alarm. Surely he could not mean . . .
He smiled. Like a wolf. “I shall see you to your room myself.”
“Lord Winstead,” she began, “surely you recognize the impropriety of such a . . . such a . . .”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he said, happy to save her from her articulation difficulties. “Your virtue is safe with me.”
“But not my reputation!”
She did have a point there.
“I shall be quick as a . . .” He paused. “Well, whatever it is that is quick and not terribly unattractive.”
She stared at him as if he’d sprouted horns. Unattractive horns.
He smiled gamely. “I shall be down to supper so quickly no one will even realize I went with you.”
“That is not the point.”
“Isn’t it? You said you were concerned for your reputation.”
“I am, but—”
“So quick,” he interrupted, putting an end to whatever manner of protest she’d been working toward. “I’d hardly have time to ravish you even if that were my intention.”
She gasped. “Lord Winstead!”
Wrong thing to say. But so terribly entertaining.
“I jest,” he said to her.
She stared at him.
“The saying of it is the jest,” he quickly explained. “Not the sentiment.”
Still, she said nothing. And then: “I think you have gone mad.”
“It is certainly a possibility,” he said agreeably. He motioned to the corridor that led to the west stairs. “Here, come this way.” He waited for a moment, then added, “It’s not as if you have a choice.”
She stiffened, and he realized that he had said something terribly wrong. Wrong because of something that had happened in her past, some other time when she had had no choices.
But perhaps also wrong simply because it was wrong, no matter what her history. He did not pinch the maids or corner young girls at parties. He had always tried to treat women with respect. There was no justification for offering Miss Wynter anything less.