by Dare, Tessa
“I’m not interested in it for the glory. A woman of my station has to be more practical than that.”
“So you intend to be an astronomical mercenary. I’m impressed.”
She smiled a little. “That makes it sound far too exciting. It’s boring work. A matter of searching the sky, one dark patch at a time, looking for anything smudgy.”
“Smudgy? A proper scientific term, that.”
“I’ll show you an example, if you like.”
She joined him, crowding into the small window alcove, and bent to adjust the telescope—affording him, should he choose to take it, a view directly down the neckline of her frock. Chase pulled his gaze away, but not swiftly enough. That split-second view of two celestially perfect crescents of soft, feminine flesh was going to linger.
In need of distraction, he swept a gaze around the room—which, in its own way, was equally revealing.
This was the sum total of her possessions? The bedchamber remained empty for the most part, save for a simple dressing set on the washstand, a row of books and writing supplies on the corner table, and a few articles of clothing hanging on pegs. On the wall above the table, she’d affixed items clipped from newspapers and magazines. A map of the constellations, a card with an illustration commemorating the appearance of Halley’s comet in 1759, and a few smaller notices that he had to squint to read from this distance. At the top of one, he could just make out the words “Cottage for Let.”
“Here it is. Have a look, if you like.” She beckoned him to look through the eyepiece.
Chase bent awkwardly, closed one eye, and peered into the brass tube. His reward was a blurry glimpse of a wholly unremarkable speck of light. “Apparently I’m a natural astronomer. I can declare with certainty”—he squinted—“that is a smudgy sky thing. I shall expect to imminently receive my medal from the Royal Astronomical Society.”
“That’s not a comet. Most of the smudges aren’t. Before declaring it a new discovery, you have to rule out the other possibilities. Fortunately, others have done much of that work. There’s a book by a Frenchman. Charles Messier. He catalogued a great many of the known not-a-comet smudges, so that comet-hunting observers know to ignore them.” She went to retrieve a folio from the table and flipped through the pages for him to view.
“You said a book. That’s not a book.”
“I couldn’t find a copy I could afford to purchase,” she admitted. “So I borrowed it from a circulating library and copied it out by hand. After consulting Messier, one must check against lists of identified comets. If it’s not among those, then you can report your smudge to the Royal Observatory for verification. Even then, nine times in ten it will have already been claimed.”
“And the smudges that aren’t comets. What are they?”
“Nebulae, mostly. Or star clusters.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to define these things if you want me to have any idea what you’re talking about. Alternatively, you can simply go on talking while I stare at your earlobe.”
She blushed. “You needn’t trouble yourself.”
“It’s no chore.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the window casing. “I’m a veritable connoisseur of earlobes, and yours is rather nice.”
“I meant you needn’t pretend to be interested, Mr. Reynaud. Clearly you have an engagement this evening, and I don’t wish to delay you.”
“I’m not pretending. I’m finding this conversation most fascinating. Even though a great deal of it is lost on me.”
That wasn’t precisely the truth. He was finding Alexandra Mountbatten fascinating, and nothing about her was lost on him. He wasn’t all that interested in gazing at the sky himself, but he was captivated by the experience of watching her gazing at the sky. Her figure and earlobe weren’t the half of it.
Standing this close, he could detect the faintest hint of orange-flower water about her. Not enough to qualify as a perfume. Just the suggestion that she scented her bathwater with a few sparing drops. An amount carefully poised between the indulgence of a small feminine luxury, and the economy required to make a small vial last for months.
A tiny, beaded, cross-shaped pendant was tied about her neck with a narrow satin ribbon just long enough for the coral beads to nestle at the base of her throat. Again, that balance between prettiness and practicality. The best quality ribbon she could likely afford, purchased in the smallest possible amount.
Damn, she would be a delight to spoil. If she weren’t his employee, he could shower her with little gifts and luxuries. Remove all the small worries that came between her and the sky.
“Do go on,” he said. “I’m listening.” And looking. And noticing.
“Nebulae are clouds of stardust floating in space. Star clusters are just as they sound. Stars appear so close together in the sky, they’re sometimes mistaken for one object. My favorite smudge, however, isn’t a nebula or cluster. It’s Messier’s number 40. A double star. Perhaps even a binary star.”
“Oh, truly.” And with that, he was back to the earlobe.
She bent to peer through the eyepiece. “A binary star is created when two stars are drawn together. Once they come near enough, neither one can resist the other’s pull. They’re stuck together forever, destined to spend eternity revolving about each other, like . . . like dancers in a waltz, I suppose.” She scribbled a note in her notebook. “The fascinating thing is, a binary star’s center of gravity isn’t in one star or the other. It’s in the empty space between them.”
He was silent for a while. “I’ll be damned. You were right when you scolded me for letting this instrument go to waste.”
“I’m glad you see its value now.”
“Absolutely. To think, I could have been using it to seduce women all along.” To her chastening look, he replied, “Come now. All that waltzing star business? It’s deuced romantic.”
“I would never have marked you as a romantic.”
“I suppose it’s all that glory-of-the-universe talk. Makes a man feel rather small and insignificant. And that makes a man want to grab the nearest woman and prove himself to be otherwise.”
Their gazes met, and they both became keenly aware of the obvious.
She was the nearest woman.
He was not—absolutely not—going to pursue his governess. Yes, he was a rake. But for a gentleman, chasing after the house staff wasn’t rakish behavior. It was repulsive.
“The girls,” he blurted out, breaking the tension. “How was your first day?”
“Challenging.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Can you tell me something about their interests, or their schooling? Anything at all?”
“They’ve had little proper schooling, but are somehow far too clever despite it. Their interests are mischief, disease, petty thievery, and plotting crimes against the house staff.”
She laughed a little. “You speak as though they’re hardened criminals.”
“They’re well on the way to it. But now you’re here to take them in hand. I have every faith in you, Miss Mountbatten.” He patted her shoulder gamely. “I’ve seen your natural talent as a disciplinarian.”
She cringed. “Yes, about that . . .”
“If you’re intending to apologize, don’t. I richly deserved all your censure, and then some. I wish I could say you’ve already seen me at my worst, but that’s nowhere near the case. However, I do wish to say one thing.”
“Yes?”
She gave him her full attention—and she had an intimidating amount of attention to give. Only natural, he supposed. Here was a woman willing to stare into dark emptiness night after night, on the hope that someday some tiny speck might shine back. As she gazed at him, Chase found himself wishing he could reward her observation.
Only darkness here, darling. Don’t waste your time.
“If my reputation worries you,” he said, as much for his own benefit as hers, “it needn’t. Seducing you would never even cross my mind.”
She nodded. “Thank you for your assurances, Mr. Reynaud. I appreciate them very much indeed.”
Chapter Seven
Seducing you would never even cross my mind.
What a perfectly timed reminder. Really, the man had a way of withering Alexandra’s pride to a dried-up husk. One moment, he was listening to her babble away about comets, hanging on her words, and complimenting her earlobe, and the next, he left her with a few parting words to remind her that she was a fool.
Embroidery wasn’t her favorite hobby, but Alex planned to stitch those words on a sampler and hang it above her bed:
Seducing you would never even cross my mind.
—Mr. Charles Reynaud, 1817
She no longer wondered at his popularity with women. Devilish charm simply radiated from him, like one of nature’s essential forces. Gravity, magnetism, electricity . . . Chase Reynaud’s masculine appeal.
His every lopsided grin or low, teasing word sent a frisson of excitement rushing along her skin. That alone wouldn’t be a problem. But then her brain caught up all those sensations, rolled them into a ball, and set it on a shelf. As if that quivering mass of feminine reaction was something that deserved to take up space. As if it needed a name.
Well, Alexandra would label it, right this moment.
I-D-I-O-C-Y.
She heard the creak of a door down at street level, and she gave in to the temptation to peer over her windowsill. There he stood, waiting on the pavement in that immaculately tailored black topcoat. He gave his cuffs a smart tug and ran a hand through his tawny brown hair. A pair of matched bays pulled a fashionable blue-lacquered phaeton around from the mews, and the groom handed him the reins.
Off he went to spend his evening enjoying the company of others. And here Alex was left mooning over him like a fool.
She readied herself for bed and put out the candle. And then she lay awake far too long listening for the sounds of a returning phaeton, or the creak of a door. Not that it was any of her concern what time he returned home, or whether he returned at all.
She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she woke to the sensation of someone poking her in the arm.
Repeatedly.
She opened her eyes halfway. “Rosamund? Is that you?”
“She’s dead.”
Now Alex was awake. She sat bolt upright in bed. “Dead?”
“Millicent. The consumption took her overnight.”
The doll. She meant the doll.
“You gave me a fright.” Alex pressed a hand to her chest. Perhaps her heart would stop racing in a day or two.
“The funeral is prepared. We’ll be waiting on you in the nursery.”
Funeral?
Rosamund was gone before Alex could inquire further. She rose from bed and hastily dressed. Given her disorientation in a new room and the abrupt way she’d been roused from sleep, she didn’t do a very good job of it. After two attempts, she decided she could live with misaligned buttons for the moment, and three passes of the hairbrush would have to be enough. Clenching a few hairpins in her teeth, she made her way into the corridor, winding her hair into a knot as she went.
Alex hoped the standard of attire at this funeral wasn’t overly formal. She’d just jabbed the second pin into her haphazard chignon when she entered the nursery. Millicent lay in the center of the bed, staring up blankly from the swaddling of her shroud. The girls stood on either side. Daisy wore a scrap of black lace netting draped over her head as a veil.
Alex struggled, mightily, not to burst out laughing. If for no other reason than that doing so would launch the remaining hairpins in her mouth like missiles.
She completed her upsweep, composed herself, and approached the bed. To Rosamund, she whispered, “What happens now?”
“We’re waiting on—”
A male voice breezed into the room. “Such a tragedy. Deepest sympathies. A grievous loss.”
Mr. Reynaud had joined the group.
Alex slid a cautious glance in his direction. He wore the same black coat and boots he’d been wearing the night previous. His cuffs were undone, however, and his cravat was missing.
Probably draped over an antler prong somewhere.
He walked toward Daisy and made a deep bow of condolences before holding out his arm so that she could pin something around it.
A black armband.
She recalled his words from a few days ago. Millicent is Daisy’s doll. She kills the thing at least once a day.
So this was why he’d been wearing the black armband a few mornings past, when they’d conducted that farce of an interview in his not-at-all-a-gentleman’s retreat. He hadn’t been in mourning. Not for a human being, at any rate. Perhaps she shouldn’t have judged him quite so harshly.
He bent to place a kiss on Millicent’s painted forehead. “Bless her soul. She looks just as though she’s sleeping. Or awake. Or doing anything else, really.”
Alex’s mouth twitched at the corners, but she bowed her head and tried to appear bereaved.
“Let us begin,” Daisy said solemnly.
They formed a semicircle at the foot of the bed. Rosamund went to Daisy’s right side. Mr. Reynaud assumed what was clearly his usual place at Daisy’s left—which put him next to Alexandra.
She didn’t want to think about where he’d been since she saw him last, but her senses gave her no choice in the matter. When she inhaled, she smelled brandy and sandalwood, and the suggestion that he’d walked through a cloud of cheroot smoke. She didn’t detect any hint of a lady’s perfume, however. That should not have come as a relief, but it did.
She stared at the bedpost and set her mind on tragedy.
“Mr. Reynaud, would you kindly say a few words?” Daisy asked.
“But of course.” He clasped his hands together and intoned in a low, grave voice, “Almighty Father, we are gathered here today to commend to your keeping the soul of Millicent Fairfax.”
Daisy nudged him with her elbow.
“Millicent Annabelle Chrysanthemum Genevieve Fairfax,” he corrected.
Alexandra bit the inside of her cheek. How could the man keep a straight face through all this?
“She will be remembered for her faithful companionship. A truer friend never lived. Not once did she stray from Daisy’s side—save for the few occasions when she rolled off the bed.”
Oh, help. Alex was going to laugh. She knew it. Biting her tongue clean through wouldn’t help.
Perhaps she could disguise a burst of laughter as a cough. After all, consumption was catching.
“Let Millicent’s composure in the face of certain death be a model for us all. Her eyes remained fixed on heaven—and not merely because she lacked any eyelids to close.”
She cast a pleading glance at him, only to catch him glancing back with devilish amusement. He wanted her to laugh, the terrible man. And then, just as she thought she was lost, he took her hand in his, lacing their fingers into a tight knot.
Alex no longer worried she might laugh.
Instead, her heart squeezed.
On Mr. Reynaud’s other side, Daisy clasped her guardian’s hand tight. Then she offered her free hand to Rosamund. The four of them had formed an unbroken chain, and Alex realized the truth. Here were three people who desperately needed each other—perhaps even loved each other—and they would all rather contract consumption than admit it.
Daisy bowed her veiled head. “Let us pray.”
Alex fumbled her way through the Lord’s Prayer, quietly reeling. His grip was so warm and firm. His signet ring pressed against her third and fourth fingers. The moment felt intimate. The way they stood holding hands, heads bowed in prayer, it felt less like a funeral, and more like . . .
More like a wedding.
No, no, no.
What was wrong with her? Had she learned nothing from those months of foolish imaginings? All those silly fantasies had popped like a soap bubble when it became clear he’d forgotten her completely. Chase
Reynaud was not the man of her dreams. By his own declaration, he would never even think of seducing her.
She really needed to start on that sampler.
“Lead us not into temptation,” Alex prayed fervently, “but deliver us from evil.”
When the prayer was done, Daisy placed the deceased doll reverently in a toy-chest “grave.”
Mr. Reynaud kept Alexandra’s hand in his. “Well, then, Miss Mountbatten. Now that’s over with, I shall leave you to your pupils.” He gave her hand a light squeeze before releasing it. “Let the education begin.”
Chapter Eight
The education was on hold. Before any lessons could take place, Alexandra had a ten-year-old girl to conquer.
After breakfast, the Rosamund Rebellion commenced.
Silence was her first strategy, and she’d marshaled Daisy into the campaign. Neither of them would speak a word to Alex. Indeed, once the funeral was over, neither of them even acknowledged her presence. Rosamund read her book, Daisy exhumed Millicent, and all three treated Alex as if she didn’t exist.
Very well. Both sides could play at this game.
The next day, Alex didn’t even try to start conversation. Instead, she brought a novel and a packet of biscuits—Nicola had sent her off with a full hamper of them—and she sat in the rocking chair to read. She laughed aloud at the funny bits—really, pigeons?—gasped at the revelations, and loudly chewed her way through a dozen biscuits. At one point, she was certain she felt Daisy gazing at her from across the room. However, she didn’t dare look up to confirm it.
It became a habit. Every day, Alex brought with her a novel, and every day, a different variety of Nicola’s biscuits. Lemon, almond, chocolate, toffee. And every day, as she sat eating and reading, the girls ignored her existence.
Until the morning a foul odor permeated the nursery. A sharp scent that even fresh-baked biscuits had no hope to overpower. As the day grew warmer, the ripe, pungent smell became nauseating. The girls offered no clue as to its origin, and Alexandra would not give Rosamund the satisfaction of asking. Instead she sniffed and searched until she found the source. A bit of clammy, shrunken Stilton buried in her bottom-most desk drawer.