His Tempting Governess: Delightful Doings in Dudley Crescent, Book 2

by DeLand, Cerise

  Only her fingers moved, digging into the cotton of her skirts like talons. Her eyes remained in his, hard as gemstones. “One does not react to the lures they offer.”

  “Lures. Such as?”

  “Unruly behaviors. Whispers. Passed notes. Humorous events.”

  “I see. So then you do not react to their natural childish behaviors?”

  Pressing those appealing lips to thin lines, she nodded. “This is correct.”

  He walked to the fireplace to take his eyes from her person. She spoke with an educated demeanor with proper diction and assured delivery. That came from exposure to the best tutors, to years of training in elocution, proper decorum and discipline. And she had good bones. The lovely specimen before him was no mere waif who’d scrambled to gain enough education to commend her as a governess. “Then tell me one thing.”

  “Of course.”

  He faced her. “Do you like children?”

  She blinked. “I’m sorry. I—”

  “Didn’t expect the question?”

  “No.”

  “Most don’t ask?”

  She frowned at him, her eyes searching his. “No one, my lord, finds it useful to ask.”

  “They don’t care how their children are treated?” He liked keeping her off keel. Watching her nimble catch of his questions gave him a good idea of how she’d work with his charge.

  She nodded. “Most parents expect a governess to provide the book or the rod.”

  “Do you?”

  “I will attempt to provide what you wish, my lord.”

  “Attempt to,” he mused. “Why only attempt to?”

  “I do not believe the rod is the most useful tool in inspiring a child to learn the wonders of this world.”

  Pivoting away from her, he could not contain his grin and picked up the poker from the hearth. With a jab at the burning coals, he recalled a similar discussion he’d had decades ago with his own governess. “What then does?”

  “Children should be petted while they’re young. Allowed to explore what they will. Lured by their curiosity. Intrigued by the possibilities of what they learn and yet disciplined at the same time.”

  “Is that so?” He wanted to believe her. She made instruction sound…ethereal. Perhaps if he’d had the opportunity to sit at the knee of someone like her when young, he might have pleased his father and mother more with his erudition. In lieu of that, he’d found his métier in the discipline of the army, fighting wars, maiming and killing his enemies. Later, he’d discovered his talents were in the sleight of hand in the diplomatic corps. His father, so focused on his older brother, noticed his promotions in rank or preferment only when Win needed him to pay his commission fees. His mother had granted little attention to him except when he won awards for battles. After his father and his brother died and he’d become the ninth earl, his mother had surprisingly changed from stranger to loving ally. “Tell me, Miss Swanson, why pet a child?”

  “With inducements?” Miss Swanson asked, her expression afire with enthusiasm. “Encouraging them in their own endeavors? I do believe it is the manner which serves all children best. Can you recall a time in your youth when you were entranced by a subject? Latin? Homer? French poetry?”

  He burst out in laughter and faced her. “None of those, I’m afraid.”

  “What then?” Her words were tinged with curiosity and challenge.

  Yet he focused on the way she formed her words. Her alluring lips moved with soft precision, her precise pronunciation bringing forth wisps of sound that seared him with expectation. As if she were a feather dusting his consciousness, tickling his fancy and enticing him to move closer.

  He clasped his hands together, restraining himself from trying to catch her elusive beauty. “Spiders.”

  Her luscious mouth formed a perfect O. Her delicate dark brows inched high. “Most boys like snakes.”

  “I liked those too.”

  Her dark eyes sparkled like gems. She grinned. “Mice?”

  He knit his brows in mirth. She found humor in all this? “I bred a few. We had so many in captivity that I was forced by my own governess to set them free. The house cats were quite happy.”

  “And you?” she asked with devilry in her voice.

  “I returned to my spiders and snakes.” They kept me occupied when all else in the world was chaos.

  “I’m glad,” she said with a little frisson of delight. “One must have an occupation.”

  She said it as if she meant it. No pretenses, no rigidities, no walls for her. The idea of a governess who believed in a child having an ‘occupation’ pleased him. And intrigued him. She was different. If not revolutionary in her thinking. She was natural. What would she teach a child who needed no encouragements to be more free?

  “Spiders are extremely useful creatures,” he declared.

  “To trap flies, some would say, yes. But what of Cardinal Woolsey who feared the Tegenaria parietina?”

  “I have one,” he told her, folding his arms and arching a brow.

  She gaped. “You…have one?”

  “I do. In a collection. Under glass. At my country home in Sussex.”

  “Oh, I’d love to see it.” There once more was that perfectly beautiful formation of awe on her pink lips.

  He licked his own. “Yes, well.”

  She blushed, her exuberance dawning on her. “Um. Well. Perhaps you might show your ward your collection? Children love nature.”

  It was more than the look of enchantment on her face that encouraged a spot of warmth to grow in the region of his heart. He’d felt that for few women and not for long. Lust was one thing. But long-lasting affection required appeal, enchantment. He’d known it once…but for money and position, she’d married another.

  “This child does.” Too much so. And her fervor drives many to distraction.

  Fearing Miss Swanson would run and he would lose her, he strolled toward the window. Outside rain pattered against the window panes. People scurried along the street. He liked rain. Useful, refreshing rain. “Parlez vous Français, Mademoiselle?”

  “Oui, Monsieur le comte. Très bien.”

  French was often the language he lapsed into. Years on the Continent had ingrained it in his soul. How had she learned it? “Comment avez-vous appris le français?”

  “Ma mère est née à Reims.”

  He couldn’t restrain the smile on his lips. “Born in Reims?”

  “Oui, Monsieur. She met my father before the Terror and moved to England with him. She spoke French every day.”

  He nodded, watching a drop of rain wend down the pane. “French is certainly useful to a woman. As the language of refinement, my ward would benefit greatly. I would hope you give her the full benefit of your expertise.”

  “Mon plaisir, Monsieur. I will.”

  She certainly was giving him a great sense of pleasure…and peace. Too much so to be fitting for employer and staff. “Are you versed in geography?”

  She remained silent.

  Had she heard him? Whirling to face her, he found her examining his form with appreciative eyes. “Well?”

  She trained her gaze up to his face, blinking, her dark lashes fluttering in confusion, her cheeks reddening.

  Aroused at her actions, he stiffened. In many places, actually. “Are you?”

  “Am I what, my lord?”

  His body warmed to her, to the thrust and parry of their exchange. It was a comedy of errors, instigated by his own absorption in her looks and manners. Better to be kind to her. “Are you versed in geography?”

  “Oh, yes. Quite.” She nodded once. “I am.”

  “Do you know enough to teach about trade winds? Cumulus from cirrus clouds? Limestone versus granite?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which?”

  “Yes to all.”

  He flourished a hand. “What do you not know?”

  “Advanced mathematics. Human anatomy.”

  “I’m not surprised. Women usually don
’t. It’s a pity.”

  She took that statement with wide eyes as if she were surprised at his regret. “We’re supposed to learn only enough to nurse sick members of the family.”

  He felt a rush of need to make her happy. How? “Do you advocate for geometry and anatomy?”

  “I would. That is, I would—will, in fact—if you wish it.”

  He nodded. “I do. Add them.”

  The joy on her face took her from lovely to irresistible. She was simply breath-taking and he shouldn’t find her appealing at all. Not if he were to employ her. Not if she were to live here. Within reach. But she was such a rarity. That warmth in the center of his body flared with ribald interest.

  Did he leer at her? What cad did that? Not he!

  She surely noticed something amiss because she dropped her gaze to her lap where she laced her fingers together. “May I ask you, my lord, to inform me about your charge?”

  Cartwell wanted to scoop her up, pop her in his lap and apologize for his improper desires. He was hard and hot. And he must not be. He swallowed. What to say to her to kill the tension? “Lord and Lady Blessington told you nothing?”

  She shook her head, her expression blank. “Only that you are newly appointed as her guardian.”

  “This is true. My ward is a young girl. Age eight.” How to break the news that his ward was a bit different than most little ones?

  “I see. May I ask if she is related to you? Where was her home? What happened to her parents or her former guardians? Tell me please how you see her, what she thinks of herself, how she has viewed her change in circumstances. I am eager to know.”

  Not one woman who had sat here had listed any of that. Who was this one that she would ask such extraordinary questions? “She is strong and healthy of limb.”

  “Strong minds are built of strong bodies.”

  Strong-minded is indeed the right of it. He strolled toward her, meaning to impress her with the severity of what he was to say next. “She is my friend’s only child. He died a few weeks ago. Her father named me guardian as I was his best friend and comrade in arms.”

  “And you and she get on, do you?” the woman asked as if that were the most logical reason in the world why he’d been named as an eight-year-old girl’s guardian.

  As if in answer—or the devil’s prank—the hall door burst open and the yapping and chatter that filled the room had Cartwell staring at the ceiling with prayers on his tongue.

  “Your butler told me there was chocolate in the scones, my lord.” A wee voice enflamed with impertinence rose to his ears. And at his side, tiny fingers yanked at the hem of his frock coat.

  At his feet, one furry animal sat and yapped at their visitor. Another creature crawled up the leg of the settee, sat on the ruby upholstered arm and stared into the emerald eyes of the lady in question. He picked at the sleeves of her pretty pink dress and chattered at her in his own language.

  And she did not draw away. Or cry. Or shriek. But watched the monkey with merry eyes.

  “My lord?” His ward dragged on his sleeve. “I say, I see no scones. No bananas. No cookies. And I am hungry. So are Kringle and Pan.”

  Cartwell looked once more at the woman on the settee. He expected tears, shock, fright, dismay. None of that, however, graced her charming countenance.

  She was chuckling. A hand to her mouth, the other waving a handkerchief in the air, Miss Swanson was amused.

  But as his eight-year-old was insistent and her two hairy companions were even more adamant and louder than she, the lady in their midst cleared her throat and gazed at the child.

  “Miss Swanson, allow me to present Miss Daphne Lennard. Daphne, this is Miss Swanson.”

  Their candidate smiled sweetly at the girl. “How do you do, Miss Lennard. I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” She gave a little dip of her bright blonde head. But at Cartwell, she frowned. “Another applicant, my lord?”

  “Yes.”

  “Must we have one, sir?” she asked, her pale brows knit tight as his Grandmother Buck’s needlepoint stitches.

  “We’ve been over this, Daphne.” He sighed with no small dose of exasperation.

  “I quite like my studies as they are now. You’ve been kind to read poetry to me, sir, and I prefer—“

  “Daphne,” he broke in to chide her and shake his head, “we cannot continue as we have.”

  “Why not, sir? I’m polite and—”

  “You are indeed, Daphne.” He admitted that but could give her no quarter. “But my time must be devoted to other pursuits.”

  “You don’t go out at night. So you have no mistress.”

  He set his jaw.

  Miss Swanson focused on middle distance, her face frozen.

  Daphne inched closer to him, her hand grabbing his. “And you aren’t gambling. Shrew told me so. So that means—”

  “Daphne.” He would have a somber talk with this child. However Daphne had learned he privately addressed his butler by his shortened name did not mean she could. “No one will wish to educate you if you insist on raising issues best left unturned.”

  The girl shuffled one foot to the other. Unrepentant, she nodded. “Yes, my lord.”

  “You will have a governess, who can be your companion and your friend.” Not exactly what most governesses would describe as their line of duty, but he thought it a necessary addition to the description given his ward’s recent loss of parents.

  Dropping his hand, the child took two quick steps toward Miss Swanson and leaned forward to inhale deeply. “This one appears to be clean, however. And she does not smell of anisette.”

  Cartwell smothered a grin.

  “Do you ride, Miss Swanson?” the girl asked the candidate as if it were the normal line of inquiry for a child of her teacher.

  The applicant stared into the child’s eyes. “I do. Are you skilled?”

  “I’m excellent at the reins. In the saddle or in a pony cart. I’d like to ride to hounds, you see.” Daphne Lennard lifted her cute little chin into the air.

  “What will occupy your day time?” the would-be governess rejoined.

  “I shall become an expert archer.”

  Cartwell noted four important facts. The woman had not yet headed for the door. The child had not yet yelled at him that this one was a cretin. The monkey—for once—was being a gentleman, silently looking only at the lovely woman in their midst. And the dog? Well, the dog had not yet pissed on anyone’s shoes. Least of all Miss Swanson‘s extravagant slippers. Furthermore, the dog too remained quiet.

  Cartwell took a glimpse of the animal. He sat, quite rapt, his eyes fastened to their visitor, his pink tongue hanging out in a manner that, dare Cartwell think it, resembled a smile.

  “I like archery. But it’s difficult to shoot all day,” Miss Swanson said.

  “But I don’t plan to dance,” his charge told the lady.

  “Very well. No need if you don’t like it.”

  “Not gardening or math.” Daphne crumpled up her little face in distaste.

  The woman swept out a hand. “No flowers, I can understand. But no math means you cannot track your household expenses. Is it wise to entrust your money to someone else?”

  That made him frown. Certainly, he believed women capable of ordering their own finances. His mother did, and heaven knew, she was more prudent about it than his father or his older brother had been. But in Miss Swanson’s question, he heard pain…and anger.

  Daphne pursed her lips. “I’ll let Lord Cartwell do that. He does now. Papa put that in his will, didn’t he, sir?”

  Cartwell took a long breath. Daphne’s father had named him guardian of his daughter and of his estate. The entire business filled Cartwell’s days like a flood. “He did.”

  Miss Swanson was not about to be conquered. “Nonetheless, you should learn your sums.”

  “And more,” the girl insisted.

  “Such as?”

  “Headache powders.”
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  To her credit, the woman turned not a hair, but nodded as if that were the most normal of topics. “Because?”

  “My mother died of headaches. I wish to cure them.”

  “A worthwhile cause. We should begin then with chemistry. What else interests you?”

  “Sculpture and French Chantilly cream.”

  “Hmmm. Intriguing if broached correctly.”

  Daphne lifted on her toes. “Do you know how to make Chantilly cream stand stiff as a board?”

  “No. But we can learn together.”

  The little girl smiled but the devil was in her eye. “Would you really?”

  “Why not?” asked the woman.

  Daphne searched Miss Swanson’s face. “Why would you do that for me?”

  “Because if we cannot learn from each other in this world, how are we to advance? How to invent headache powders for people in pain or study sculpture to understand the wonders of the human body? But I must know more. Tell me if you will learn more than powders, bronzes and sweets.”

  Daphne thought that over for a long minute. “I suppose I could. If you make it interesting.”

  “It will be…if you come with an open mind.”

  Ah, the gauntlet.

  Daphne tugged on his hand. “Please, my lord, do tell her my rules.”

  Miss Swanson peered at him in question.

  “Daphne and I have discussed certain parameters of her education. Go on, you tell her.”

  Daphne scowled at Miss Swanson. “I hate needlepoint. And I won’t be locked up or starved of my supper—”

  Miss Swanson startled. “I should hope not.”

  “You agree?” the girl asked, her brows high.

  “Denying you food is not the way to see you grow strong in mind or body.”

  The little girl stared up at him. “Will she do?”

  “Leave us, Daphne. Miss Swanson and I must speak of other particulars.”

  Daphne flapped her thin little arms at her sides. “Come, Kringle. Pan.” With an imperial toss of her curls, she turned on her heel and strode out. The monkey talked and the sleet black canine loped behind her.

  Cartwell watched her go, astonished that she left so easily and took the monkey and the dog with her. While the woman remained.