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

by DeLand, Cerise

  But would she really?

  Had he met her last week or two months ago…perhaps. But now…

  If it weren’t for that other lady who filled his house with laughter and cheer. That other lady who was just as chipper and bright. Just as intriguing. Dare he say, more so? With her very fine humor, her boldness to ask for higher wages, her wardrobe of fine materials but outdated styles. Her large emerald eyes that met his in frankness and mirth. And drew him. Each morning. Every afternoon. And hours thereafter.

  Miss Swanson.

  Blessington and his wife rose and invited them all to retire to the drawing room for brandy and conversation.

  Win got to his feet, his thoughts winging to Dudley Crescent. Number 18.

  Dinner was nearly done, thank heavens. A few more minutes and he could soon return home to assure himself that Miss Swanson did not dance in his upstairs hall but had retired to her rooms to rest. Minutes now and he could return home to those he cared for. His new family.

  Daphne. Pan. Kringle. And delightful Miss Isabelle Swanson.

  He stepped from his town coach and hurried up the front steps to his house. The night was soft, May breezes gentle upon his face. A mist fell against his skin. He liked a night like this. No threat to life or limb, but refreshing to the heart.

  Shrew pulled open the door.

  “An enjoyable evening, sir?” he asked as he took Win’s cane, hat and gloves.

  “Indeed it was. Are we all in for the night?” His mother kept telling him he need not ask this of the butler. Indeed, he shouldn’t. It was his place as earl to expect all his staff were in their proper beds. But the practice of asking and receiving such assurances came from decades of looking after the men under his command. One had to know all were accounted for and safe.

  “We are, sir.”

  Win noted the four doused tapers in the wall sconce and the two remaining that Shrew used to light their way up the staircase.

  “Shall I get you anything, sir, from the kitchen? Tea? A biscuit? Hot chocolate?”

  “I’ll go into my library. Have a drink.” To sort my thoughts. All the way home, he’d been shocked at his impulsive declaration that he had a new family.

  The servant gave a nod, knowing how Win liked a little something before he laid down for the night. Especially hot chocolate. His aide had told Shrew that when first he accompanied Win home from Paris in ‘fifteen. Though that attentive man had passed away two weeks after Win inherited the title, Shrew always made a point to ask.

  “Good night then, sir.”

  Win took the stairs, unbuttoning his frock coat and catching the eye of the old cavalier Roderick peering down at him. “I met Miss Sarah Stewart tonight, Rod. A descendant of some branch of that royal Scots family. She’s not pretty. But beauty’s not a requirement between the sheets, is it?”

  That the old cavalier did not answer made Win shake his head. The only one Miss Stewart needs to suit is me. And I’m not of a mind to seek her out. Not when I can stay here in my own house and enjoy the company of a young woman I should not pursue.

  He paused at the landing. In the darkened hall, a wee light from the far end shown under the door jam of Miss Swanson’s room. Another light shown from beneath Daphne’s sitting room.

  Were they awake? Was Daphne ill? Or Miss Swanson discomfited by this morning’s near catastrophe?

  Illness came upon people with lightning speed and few symptoms of disaster. He’d known its disastrous powers in the field, on the run and he was never complacent about its abilities to fell a young strapping man, let alone a woman or child.

  He should not rush in or awaken anyone, but wait if one sounded an alarm. With reluctance, he turned for his library. The doors stood open as he liked them. Years of being denied entrance to libraries had created this obsession in him and even in winter, he ordered fires built higher in his libraries, here and in the country. Good for the books, he thought. Less mold in the moist and clammy English atmosphere.

  The library beckoned in subtle flickers of the two tapers Shrew had left burning for him. The butler assisted him in his tendency to end his days in the company of the letters and literature that his ancestors had collected and hardly ever perused. He knew it because his father had told him so. His grandfather too. The Summers family were not scholars intrigued by the wonders of the universe. But he was. Since his retirement from killing people, he was.

  So even if he never finished every volume that stood on the massive walnut shelves here or in the library twice the size in Cartwell Manor, Win would put a dent in his aspirations. If only to put a figurative finger in the eye of the man who had thought him unworthy of an education equal to his older brother’s. All this was his now. And if he sought to honor it with his attention, if he sought to inform himself of the wisdom collected here, it was his prerogative. And he would enjoy the hell out of it.

  Eyes straight ahead, he strode through the double doors and far into the room. Past the imposing map table and the two leather chairs, inhaling the scents of old paper and glue, he stepped toward his desk and poured himself a healthy draught of good French liquor. The aromas wafted to his nostrils. He put the snifter to his lips. Another fragrance danced about his head.

  A squeak caught his attention. He straightened. Inhaled the air. Rosemary filled his senses. She was here. And he was thrilled to find her here…as if she knew he craved the sight of her, the feel of her in his…

  He smiled and pivoted toward the sound.

  Clutching a book to her breast, Miss Isabelle Swanson stood near the far wall. She was limned in rays of moonlight in that plush robe of hers. Beneath, the collar of a pale muslin nightgown peeked above the black velvet. This was the same attire she’d worn to dance in his hall nights ago. Tonight, as before, her ebony hair glistened silver, her eyes opened wide in surprise and her lush lips parted in dismay. “Oh, my lord, I am so sorry. Shrewsbury told me you were to a dinner party and would be out well past midnight.”

  “Nothing to be dismayed about, Miss Swanson. You like to read. I applaud you.” He lifted his glass in a toast to her choices. “May I offer you a small draught as proof of my approval?”

  “I shouldn’t,” she answered.

  “Ah. But no one here says you should not. This is a library where all must be shared. Come.” He waggled his fingers at her and poured her a goodly measure.

  “I’m not dressed.“ She swept a hand down her torso, the book she held a protective covering over her night attire.

  He ordered his eyes not to examine how the rich fabric carelessly draped from the points of her shoulders. Nor should he wish to see how the delicate white muslin beneath the thick velvet might conform to her curves. But he did. “I insist. And I tell you, I shall focus only on your face.”

  She gave a laugh. Throaty. Carefree.

  “Come. Keep that book firmly placed.” A sure sign you think of dastardly actions, Win. “I promise to be a gentleman.”

  She came forward, the expression on her face drifting from acceptance to pleasure.

  He held out her glass and she took it quickly, her fingertips brushing his all too briefly.

  “What do you read?” he asked and moved to sit in one of the huge brown leather chairs.

  “Rob Roy.“

  “Like it?” He certainly liked her. Natural. Unadorned, as if she needed fripperies to make her lovely. Her poor scared cheeks appeared less ravaged and he liked to credit his help with that. The rest of her was fresh and fine as ever. Her scrubbed heart-shaped face, the bright green eyes, her form, so damn concealed in the wealth of clothing that no improper visions of her would occur this night.

  “Yes. Have you read it?”

  “Not yet. Come sit down. Drink. Tell me why I will like it.”

  “You sound like Daphne.”

  “She wants to know why Sir Walter Scott merits all his royalties?”

  Miss Swanson grinned and padded over in bare feet to sit in the matching chair. It was so huge, its tall winged ba
ck framing her form, that it portrayed her as the petite beauty she was. Why had no one married this pretty creature?

  “You were in the army, my lord. You know what it is to tilt against the enemy, to understand that despite planning not all goes as you expected. Fate can be cruel. Injustice survives.”

  “And yet to fight it is most necessary.” He took a sip of his liquor. “I welcomed the challenge.”

  “Some can never welcome the challenge. They never have the chance.”

  He tipped his head. “Who, for example?”

  “Women.”

  “Ah.” He took another drink. “Do you have such a challenge?”

  “Where I cannot pick up the gauntlet?” She pursed her lips and frowned down into her drink. Hurriedly, she took a sip and winced at the heat as she swallowed. “Yes.”

  His stomach clenched. He hated injustices. Had witnessed so many. His men blown to bits. Writhing in their own guts. Reaching out to grab a severed leg. An arm. Their friend.

  He shoved a hand through his hair and emptied his glass. Those visions must go. Must. But the next ones loomed—ones that always followed the gory ones. He snorted and spun for his liquor cart. As he poured, he let them roll over him.

  Homes destroyed by cannon fire. Crops confiscated by rampaging armies. Livestock butchered and roasted, eaten by hungry mobs. Barns and stables set afire by vengeful regiments. Rioters lynching anyone in their paths. Children starving. Women beaten, broken, sobbing after rape.

  He cleared his throat and faced her. “I have no right to ask what yours are, but if a burden shared is one halved, you can tell me.”

  Stiffening, she blanched.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “We do not know each other in that manner, do we? And not so long at that. I apologize. That was too forward.”

  Kringle bounded into the room and went to him, then Miss Swanson. He wagged his tail, his tongue out, panting as he nudged the governess’ hand.

  “What’s he going on about?” Win asked her. “Does he bother you at night? If so—”

  She stood, her head turning to the hall. She plunked her glass on the table between them—and strode away.

  A wail rent the air.

  She broke into a run.

  Glass down, he sprinted after her.

  In the hall, they both skidded to a halt.

  The monkey danced in the center of the rug, a frenetic jig.

  The dog sat, his big head hanging down to stare at his little mistress.

  Daphne stood in the center of the hall, eyes wide open, hands rigid at her sides, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  Win had seen this before. Men who were blind to themselves, living in their own hell. But that had been after a battle. This was Mayfair, London, England. No bombs, no bayonets, no fires or muskets.

  Miss Swanson was on her knees before the girl, her hands cupping her charge’s little face. “Daphne, my dear. You are well.”

  The child stared ahead, unseeing, and her tears continued down her chubby cheeks.

  “Daphne, you are cold. I will warm you, my dear.” Swanson gently wrapped her arms around the child and secured her into the warmth of her velvet robe.

  Win marveled at the woman. His own mother would never have left her bed at a cry from him or his brother, let alone hug and pet either of them in the midst of a nightmare.

  Stiff, unyielding, the child fought to keep her arms out straight and wriggled in an attempt to stay away from her.

  He spun for his own rooms. Pushed open the door, grabbed his robe from atop his bed and ran back to the two.

  “Thank you.” She took it from him and curled it around Daphne. “Darling girl, you are quite well. You are here with his lordship and with me. Safe and warm now. Oh, do wake up.”

  “It takes her awhile,” he told her as he knelt to put an arm around his charge.

  Miss Swanson tipped her head in question.

  “I am often awake until wee hours.”

  She took that with ease and a nod. “What did you do to get her to awaken?”

  “Same as you now. Hug her. Talk softly to her.” As if she were a soldier who shakes in her skin, terror struck by bombs, but whole save for her fears of the vigilante advance of the shrapnel.

  “She’s cold as ice.” Swanson rubbed the child’s little hands. “Daphne, sweet girl. We’ll get hot chocolate. Would you like that, hmm?” She turned to him with a beseeching look. “Can you get Cook to make us a cup?”

  “No, I will.” He should have thought of that himself. He turned but spun back. “I’ll carry her. We shan’t risk you stumbling on the stairs.” With that, he asked no permission but gathered up the child and descended the back servants’ stairs and down into the kitchen. There he pointed toward a chair for Miss Swanson. Then he placed Daphne in her arms.

  The room was dark but he knew his way around. The wide shelves, floor-to-ceiling cupboards and huge hearth had been his sanctuary since he’d bought the house. Cozy, fragrant and intimate, he liked this kitchen. All kitchens made of stone, iron and copper made him happy. He even chose his cook for her cheerfulness. A kind person and talented creature. One who understood not only the nature of food but its purpose and its glories. On campaign, he had hired for his men extra temporary cooks from among the local populace. Food made a man more than functional, it made him whole. Gave him solace and comfort, and the ability to stand up and move onward.

  He nodded toward the large oak table and pulled out a chair for Miss Swanson and Daphne. “Here. I’ll return.”

  Off he went to the larder. In this cook’s kitchen, he knew her operations well. Where and how she stored goods. And without thought, he went to work. Gathering the cocoa from her larder, opening the earthen jar, spooning in a heaping measure of sugar, running down to the cold cellar and finding the remains of the milk from this morning’s creamery delivery. Taking down a copper pot from the hook and setting the pot over the warming grate that he had ordered always be kept aflame.

  “You know how to make hot chocolate?” Swanson asked, her green eyes wide with surprise and her voice filled with awe. She sat in the armed chair at the head of the long oak table, cradling Daphne who still appeared dazed.

  “I do,” he told her as he bent to examine the wood burning beneath the grate.

  “But how is that?”

  “I’ve watched cooks and maids in kitchens for decades.” He poured the cocoa powder into the ceramic pot and flipped closed the lid.

  “You even know how to stoke the fire.”

  “My orders are not to let the fires go out beneath at least one grate.”

  “Isn’t that a waste of coal? Wood?”

  He could easily admit this weakness. “I have trouble sleeping many nights. I come down to sit and contemplate the flames.”

  Silence spread. He tried to ignore it. With that confession, she probably thought him unhinged.

  He might as well admit the rest. “I make cocoa for myself. Often.”

  “You did that the other night?”

  “I did.”

  “A good way to send yourself to sleep.”

  “Better than tea which keeps me awake.” He chanced a look at her.

  She was grinning at him.

  “I wish there were enough for you, too. But the supply of milk is low tonight. Enough only for one cup.”

  “I need none,” she said. “Daphne is more important.”

  He let the milk heat and turned toward her. Her dark hair curled over her delicate shoulders in long sweeping waves. And in the light from the hearth, her complexion glistened in soft shades of gold. Her lips, plump and smiling, looked dewy, appealing.

  He cleared his throat. “ I’ll have Cook keep a bigger reserve.”

  “A fine idea.” She shifted and Daphne nestled into her bosom. The child seemed more aware now and ready to go to sleep. “Have you any idea why she might be walking in her sleep?”

  He crossed his arms and thought of his men and all the aberrations they had had during t
he long years they’d traipsed over Spain and Portugal, Belgium and France. “The accident this morning was upsetting. She’s lost her parents, her home. Enough to make a child sad, I’d say.”

  “I miss my mama and father,” Daphne piped up.

  Miss Swanson stroked Daphne’s hair. “Kind of them to give you Kringle, Pan and Lord Cartwell to keep you good company.”

  Cartwell thought how different from his own experience was this discussions of parents’ relationships with their children. No one had ever questioned his own parents’ treatment of him and his brother. In their class, who did? To them, children were not to be cosseted. Indeed, ignored was more the form. Governesses and tutors saw more of offspring than parents.

  He pivoted to examine his milk. Steaming now.

  “Were your parents good to you, Miss Swanson?” Daphne sat up as she wiped her eyes of tears and examined her governess.

  “For as long as they lived, yes, Daphne, they were.”

  “When did they die?” the girl asked as if she didn’t believe Swanson might have a story to challenge her own loss.

  “My mother passed away when I was eight.”

  “My age.”

  “Just so,” Miss Swanson said with compassion. “No age is a good one to lose your mother.”

  “And your father?” the girl asked.

  “When I was twelve.”

  “And how old are you now?” Daphne pursued the line of questions.

  “I’ll be twenty-five next month.”

  Daphne perked up, fully awake, and her tone was chipper. ““Oh, that’s wonderful! Shall we have cake?

  Win chuckled. “Of course. Tell me the date.”

  “What?” asked startled Miss Swanson.

  “I shall make a request of Cook.”

  The two females looked at him as if he had two heads.

  He was undeterred. And had a bit of the devil in him that he’d surprised them. “What shall I ask for? An English sponge or a French meringue?”

  “English sponge,” said Daphne with a clap of her hands.

  “French meringue,” said Miss Swanson.