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

by DeLand, Cerise

  As if she had a lot of it herself.

  She squeezed her hands together and trained her attention out the window as they left the town behind and the green valleys of England appeared beyond in springtime abandon.

  They were well out of London when Daphne frowned at Belle and asked why she was so quiet. At a loss, Belle said simply she did not feel up to conversation.

  “You don’t seem sick, Miss Swanson. Only sad.”

  Minutes later when they’d alighted at an inn for luncheon, his lordship drew nigh and whispered, “You must think up a better excuse for our girl, Belle.”

  But she couldn’t.

  Especially not when the day was brilliantly sunny, the air was crisp with June breezes and the fragrance of new grasses and wild flowers floated on the air. It was too magnificent a day to refrain from the joys of living. And loving.

  Yet she had to, didn’t she? She set her teeth and cursed her circumstances. Ten more days and she’d journey from the Manor to Crawley and Swan’s Reach. Only ten more days and she’d walk into her home. She’d find the proofs in the secret compartments where she’d hidden them. She must. Then she’d offer them up to her lawyer and the sheriff for her restitution. And justice.

  * * *

  Win walked the manor house like a ghost at midnight. A candle in one hand, he’d descended the staircase and walked the rooms in his banyan.

  The front drawing room was a stunning yellow and emerald green. The dining room’s black walnut walls shone with a new coat of varnish, a good foil for the white silk draperies and vermilion carpet he’d ordered from Paris.

  He left the small blue parlor and strode along the long hall. Here a few of his ancestors peered down at him, silent, so unlike Roddy and Caro.

  He smiled. Good God. He was a mess if he could really say he missed them! More, he missed the gaiety he’d known in his townhouse. But that was at an end. His past nine days here in the Manor had been quiet, boring, somber without Belle smiling at him.

  He turned toward the ballroom. He’d promised the plasterers he’d tell them his views. They would finish, they hoped, tomorrow. And then after a good cleaning of the dust and debris, his home would be ready for a family, children and a wife he questioned he’d ever enjoy.

  He’d once relished the idea of seeing the ballroom renovated. He’d once hoped to use it often, but now doubted if he ever would. He wished to waltz in this room only with one certain woman…or not at all.

  He opened the huge double doors.

  Ah. Yes. He held up the candle. In daylight or lit by the chandeliers, so much gold could blind a man. The walls were dressed in the imported Chinese silk paper, the upholstery in Spitalfields damask. The oak floor was still covered in white dust from the workmen. It was a huge space, rivaling the Assembly Rooms in Bath. Fit for kings and princes, an earl and a new countess.

  He strode toward the musicians’ dais. Big enough for ten. A gem.

  No doubt of it, like the other rooms, this one pleased him. The carpenters and plasterers, the stonemasons too, had done a superb job of restoring the poor dilapidated hulk into the home it once was. Or to be honest, what it had never quite been. His father and brother had so decimated the place by ignoring it, Win was proud to put the two thousand pounds into it.

  He was poorer of pocket, but what did it matter when the house would stand for centuries and…

  He blew out an exasperated breath.

  What did it matter if the damned house stood for millennia if there was no one to live in it and love in it?

  A small noise hit his ears. Had they not gotten rid of all the mice?

  He hoisted his candle higher, the flame extending farther into the room.

  But then he saw a slipper, a white hem of a nightgown.

  The sight of even this little of her thrilled him. She’d been so reclusive since they’d arrived here…and he missed her conversation and her laughter. “Shall I have the game keeper come to take the last varmint from the house?”

  Belle gave a little laugh then cleared her throat. “No, sir. I shall take myself off to bed.”

  He lifted his candle higher. There she was in her red robe and her night rail, her hair unbound like a dark cloud wending over her shoulders. Her face, dear and lovely, her smile, open to him for once. “Please don’t.”

  “I should.”

  “Of course you should. But please stay.”

  She swallowed. “I’ve missed you.”

  He had all he could do to stand his ground and not sweep her up and away to his bedroom. “And I you.”

  She inhaled sharply. “Goodnight.”

  “Tomorrow you go to Crawley,” he blurted and she stopped and faced him.

  He’d known this because she asked him for the day free. Of course, he’d given his permission. Why not? She’d go whether he approved or not. But she had not told him why she wished to go north to that little town. “Why aren’t you abed? I imagine you wish to be fully rested.”

  “I could not sleep.”

  “Ah,” he said and took the few steps that separated them, “an affliction that hits us both at poor times.”

  She lifted her brows and sent her gaze round the room. “I wished to see it. Shrew told me the laborers had finished and asked for your blessing on the last of it.”

  “And so you came in the dark of night?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Isn’t that when ballrooms are most captivating?”

  “Is it? I have no evidence of that.”

  She grew wistful. “Did you dance at Richmond’s ball the night before Waterloo?”

  “I did. A tense occasion.”

  “But you served in Paris, too, after the Restoration. Did you not dance at the embassy affairs?”

  “I rarely danced. My leg, you see.”

  “You seem to walk more easily. And where is your cane tonight?”

  “In my room. Your compresses twice daily have improved my gait.”

  “Marvelous.” She smiled valiantly as she closed the last step between them and her gaze seemed to drink him in. “Surely here you’ll enjoy many nights in good company.”

  “I’d like to think I can be charmed dancing in my own ballroom with the best company.”

  “Otherwise, why build an expensive dance floor for, eh?” She tipped her head, her gaze full of sorrow.”

  He put the candle down upon the mantel and held out his arms. “Come show me how charming it can be.”

  In a rush, she took his hands and the heat of her petite body enveloped him. Her heart-shaped face glowed in the shadows of the flickering flame. “Have you waltzed lately?”

  “No. Not in a year or more,” she said as though she’d yearned for it hourly. “And you?”

  “The same.”

  “We’ll be terrible,” she said as if they were conspirators.

  “Let’s see.” he said in glee to hold her in his arms once more. And then he took her out in one step and then another. She began to hum, her voice delicate and on key, her limbs fluid and lithe, drifting into the melody they could create only together.

  He twirled her round and back again into his care. She closed her eyes and let him find the steps and their rhythm. But at once she stopped and he caught her tightly to him. What could he say? He had begged before. She’d made it clear, she would not renege. He could not stop her. Not even separation from Daphne could dissuade her from this heartbreaking departure.

  * * *

  She should run but her feet were leaden. She’d leave him tomorrow morning to steal back her proof from Tottingham. With or without it, she’d leave this house and Win tomorrow night at the latest. She’d been tormented for days about the hideous scene she’d create departing from Daphne. She hoped for words to soothe the pain of hurting a child she adored. And too, the challenge of leaving a man she loved. If she lost all tomorrow, if she were true to her bitterness over the crime committed against her, she’d be tempted to commit a more heinous crime. To kill Tottingham would be supreme justi
ce. But who would agree? No one. No one. She was a woman maligned. A woman robbed. They’d send her to prison to rot and ruin. Then she’d pay an ultimate price for the crime committed against her.

  She curled into Win’s sweet consoling arms and wished to never go. But how could she ever stay?

  She gave in to the fury and the frustration she could not assuage. And she sobbed.

  He clamped her close and she cried like a child abandoned. “Oh, my darling. This is not fair for you to suffer so.”

  He leaned into her and took her lips. The kiss was molten, sweet rapture. His lips burned and her heart melted.

  He kissed her again. This time, his lips were soft brushes of temptation.

  She expected that he’d argue once more, attempt to persuade her to his view.

  But no.

  He took her hand and led her down the hall to the stairs and up, up, up to his rooms. Inside, he shut the door behind her and led her through his sitting room and into his bedroom. Even in the dim rays from two candles, she discerned the order of the dark masculine furnishings and sumptuous coverlet. He threw back the covers, unhooked the frog at her throat and slid her robe from her shoulders. Then he put her to the sheets. Tears wended down her cheeks, cool tracks of despair. But the promise in his gaze had her entranced and she wanted whatever he intended. She’d been so alone, so focused on her goal that loving him had come as a balm to her sore heart.

  He urged her to lay flat. Removed his own banyan and chest bare to her, he slid into the bed beside her. There, with her lips to the warm column of his throat, he smoothed his hand down her neck and her back. Tears melted away. His strength infused her like a restorative.

  “Sleep,” he whispered. “The night before a battle, one must rest without care.”

  “Were you always able?” She pulled back to gaze into his starlit eyes.

  “No. But if I’d had you in my arms, I would have. You bring me peace. “ He combed her hair with his fingers. “Let me do the same for you.”

  They were not here to make love? She would have welcomed it tonight…and dreaded the possible consequences tomorrow. How foolhardy. But he—ever honorable Win—never intended to destroy her future in any way.

  “Oh, Win.” Fierce with love, she curled against this gallant man. “I must gain back my home tomorrow. My inheritance. And yet I wish to have you just as much. And in this moment, I want you more.”

  He lifted her chin and gave her another ravishing kiss. “As I will always want you, sweet Belle.”

  Tears stung her eyelids again. She dashed them away.

  “No more of that, my darling.” He resumed his caress of her back. “Rest now. Tomorrow the day will be yours.”

  Chapter 14

  Belle smoothed the black crepe over her hips and approved her dour look. Appropriate for her to appear in public in the mourning she’d discarded when she left Swan’s Reach months ago, she wished to use it as subterfuge and a declaration of her rightful place. She drew on her black pelisse and buttoned it to the top. Then she picked up the ugly black straw leghorn hat, fixed it on her hair and pulled the heavy dotted veil over her face. Only a few would recognize her in this. She hoped Tottingham didn’t. At least, not until she was successful in her search.

  The hall clock tolled eleven, the chimes ringing in her ears. Time to leave the people she’d come to love. Her separation from Daphne was yet to come tonight. But as she left Win’s bed this morning, she’d kissed him goodbye without a word. He’d let her go, his lips to her fingertips as she slipped away.

  She hurried from her rooms to the hall, the central stairs and the hall below. Shrew waited in the hall, his hands crossed before him. He, Fowler the footman, Win’s valet Compton plus Hart the groom had come south with Win, Daphne and her. Shrew eyed her attire. Surprise did not alight upon his features.

  “Is my carriage here?” she asked him. She’d requested that he send a note to the private conveyance company in the village that she needed a carriage at eleven this morning.

  “It is, Miss.” But he did not move to the door.

  From the far hall to the servants’ wing stepped Win. Carrying his top hat, dressed for the afternoon in navy frock coat and red waistcoat, he strode toward her. And stopped.

  “Sir.” Why would he appear when he’d seemed to have accepted her need to do this alone? “I must leave.”

  “I am aware. I received this earlier in the post from my grandmother.” He held out a letter and clipping from a newspaper. “Read them.”

  She searched his stern features, then took the papers. The letter was penned on fine parchment with the seal of the Viscountess Buchanan.

  “`My dear Win,

  Seeing this yesterday in two London newspapers, I had a revelation about our Miss Swanson. Her beauty and her demeanor always impressed me as much too refined for the position in which she served. She also resembled two old friends of mine with whom I had lost contact in the past years. One, I knew, had recently died. I did not immediately connect the facts until I read this notice.

  I send this to you assuming you know not the totality of this sad affair. I would not doubt if our Miss Swanson continues to conceal her identity. I would, had such a scoundrel victimized me.

  I hope this reaches you so that you may assist Miss Swanson in any attempts she may take in restitution of her rights and property. I know you well, my dear, and I see your admiration of her. Quite well-founded, I would say.

  Fondly,

  Your Grandmother’”

  Belle unfolded the two smaller clippings from the newspaper—and caught her breath.

  One was a story, two paragraphs long. Titled, “The Lost Heiress of Swan’s Reach! Missing former heiress said to be in hiding in countryside!” The story was one she knew so well. Belle had read these same paragraphs reprinted in many papers the past few weeks. “Miss Isabelle Swanson, heiress to one of the largest merchants estates in England, went missing after her grandfather’s death. The man who had built Swan’s Soap into a profitable business and made soap affordable for thousands, left his fortune to his estate manager. She has been missing since the reading of the will. Some speculate she departed for Canada. Others say she took her own life.”

  Ridiculous. She caught Win’s eye and shook her head. Then read the other clipping.

  It was an advertisement which she’d also seen in many morning papers in London. Tottingham had put out news everywhere.

  CRAWLEY

  TO BE SOLD AT AUCTION

  With immediate Possession.

  Swan’s Reach, The property of the late Mr. Gerard Swanson, he of Swan’s Soap Company, LTD.

  At Swan’s Reach, Crawley, on Thursday, June 20

  House open at 12 o’clock noon. Auction at one o’clock.

  By order of the new owner, Theodore Tottingham.

  A Substantial Dwelling House, comprising very large dining, drawing and breakfast rooms, library, estate offices, servants apartments with convenient out-buildings, stables, yard, kitchen gardens and every accommodation for an extensive establishment. This property is worthy of the attention of any gentleman desiring a residence in the country. Freehold land of 225 acres sold separately.

  Furnishings, china, silver to be auctioned by lots.

  Livestock to be auctioned by lots.

  2 Coaches sold separately.

  For particulars or to view premises, apply to Theodore Tottingham, owner,

  Swan’s Reach.

  “My darling,” Win addressed her intimately though Shrew still stood there. “I go with you. Ah-ah!” He put up a hand. “I will say nothing, do nothing unless you permit me. But I will attend you. I had Shrew cancel your hired hack.”

  Through her dismay, she noted how Shrew did not blink at Win’s short moniker for him.

  “I’ve ordered Hart to bring round the carriage. Please, my dear. After you.”

  The trip took less than one torturous hour. Win, true to his word, said nothing but faced her, calm and silent as a sphinx.<
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  As his carriage left the main road and rounded the circular drive to the Reach, she steeled herself to the homecoming. The pale grey house of Sussex winklestone twinkled in the sunlight. Her heart lurched at its beauty. Tottingham, the fool, had let the lawns go to weed. The roses unpruned. The trees to abandon. A dozen or more conveyances lined the drive. A throng of men and ladies milled about under the wide portico, talking, laughing, waiting to be admitted. She recognized a few of her neighbors. Here to snoop and get a bargain. Others—strangers—were here to line the pockets of the man who had robbed her.

  “Come,” Win beckoned from the door.

  Taking his hand, she alighted from the carriage. “I go alone.”

  “Do you bid?”

  She busied herself, pulling her veil just so, smoothing her skirts. “If I must.”

  That confused him and he narrowed his eyes. “Have you your ten pounds?”

  She clutched the handle of her reticule. “Five.”

  He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “A pistol?”

  She dropped her jaw. “No. But I should have thought of that.”

  “I have mine.” He put a hand to his upper frock coat, then took her arm as they walked the pebbled drive. “Say the word.”

  That broke her—and she snorted. “If anyone should kill him, it must be me.”

  They rounded a group of men chatting about the good June weather.

  Win paused. “Here are Mister Hill and Mister Gibbs. Your lawyers, Miss Swanson. Shall I step away?”

  Before she could answer, both men approached and greeted them, Mister Hill in his unique mobile chair, Mister Gibbs pink-cheeked and healthy. As a unit, all of them moved far to one side of others for privacy in their conversation.

  “Good afternoon to you both.” Mister Hill reached up from his mobile chair, ear-to-ear delighted at the sight of her and his former commander. “Miss Swanson, we’ve come to support you, as promised.”