Temptation of a Proper Governess

by Cathy Maxwell

  He’d gone to Aletta for sex.

  The details started to fly at him out of nowhere. He’d argued with Henry about Aletta earlier that evening, and after drinking a good portion of the night had decided he’d wanted her. Just that simple. So he’d gone to her apartment.

  Disturbed by the memories, Michael began walking down familiar streets that grew more narrow and crowded as he moved along. Evening was coming. Those that had homes to go to were heading for them. Others milled about, making plans and moving toward taverns. Michael moved with them.

  In his mind, he could feel himself sway, blind drunk the way he’d been the night of Aletta’s death. She had wanted to talk. He hadn’t. Looking back, he was amazed that he could have been that roasted and still hot and ready.

  And, of course, Elswick had been right—Michael hadn’t given a damn about Henry or Aletta.

  But he and Aletta had not had sex. He knew that now. She’d told him she wanted something more. That she would give up everything for him, and he’d laughed.

  He absently rubbed his chest where he’d been shot, feeling the plaster that covered the wound.

  Aletta had been furious. She’d thrown things at him. He’d been on the bed, laughing, and it had infuriated her that he didn’t take her seriously. But he couldn’t. He was too far gone with drink to think of anything, and he recalled that he’d taken a pillow to protect himself, pulling it around his head, laughing to the point he’d started hiccupping.

  God, what a cruel, bloody sot he had been.

  Michael stopped at the corner, not far from the Crow. His old drinking pub was still as busy as it had been years ago. He tilted his head as if he could force the memories out of his mind. He recalled a muffled male voice. Aletta telling him to leave…and then?

  It was no use. Try as he might, no more would come. But he did recall mumbling sorry.

  He released his breath in a long sigh. He’d go mad before he figured this all out—

  A tall, blond man removing his hat as he entered the Crow caught Michael’s eye. Riggs—and he wasn’t alone. He was with Henry.

  His old acquaintance had changed over the years. He was heavier and looked older than his age. Elswick might be pleased, but Michael didn’t think Henry looked at all happy with his life.

  The pairing was suspicious.

  Michael crossed the street to the Crow, neatly dodging a dray whose driver was too busy yelling at some boys to keep an eye on the road. He should probably send for Haddon and some of his men, but it would take a good forty-five minutes for anyone to come, and he might not have that kind of time to spare.

  He wouldn’t confront them. Just watch them and see what happens.

  Inside, he didn’t remove his hat. It wasn’t necessary. This was a rough-and-ready crowd. More than a few punches would be thrown before the night was out. It also catered to a diverse clientele. Rakes and pickpockets mixed with Corinthians. Fops argued with post drivers. Merchants discussed trade with sailors, while thieves hobnobbed with bankers. The main room was smoky and noisy.

  No one paid attention to Michael as he made his way along the edge of the taproom to a corner where he could spy on Henry and Riggs. They stood deep in conversation and didn’t seem to notice anyone around them.

  Michael would have handed over his share of the Sea Serpent to know what they discussed.

  Suddenly, Henry turned abruptly from Riggs. He pushed his way toward the door. Riggs followed him, calling his name. Michael started to follow.

  He’d reached the door when it opened and a new party of gentlemen pushed their way in. Anxious to follow his quarry, Michael tried to shove his way through. A man grabbed his arm, turning him around.

  “Michael?”

  “Yes,” he answered, still moving out the door, and then stopped. He turned and found himself face-to-face with his brother. “Carter?”

  Ten years ago, his brother had been a fine-looking man. The years had not been kind to him. Deep lines marked his brow, while the redness of broken blood vessels on his nose were a sign of his fondness for port. He’d also lost much of his youthful muscle strength and developed a slump in his shoulders.

  His brother clapped him on the back. “Good God, yes, it’s me. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Come, have a drink.” He didn’t wait for Michael’s reply, but swept him back inside.

  Riggs and Henry were forgotten as Michael allowed himself to be presented to Carter’s friends. “This is my brother,” he said to the other gentlemen. They all wore the indolent, careless style of the Corinthian set, but their paunches belied their dress. Michael surmised they were more interested in wetting their throats than horse racing or fencing.

  Certainly interested in him.

  When the tankards were passed around, Carter snagged one for himself and Michael. “Cheers,” he said, and drank his down. He held up his tankard to be refilled before steering Michael back to the corner where he had spied on Riggs.

  Carter took a drink before saying, “So what have you been doing with yourself?”

  It was an odd question considering the circumstances. His overt friendliness was a definite contrast to his past behavior. Michael said, “I called upon you. You refused to see me.”

  “Nonsense. I would have seen you if I had been in. I’m not home often.”

  Michael frowned. He was certain his brother or his wife had been in residence.

  “Then again,” Carter said, “I don’t remember receiving a card from you.”

  “I didn’t leave one.”

  Carter shrugged. “Well, there you have it. You can’t expect me to return a call if there is no card.”

  “We’re brothers,” Michael reminded him.

  “I know that.” Carter took a swig and looked across the crowd as if ensuring his friends were still there. Not once had Carter met his eye. He was always looking somewhere else.

  “I hear you are married.” Carter’s statement caught Michael off guard.

  “Who told you?”

  At last, Carter met his gaze. He smiled, his expression confident. “The bishop is a friend of mine. He couldn’t help but notice the name on the petition for a special license. Am I too late to wish you happy?”

  “We were married less than a week ago.”

  “Ah, the prime of a marriage. After that, it is all a bore.” Carter smiled at Michael, the expression not reaching his eyes. “We shall have to meet your new bride. In fact, I’m surprised you are here tonight. The mattress has hardly been broken in on the wedding bed.”

  Michael didn’t need love advice from his brother, especially on a currently sore subject. “How is your family?”

  “Good, thank you.” He contradicted himself with an exasperated sound. “The estates take up time. This bloody title is a nuisance. My oldest boy was just tossed out of Eton. We got them to take him back. Sounds like the two of us, eh? Of course, I hear you’ve done well for yourself.”

  “I’ve managed.” Growing up, he’d idolized Carter. How could he not? Carter was the heir. He could do no wrong. Michael had striven to be like him in all things…including drinking, he realized, as his brother frowned into his now empty tankard. “Here,” Michael said, pouring his into Carter’s.

  “Is it really as dangerous over there as I’ve heard?” Carter asked.

  Michael shrugged. “The world is a dangerous place, anywhere you go.”

  “So true,” his brother agreed disinterestedly. “Ah, Mullins is leaving.” He clapped Michael on the back again. “We’ll have dinner together. Soon. Wallis will arrange everything.” His sister-in-law had never really liked Michael. She’d thought him spoiled. She’d been right.

  “Must go,” Carter threw over his shoulder at him, already moving toward the door.

  Michael didn’t follow. He watched his brother elbow his way through the throng of drinkers toward his waiting companions. He didn’t recognize any of them although he was certain he’d met Mullins before. The name sounded familiar. It came to him. Mull
ins and Carter had been drinking mates since before Michael left England, and it struck him that while his life had been changing, theirs had stayed the same—and not for the better.

  He moved to the door. He doubted there was any sense in searching for Riggs or Henry. There was no telling where they could be.

  Instead, his mind turned to Isabel, and, without really being conscious of making a decision, he started heading home. Fresh air felt good. The streets were not as crowded so there was room for a hack to roll up beside him.

  The door opened. Michael braced himself, ready for anything.

  Haddon stuck his head out. “Did you find your good fight?” he asked, quoting what Michael had told Bolling.

  “Are you offering one?”

  His friend gave a resigned sigh. “Get in.”

  Michael obliged, taking off his hat to fold his tall frame into the coach. “Did you have me followed?”

  “Yes. Bolling was smart enough to send a man after you. Michael, what are you thinking? Someone is trying to kill you. And don’t give me that nonsense about not needing a nursemaid.”

  “I don’t need to. I already have one—Bolling.”

  “He’s a good man.”

  Michael shrugged, not willing to give an inch.

  Haddon said in Shawnee, “I am worried for you, my brother. You are taking risks you should not.”

  “Only the bold discover the truth,” Michael answered, also in Shawnee.

  “Or the foolish.” He switched to English. “Your wife knows why you married her?”

  “Did Bolling share that with you, too?”

  “He overheard a few things.”

  “It’s a private matter, Alex.”

  “Your Isabel has a temper. That’s good. You need someone who will stand up to you.”

  “Like you do?”

  Haddon’s teeth flashed white in his smile. “Perhaps.”

  And Michael had to admit it was true. He did admire Isabel’s spirit. He also realized, he was not sorry he’d married her.

  He didn’t realize how quiet he’d become until Haddon suggested, “You may be falling in love with her.”

  The idea was so startling, Michael dropped his jaw.

  Haddon laughed quietly. “I know, I know,” he said, “I’m the romantic. You are the one too consumed with revenge—”

  “I want justice,” Michael shot back. Isabel had made the same accusation.

  “Justice,” Haddon patiently amended. “Be careful that in pursuing your quarry, you don’t toss aside what you value most.” He had changed back to Shawnee, the words musical when he spoke them. And prophetic.

  Fortunately, Michael was saved from answering by their arrival at his front step. He opened the door.

  Alex placed a hand on his arm. “I say these things in honor of our friendship,” he said.

  Michael answered in English. “I know.” He hesitated. His feelings where Isabel was concerned were too new, too raw. He changed the subject. “I saw my brother this evening.”

  “Did he turn away or walk off?” Haddon knew of the calls Michael had made.

  “He acted as if we were the closest of family. He’d heard of my marriage. I also saw Riggs tonight with Henry, Elswick’s heir.”

  The light shining from the front door lamp reflected off the silver collar around Alex’s neck. “Are you surprised at seeing them together? Is this not what you suspected?”

  Michael shook his head. “I am not certain. This afternoon, Elswick convinced me Henry couldn’t be involved.”

  “Fathers rarely know what their sons are doing,” Haddon reminded him. “Mine certainly doesn’t. Keep your guard up.”

  “I will.” Michael got out of the coach. “You leave on the evening tide tomorrow.”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “You like sailing that ship, don’t you?”

  Haddon nodded. “I have discovered freedom. No one can argue with me—unless I take you on board.” He leaned forward. “Michael, we made more money than any two men should this last trip. I leave for Egypt on the morrow. I’ve been holding documents for you to sign. I understand if you are”—he nodded to the house—“involved. I can always do what I have been doing, forging your name.”

  “I’ll be there in the morning,” Michael promised, and why shouldn’t he be? Perhaps a bit of distance from each other was what he and Isabel both needed.

  “Make it early. We’ll be loading.”

  “I will.” Michael shut the door and nodded to the driver to be on his way.

  Haddon stuck out the window to call out as he drove away, “Buy her something!”

  “Who?”

  “Your wife,” Haddon said with some exasperation. “Gifts always make negotiating easier, and I’m not talking about cheap beads!” The hack rounded a corner.

  Michael stood a moment. Alex was the one man he could trust. He valued his opinion, and perhaps he was right about taking a guard with him.

  Unfortunately, he was wrong about Isabel. She couldn’t be bought, unless he got her something he knew she wanted very much—?

  Thoughtfully, he entered the house.

  Bolling was sitting up waiting for him. “Glad to see you home, sir.”

  “I imagine you are,” Michael said.

  “You aren’t unhappy with me for sending for Mr. Haddon, are you, sir?”

  “Would it make a difference?”

  “No, sir.”

  Michael sighed. “Go to bed.” He didn’t wait to see if Bolling obeyed but went upstairs, not even bothering with a candle.

  The room he had been using was the largest one and located at the end of the hall. He knew Isabel wouldn’t be there.

  For a moment, he stood in front of the door of the room she had chosen out of anger and debated going in. His pride whispered to leave her be.

  He tested the door.

  It was not locked or barricaded against him.

  He opened it. The room was dark, the shades drawn against even what little moonlight there was.

  His eyes adjusted quickly and he could see her form on the bed. The even sound of her breathing drew him.

  Without rationalizing what he was doing, he closed the door, undressed, and slipped into the bed beside her. It felt right to be there with Isabel. He’d grown accustomed to her presence, to the sound of her breathing and her soft warmth. Almost as if she felt the same, she rolled over to curl next to him. Her breath escaped in a soft sigh of contentment.

  He’d never heard a more welcoming sound. Slowly, he lowered his arms to place them around her. She was still dressed, the worn material of the gown she had been wearing didn’t inhibit her sleep. Her toes were bare, so she’d at least made herself that comfortable. Her sleepy warmth and the spicy, rose scent of her hair aroused him.

  This would be the first night since their wedding they hadn’t made love.

  The first time he would sleep with any woman without sex.

  He was tempted. He could slide into her and wake her with kisses. He knew Isabel. She would respond.

  And then what?

  As her body heat melded with his, a deep peace settled over Michael.

  This, being close to his wife, was, for that moment, enough. He fell asleep.

  Isabel woke the next morning to someone pounding on the door.

  She pushed her hair back and looked around, not immediately recognizing her surroundings—then she remembered. She was surprised she had slept as well as she had. Her eyes had been swollen shut from crying when she went to bed, and she tossed and turned fitfully at first.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, she must have finally relaxed.

  And then she glanced over at the pillow on the other side of the bed. There was an indentation as if someone had slept there. Tentatively, she snuggled next to it and caught the clean scent of her husband.

  Her senses went on the alert. She sat up, searching the bare room for more signs of him. There were none.

  Isabel ran her hand over
the sheets. They weren’t warm as if someone had just vacated that side of the bed. Perhaps her imagination played tricks—

  There was another knock at the door. “Mrs. Severson?”

  She recognized the butler’s voice. “Yes, Bolling?”

  “I hate to disturb your rest, but you have visitors.”

  “I do?

  Other than the marquis and the Oxleys, who knew she was there, or cared?

  “What time is it?” she asked Bolling.

  “Close to noon,” a woman’s melodic, cultured voice said, a beat before the door started to swing open.

  Isabel pulled the covers up just as a magnificent creature with the blondest hair and the bluest eyes presented herself in the doorway. She had on the most wonderful confection of an emerald velvet cap. White and yellow ostrich feathers were pinned into place with a jeweled pin. Her dress was a lighter green with a lace jacket and matching gloves. Her shoes were the finest kidskin and dyed to match the hat. She had finished off the ensemble with a red walking stick as tall as she was and trimmed in white, yellow, and green ribbons.

  The woman tapped the floor with the walking stick. “You are a sleepyhead,” the woman said, her gaze boldly appraising Isabel. “I, too, could sleep the day away, but not when the finest dressmaker in all England waits upon my pleasure.”

  “Excuse me?” Isabel said.

  “Madame Beaumain is waiting in your salon,” the woman said. “She has an appointment to furnish you with a complete new wardrobe.”

  Bolling sought to interject himself, “The master ordered the dressmaker to come. He said you are to have carte blanche.”

  Michael had hired a dressmaker for her?

  The woman had no difficulty understanding. Her eyes danced with anticipation. “Did you hear that? Carte blanche. Men are rarely so generous—to their wives. Come, come, Isabel! Up!” She walked across the room and threw open the drapes. The afternoon sun streamed into the room and made Isabel squint.

  Holding her hand to shade her eyes and feeling like a veritable scullery maid in the presence of such elegance, Isabel felt it almost churlish to ask, “And who are you?”

  The woman gifted her with a brilliant smile. “I am your sister-in-law, Wallis, countess of Jemison.”