“Oh, like you didn’t spend every mealtime gazing at her like a blasted lovesick mooncalf!”
“I did not!”
“Liar!”
Sampson snapped his mouth shut as he realised they sounded like a pair of five-year-olds in need of a spanking from their governess. Then he imagined himself telling the governess that turnabout was fair play and his vision went blurry and he got hot all over. Sampson muttered, cursing himself roundly for that image which would be imprinted on his brain for the rest of the day, if not eternity.
There was a taut silence.
“It’s either a man, or a scandal caused by a man. Whether or not she’s responsible in any way is impossible to know. A woman who looks like that is going to have men behaving like idiots at every turn.” Samuel broke off to give Sampson a pointed look which he ignored. “I know one thing. She’s trouble, whether she means to be or not.”
“We’ll have to get rid of her,” Sampson said with a groan.
“Well, you can tell the girls,” Samuel retorted, shaking his head. “They think she’s the sun and the moon and the stars, and I can’t blame them. She has the knack of conversing with them, of making everything interesting. I’ve never seen anyone wrap the two of them about their finger like she can. It’s remarkable.”
Sampson swallowed down the observation that she could wrap him about her finger whenever she liked. It was obvious Samuel had concluded as much already and felt the same way. The idea of Samuel laying a finger on the woman made Sampson want to stamp his foot and rage that he’d seen her first.
Bloody hell.
What was it about her that made him act like a spoilt boy?
His brother was right about one thing. Miss Wynter was trouble, and she would have to go.
Chapter 5
“Wherein Gwenn discovers she’s not the only scandal in town.”
“The Scandalous what?” Gwenn said in alarm, as two sets of identical blue eyes blinked at her in amusement.
They’d stopped at Market Harborough to change horses and Mrs Bainbridge—who had insisted that Gwenn now refer to her as Aunt May, as everyone else did—had taken the opportunity to use the conveniences. Taking advantage of the moment, Gwenn had probed a little about their family, too curious not to discover more.
Why hadn’t Lord Cheam been on her list?
“The Scandalous Brothers,” Susan repeated, grinning at her. “Didn’t you know? I thought everyone knew.”
“Our family is wicked,” Selina added with a sigh.
“Bad blood,” Susan added cheerfully, though as Gwenn studied her a frown puckered her forehead and she looked troubled.
“What nonsense,” Gwenn replied, startled, even though she’d had similar thoughts about her own bloodline.
“It’s not nonsense,” Selina said, and Gwenn felt her heart constrict at the sadness in the girl’s eyes. “Our father was a bad, bad man.”
“He did terrible, wicked things,” Susan added, her voice little more than a whisper. “And he’s gone to hell. Sunny thinks we don’t know. He tries to keep things from us, but we’ve listened to them talking when they think we’ve gone to bed, so we know it’s true.”
The girls shared a glance and shuffled a little closer together, but then Selina brightened, turning a dazzling smile upon Gwenn. “But we shan’t go to the devil now, or to hell, because you’ve come, and you can stop us.”
Gwenn gaped at them.
“No one else could,” Susan added with a sigh and a blithe wave of her hand. “Because they made us so cross that we felt like going to the devil, but you don’t. So, as long as you stay, we ought to be fine.”
“But if you leave, we’re doomed.”
The two girls spoke the words we’re doomed in unison, which was creepy enough, but with such a gothic interpretation that all the hairs on the back of Gwenn’s neck stood on end.
Those blue eyes stared at her, all guileless innocence, and she realised far too late that she was in way over her head.
***
By the time they made the inn at Derby that evening, Gwenn was frozen. The weather had taken a turn for the worse somewhere around Loughborough, and the temperature had plummeted. Though the hot bricks beneath their feet had been replaced whenever they stopped to change horses, her toes felt like tiny blocks of ice and she was certain she’d never be warm again.
Dinner had been excellent, and hot too, but somehow the chill in her bones had not diminished. Gwenn shut her chamber door and prayed the sheets weren’t damp and the bed had been warmed. She was looking forward to climbing under layers of blankets and thawing herself out when she realised she’d left her shawl in the private parlour downstairs. It was made of the finest cashmere, and was the warmest one she had. She didn’t dare leave such a valuable item lying about in the inn. One never knew how honest the staff, or the other patrons were. Not wanting to risk losing it, she hurried back down the stairs to the where the family had dined earlier.
Mr Pelham, Lord Cheam’s younger brother, turned as she walked in and she started in surprise.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I thought everyone had gone to bed,” she said, hesitating in the doorway. “I just came to get my shawl.”
“Here you go,” he said, taking it from the chair beside the fire and handing it to her. “I was going to have one of the serving girls run it up to you. I was just having a nightcap. I can’t seem to get warm tonight.” He gestured to the glass in his hand. “It’s doing the trick, too,” he added, giving her a grin that made him look like a naughty schoolboy. “Would you like a drop?”
Gwenn opened her mouth to refuse, knowing she ought not, but a drop of cognac might be just the thing to warm her up and send her to sleep.
“It’s excellent stuff,” Mr Pelham coaxed. “Here, try for yourself.”
Without awaiting an answer, he poured a drop out and handed it to her.
Gwenn took the glass from him and cupped it in her palm, warming the liquor within for a moment before lifting it to her nose. “Mmmm,” she said, smiling a little. “That does smell good.”
She swirled it around the glass, inhaling the heady scent again before taking a sip and closing her eyes with a sigh of pleasure.
“Lovely,” she said, savouring the complex flavours. It really was a superb vintage and just the thing to chase away the chill. “Vanilla and apricot, and a hint of….” Gwenn frowned, trying to place what it was she could taste. “Oh, of course, hazelnut!”
She laughed as she opened her eyes and looked to Mr Pelham. He was staring at her with undisguised interest.
“You have quite the refined palate, Miss Wynter.”
Too late, Gwenn realised she’d been carried away with her enthusiasm. It was second nature to her to savour a fine liquor or wine, but what was acceptable in a whore was hardly the thing for a respectable woman. A governess would probably never even have tasted cognac before, let alone be a connoisseur. Hurriedly, she set the glass down.
“Not really,” she said briskly. “I was only guessing. I once saw my father taste in such a way; I merely copied what I remember him doing.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. It hadn’t been her father, but her mother’s lover, the Duke of Alvermarle, and she hadn’t merely watched. The duke had spent a great deal of time with her, teaching her how to appreciate both wine and cognac, and how to tell quality. He’d also taught her how to prepare a cigar. She could smoke one, too, though she didn’t enjoy them, but some men liked to see such things, so….
“Oh, don’t go. You’ve not finished your drink, and it would be a pity to waste it,” Mr Pelham urged.
Gwenn sent the glass a longing look. It had been extremely good.
“Sacrilege, in fact,” he pressed, grinning.
“Well, for just a moment,” she said, though she remained where she was by the door. She’d left it ajar, so it was all perfectly respectable, she assured herself.
Taking up the glass again, she took another sip and felt the liquor eas
ing into her bones and threading through her blood, warming and relaxing as it went and creating a little glow of heat in her belly. She enjoyed the sensation as her thoughts drifted and she wondered what her mother was doing, and just how furious she was. Would she send out a search party for her? Perhaps she’d contact Alvermarle? The thought made Gwenn shiver despite the warming qualities of the cognac.
“The duke must have been sorry to see you go?” Mr Pelham said, his words coinciding so closely with her thoughts she jolted with alarm.
“W-What?”
“Your last employer,” Mr Pelham said mildly, though there was a glint of curiosity in his eyes. “The Duke of Alvermarle, was it not?”
“Oh,” Gwenn said, composing herself and cursing her own stupidity. “Yes, indeed, but it was only ever a temporary posting. He is a f-friend of my mother’s, and agreed to let me try my hand with his children before I found myself a permanent situation. A recommendation from a duke can open a lot of doors.”
Marie had always told her that, if one must lie, it was best to stick as close to the truth as possible. Yes, there was a chance that Mr Pelham might speak with the duke if they were acquainted and such an enquiry could lead her mother back to Gwenn, but by then she would be long gone, so it was a minor risk.
“That was good of him,” Mr Pelham said lightly, a little too lightly perhaps. “Though if he was your mother’s friend, one wonders that he could not help you in other ways?”
Gwenn stiffened, aware now that Mr Pelham was probing as to why she’d not been saved from the ignominy of working for a living. “My family do not need or require charity, sir,” she said, her voice cool. “I accepted his offer to work for him and I did a good job. To be beholden to him in any other way would be most improper, as I am sure you are aware.”
“Please forgive me, Miss Wynter,” Mr Pelham said, his manner soothing, though there was still something in his eyes that disturbed her. “I assure you, I meant no disrespect, but to be frank, it is unusual to see such a young and stunningly beautiful woman in the role of governess. Most families would not employ you, you know. Any wife with an ounce of sense would want you far away from any husband.”
His gaze held hers, a glimmer of challenge there.
“Yet you mean no disrespect?” she repeated, glaring at him.
Mr Pelham laughed, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Wynter. My manners are appalling, I know, but truly, I did not mean it as an insult, just a truth of which we are all well aware. You cannot expect me to believe you are ignorant of the effect you have on men?”
“I am a respectable woman,” Gwenn snapped, furious at the fact it was a lie, furious that she couldn’t seem to outrun the path fate had laid out for her. She knew well enough that he was quite correct. “You cannot hold me responsible for—”
“What the devil is going on here?”
Gwenn swung around in the voice’s direction to discover Lord Cheam standing close behind her and glaring at his brother.
“Sam?” he asked, a warning note to his voice.
“Sampson,” Mr Pelham replied, using the same deep tone, though his expression was alight mischief. “Miss Wynter has just been schooling me on the finer points of this cognac. Try some. It really is excellent.”
Gwenn narrowed her eyes at him, tossed back the last of the drink without blinking and stalked from the room. At least, she tried to stalk… but the imposing figure of Lord Cheam blocked the exit.
“Excuse me, my lord,” she said, with as much ice as she could muster with the cognac threading fire through her veins. “I just came to retrieve my shawl. I will leave you and Mr Pelham to enjoy your evening.”
“It seems you got more than the shawl,” he replied, matching her frigid tone. “I hope the cognac warmed you sufficiently?”
Despite his chilly demeanour, Gwenn could hear the unspoken invitation, the desire to find other ways to warm her. The fool was jealous of her being alone with his brother. Men. They were so bloody predictable.
“Indeed, my lord. I feared I would take a chill, having been so cold all day,” she said briskly. “A medicinal tot of brandy is just the thing to ward off such problems. I should hate to delay your journey by falling ill.”
Lord Cheam stared at her, his blue eyes searching hers for a long moment and she forced herself not to turn away from him. Curse the man, why did he have to look like a burnished pagan idol with all that red hair gleaming in the firelight? She wondered if the hair elsewhere on his person was the same shade and then scolded herself for even considering the question. At least she was brazen enough not to blush, though his gaze was so intent she had the sudden and forceful desire to do something, to establish just who had the power here. She need only to speak a flirtatious word in a low, breathless voice, or to lick her lips, slowly and sensually, and she’d see his eyes darken, see the look he’d worn the first day they’d met—the hunger.
That was what Marie would do, what she’d taught Gwenn to do, but it was not the life she wanted for herself. She wanted a husband, a settled life, not a string of lovers and constant uncertainty, and so she kept her expression cool and aloof. She was saving herself for her wedding night. If she would give herself away for anything less, she might as well go home and accept the highest bidder.
“If you would excuse me,” she repeated, with a little more force this time.
“Of course, Miss Wynter,” Lord Cheam said, scrupulously polite as he stepped aside for her.
Gwenn hurried away and didn’t breathe again until she’d closed her chamber door.
***
Sampson glowered at his brother. “What the hell are you playing at?”
“Playing at?” Sam repeated, the picture of innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”
Ignoring the question on principle—his bloody brother knew exactly what he meant—Sampson snatched up the decanter and poured himself a large measure. His reaction on discovering Miss Wynter alone with his brother had not pleased him.
“She’s off limits, Sam,” he growled, taking a mouthful of his drink.
“Oh, but, Sampson,” he said, laughing a little as he shook his head. “You’ve never seen such an unholy temptation as Miss Wynter savouring a fine cognac. My word, when she closed her eyes and licked her lips….” He let out a low whistle. “She knew what she was doing,” he added, winking at Sampson and giving him the strong desire to knock the glass from his brother’s hand. “Vanilla and apricot,” he said with a smirk. “With a hint of hazelnut.”
To his chagrin, Sampson discovered that was exactly what he could taste too. His eyes widened.
“Who the devil is she?” he demanded, his annoyance with his brother dissipating as his curiosity grew. She was like no woman he’d ever met before. Samuel was right about her being wonderful with the girls, that was obvious. It was also clear that she genuinely liked them. Her rapport with them was easy and in no way forced. What kind of woman could befriend his little sisters and keep them in order, and down a glass of cognac without so much as blinking, let alone point out all the finer details of its quality? What else could she do? He almost shivered at the possibilities his mind conjured. Damn it. She was a conundrum, and one he was increasingly interested in unravelling.
“I don’t know who she is,” Sam replied with a sigh. “But I think I might just marry her. It will be a world of fun trying to find out.”
Though Sampson was fairly certain his brother was joking, the words set off an unpleasant reaction inside his chest.
“You’ll stay away from her, or I’ll make you sorry you were born,” he said, even though he knew, knew, this was not the way to handle Samuel. “I told you, she’s off limits, and I meant it.”
“You mean, you want me to leave the field open for my big brother?” Sam retorted, shaking his head. “Oh, no, Sunny. No, I think not.”
“No,” Sampson ground out, though he rather feared it was exactly what he did mean. “I mean she’s off limits, to both of us. You said yourself, she�
�s trouble. We’ll have to keep her on until we return from Scotland, but that’s it. She must go.”
Samuel snorted. “You play the respectable nobleman if you want. I’m not passing up a woman like that, not even for you.”
“Damn it, Sam,” Sampson cursed, putting down his glass with a little too much force. “I’m not playing at this. We’ve all got to be bloody respectable. In ten years or so our sisters will be looking for husbands. What kind of match will they make if they’re kin to The Scandalous Brothers? They’ll be ruined before they even come out. You know we couldn’t get vouchers for Almack’s if our lives depended on it. That must change, Sam, it must.”
His brother stared at him, considering. “I know things have to change, Sampson,” he said, but that doesn’t mean we have to change who we are. I’ll do my best for the girls, I swear, but I won’t be someone I’m not, and it would be a disservice to them if I tried. I don’t give a damn if they marry a title or make a brilliant match. I only care that they’re happy. If the bloody ton can’t see what marvellous girls they are, then they don’t deserve them. They can marry outside of it. There are plenty of self-made men with far more character and worth that some of the noble fools we meet.”
“You can’t be serious?” Sampson said, horrified. “You’d have them looked down on and sneered at, ostracised by their own kind?”
Samuel sighed and upended his glass, draining it in one large swallow. “I’m not going out of my way to make it happen, you fool, and there’s plenty of time. I only mean that there is a world outside of the upper ten thousand, and you ought not tie yourself in knots worrying so.”
Sampson stared at him in disbelief and Samuel rolled his eyes.
“For God’s sake, have another drink and relax. You’ll never sleep if you don’t calm down. Speaking of… I’m off to bed. G’night, brother dear. Sweet dreams.”
Sampson glowered as Sam gave him a wink and left him alone.
Melting Miss Wynter (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 17) Page 5