She’d discussed Shakespeare with them after having read one of the stories. The reading had been marvellous, with Miss Wynter taking on all the voices as though she were acting each part in turn. The girls giggled and snickered at the funny bits, sometimes making Miss Wynter dissolve into laughter too, and good Lord, what a sound that was. It had hit him square in the chest and made him want to join in. It had been the hardest thing to not laugh, and instead continue feigning sleep, but he’d been as riveted by the story and her telling of it as his sisters had. Then she’d helped them make up silly rhymes, testing their grammar and spelling, and later she’d spoken to them in both French and Italian with an authentic and lilting accent he’d found utterly beguiling, and which suggested an impressive fluency.
Sampson had stolen glances at them from under the brim of his hat, pride bursting in his chest as Susan and Selina strove to imitate her. When she praised their efforts, their cheeks flushed with pride and Sampson’s throat ached. He’d been so worried for them. When each governess had followed the last with disapproving scowls and warnings that the girls were either wicked or mentally impaired, he’d been beside himself. Not that he’d believed anything of the sort, but he’d been frantic that they were out of control, and he’d not had the first idea of how to keep them from disaster. When they’d begun stealing things, too, he’d been at the end of his tether, but Miss Wynter had swept in and made everything all right.
That she’d been the one to tell the girls they were good and in no danger of going to hell made guilt sit heavy in his chest. He’d been so busy protecting them from their father he’d not considered that they would have overheard rumours and gossip from other quarters. He’d not wanted to speak of that foul tyrant in their presence. Now he realised that, by pretending the monster hadn’t existed, he’d only made things worse. He must try to be a little more open with them and make them understand that they could come to him, and speak with him about anything that troubled them. At least they had Miss Wynter to turn to now… except they didn’t.
Miss Wynter was leaving, sooner rather than later.
The idea made his chest tighten, and he tried to breathe, to dislodge the sensation but it wouldn’t budge. It would devastate the girls when they found out. That was the only reason he was so troubled by her departure, he assured himself. Sampson knew it was a lie, but he forced himself to accept it. They had no future together, not if he wanted the girls to emerge from under the dark reputation that surrounded the family. They came first, not what he wanted. If not for them, perhaps things could have been different. His brothers were all grown men, after all. If his sisters were older and married, it would not signify so much. Then he could have pursued Miss Wynter, society be damned, and seen where this fascination for her might lead. He could have courted her and coaxed the truth of her past from her.
He could have married her and had that vivacious laugh all to himself… instead of worrying that it would haunt his dreams for the rest of his days.
Chapter 12
“Wherein ghosts of the past make trouble for the future.”
Gwenn lay in bed, rigid, her eyes squeezed shut.
“Stop being such an utter ninny,” she scolded herself. “There are no such things as ghosts.”
She repeated the phrase to herself until she heard a creak outside her bedroom door and stifled a whimper. There was a brief murmur of voices, and then another creak as the footsteps moved away.
“Idiot,” she muttered into the darkness, forcing herself to open her eyes. It was no use. She would not get a wink of sleep. Cursing, she fumbled with the tinderbox until she’d lit a candle, and then wrapped herself in her dressing gown and shoved her feet into slippers before searching out her cashmere shawl and draping that about her shoulders too. The only way she would get any sleep at all was by doing exactly what she’d suggested earlier and finding some strong spirits. The kind that didn’t go bump in the night.
Gwenn muttered to herself about unscrupulous innkeepers all the way down the stairs. At least they were the only guests staying here, so she’d not risk running into strangers on her night time expedition. Keeping her eyes on the floor, Gwenn prayed she’d see nothing more extraordinary than her rather extravagantly embroidered slippers. She was concentrating so hard on not looking where she was going that she almost screamed the place down when she walked straight into a very solid body.
“Hush!” Lord Cheam hissed, smacking his palm over her mouth.
Gwenn stared at him in outrage as he hurriedly removed his hand.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, immediately contrite and taking a step away from her. “But I thought you were about to scream.”
“I was,” she snapped. “You scared me half to death!”
“Well, it’s not my fault you weren’t looking where you were going.”
There was reproach in his eyes and he folded his arms, scowling at her.
“I was trying not to see a ghost,” she shot back at him, and then bit her lip as she realised how daft that sounded. To her chagrin, she saw his lips curve upwards.
“Really?” he said, with a tremor of mirth.
“Really,” she retorted, feeling like an idiot.
“I do beg your pardon once again, Miss Wynter,” he said, apparently striving for gravity, but his lips kept quirking at the corners and ruining it. “If I’d known how lively an imagination you have, I would never have mentioned it.”
“Them,” she replied tersely. “You said there were three.”
“So I did.” He seemed to have given up on trying to look sincere, and was grinning at her.
“It’s not funny,” she said with a huff. “I can’t sleep.”
“Oh.” He really did look remorseful now. “Is that why you’re prowling about down here?”
Gwenn nodded. “I thought a little tot of something might help.”
He nodded and gestured for her to follow him. “I’ve found the very thing,” he said, leading her into a private parlour where a fire still glowed in the hearth. He lifted a bottle in her direction. “Captain Moncreiffe was good enough to introduce me to the terrible pleasure of whisky when I stayed with him.”
“I thought it was illegal?” Gwenn said, watching as he poured a generous measure into each of two glasses.
“It is.” He chuckled. “You don’t think that would stop any self-respecting Scotsman, do you? I had to pay the innkeeper a pretty penny, but it’s good stuff. Good enough to help you sleep without being troubled by ghoulies and ghosties,” he added with an unrepentant glint in his eyes as he handed her a glass.
“Don’t mock,” she chided him. “It’s all your fault.”
“I know, and I am sorry.”
“No, you’re not. You think it’s hilarious.” She gave a dignified sniff and saw him struggle to keep a straight face. Though she knew she was a fool, she was too happy in his company to scold him anymore and laughed a little. “Oh, stop trying to look so chastised. I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t seem to help it. I’ve always been somewhat afraid of the dark and….” She shrugged and gave a rueful shake of her head. “I’m an idiot.”
“No,” he said, his voice too warm, too soft. “You’re certainly not that. You’re clever and kind and funny, and my sisters adore you.” He paused and his words sank into her bones, into her heart, warming her like no praise of her beauty had ever done. “It will break their hearts when you leave us.”
Gwenn stared at him and proved him utterly wrong about her intelligence by willing him to add and mine too, which he wouldn’t, of course.
There, see, a complete idiot.
“I wish you wouldn’t leave,” he said, the words stunning her.
He just doesn’t want his sisters unhappy you fool, she told herself, but he wasn’t done.
“I don’t want you to go. I know I should urge you to do just that but… I want you to stay.”
“You ought not say such things,” she said, turning away from him.
“
I know.”
She sipped at the whisky, feeling her eyes water and her breath vanish as it lit a trail of fire down her throat and then warmth unfurled in her belly, easing into her blood. Goodness. Rather taken with the sensation, she took another sip. The silence stretched between them and she wished he’d say something. Anything.
“Why are you afraid of the dark?” he asked.
Gwenn shrugged, relieved he’d done as she wished. “I don’t know. I suppose because my mother was rarely home at night, or if she was, she was… occupied. We never seemed to keep staff for very long when I was a girl and, if I woke from a bad dream, I was never sure who would come to me. Some of them were lovely, others… less so.”
“Less so in what way?” he asked at once, the enquiry sharp edged.
She smiled, touched by his unease. “Oh, nothing sinister. Just some poor impatient maid, torn from her sleep and resentful for it, or sometimes they were unused to children and uncaring. I was far too sensitive to sharp words back then. I grew out of it.”
“Have you received so many sharp words in your life?” he asked, too much concern in the question. “To have gotten used to them.”
She clutched the glass a little tighter, fighting the urge to sink into the warmth in his voice, to allow the intimacy he offered her so unthinkingly. Why should he think about it? She was only the governess and he a powerful lord. No, that was unfair, and she knew it. He wasn’t the kind of man to ruin a woman and leave her to her fate. At least she hoped not. Either way, it didn’t change the fact that she ought not be here.
“Oh, not so many,” she said, striving to lighten her tone. She took another, larger sip of the whisky and then raised the glass to him. “You’re right, this is rather good.”
“How do you know the Duke of Alvermarle?”
The question knocked her off balance, and she jolted. For a moment she stared down into the amber liquid while she worked to steady herself. “I worked for him,” she said, the words stiff and given after too long a pause.
“No,” he said at once, shaking his head. “You are not and have never been a governess, which is strange as you’re the best we’ve ever had, and we’ve had a few,” he added wryly. “But that reference of yours bore the man’s seal. So, either he wrote it as a favour, or you were close enough to him to have access to it.”
Gwenn’s heart beat in her throat. If she’d not been so damned stupid, she could have been asleep and not here, getting herself into trouble. She took a deep breath, fighting for calm What did it matter now, anyway? It wasn’t as if she was staying, and he’d already guessed she wasn’t what she seemed.
“Were you his mistress?”
She let out a little huff of laughter. Of course he would think that. Gwenn shrugged. Why not let him believe it? Perhaps he’d not want another man’s cast off and would leave her be. Her chest tightened uncomfortably, but she forced the word out. “Yes.”
He studied her for a long time and then shook his head.
“You’re lying.”
For a moment she was too stunned to speak. How could he know that? She was a damned good liar; even Marie said so. It was him, dammit. Everything about him unsettled her and made her act the fool. “Why would I lie about such a thing?”
“I don’t know,” he said, moving a little closer to her. “But it’s a lie all the same.”
Gwenn stiffened, sensing danger and increased the distance between them.
“Don’t be a fool.” The words were hard, the bored, imperious tone that her mother used when her adoring suitors—the ones that couldn’t afford her—wore on her patience.
“Oh, I’d have likely believed it, before you kissed me.”
The blush stung her cheeks, and she felt a flash of indignation that he’d managed it a second time after everything she’d learned. He made her feel like an innocent girl, which was so laughable she wanted to cry.
“What do you mean?” she demanded, mortified. “What was wrong with my kiss?”
There was a low sound, a gentle huff of amusement, and he closed the distance between them. Gwenn was caught with the fire close behind her and the over-furnished room holding her barricaded with nowhere to run. He reached out and touched her heated cheek with the back of his hand, such a tender caress that her breath hitched.
“There wasn’t a damn thing wrong with it,” he said, such a fierce exclamation she blinked in surprise. “It was perfect, you are perfect—”
“I certainly am not,” she objected, speaking over him, unsettled by such ridiculous praise.
“You are perfectly wonderful,” he finished, sounding amused. “But that was your first kiss. Which begs the question, why would you pretend to have been another man’s lover?”
His hands settled on her waist and the warmth of them burned through her dressing gown and nightdress. The desire to have them on her bare skin was so fierce she ached all over with longing.
“It was not my first kiss,” she retorted, wishing she didn’t want his hands on her so badly. It would be so much better if she could push them away and stalk off with an angry toss of her head, but she wanted his touch with such desperation she could not bring herself to do it.
He tilted his head to one side, studying her, before returning a crooked grin.
“Ah, your second, then.”
“No,” she muttered, irritated.
“My word, well, if it was your third, I can only believe you’ve been kissing green boys who knew no better than to peck at your lips.” He lifted a hand to her cheek, his thumb tracing her lower lip with a barely there touch. “I think I can do better,” he whispered.
That was so accurate an assessment she could say nothing in retaliation. It was the reason Marie had guarded her so fiercely. Those stolen kisses had been sweet and clumsy, but Marie would take no chances once she’d discovered the truth from a maid who had tattled on Gwenn. Marie was determined that her daughter would be a beguiling melange of explicit knowledge and physical innocence. Because of it, her price would be the highest ever seen in London, perhaps in the world. The memory pressed down on Gwenn, reminding her of all the reasons she ought not be alone with a man she was in danger of caring for.
No rubies, Gwennie, they’re not worth a broken heart. They only take the sting from humiliation.
Her heart thundered as he lowered his mouth to hers.
“We’ve been here before,” she said, turning her head away and refusing his kiss though she ached for it. “You know it’s hopeless. We both know it.”
“I know,” he said, lowering his head to touch his forehead to hers.
It was some consolation that he sounded as anguished as she felt. Gwenn closed her eyes, wishing she had the strength to move away, to put some distance between them, but she was drawn to him by some invisible force she didn’t understand. Like some stupid moth burning its wings over and over again, but never learning the danger.
He let out a heavy sigh, his hands tightening on her waist. “I keep telling myself to stay away. I know I ought to. I know all the reasons. I repeat them, over and over again, but….”
Hope burned inside her, which was ridiculous. She ought not hope his resolution should crumble.
“But?” she repeated, breathless with desire, looking up at him with anticipation.
“But I can’t—”
He stopped, gazing down at her before cursing, low and angry, and then he pulled her into his arms. She went eagerly, like a stupid rabbit leaping into a poacher’s snare and welcoming the savage arms that proclaimed her fate. Gwenn coiled her arms about his neck, pulling his head down and pressing closer to him.
Oh, heaven have mercy, but she wanted him.
***
She was in his arms.
Triumph blazed through him like a spark chasing a line of gunpowder, triumph and exhilaration, and something terribly like joy.
Her desire scalded him, sending his own need raging hotter as she clung to him, snatched at him, her hands in his hair, pushing
his coat from his shoulders, tugging his shirt from his waistband. Yet he understood, for he felt this all-encompassing madness too, the desperation to touch her, to have her close, closer, as close as they could get.
He tugged at the tie holding her dressing gown closed and stripped it from her as she pushed him backwards. His legs hit an overstuffed armchair and he sat heavily. Dazed, he watched as she hitched her nightgown, a wicked confection of almost transparent fabric trimmed with lace and ribbons. It was ill-suited for either a Scottish winter or a governess, and it made Sampson smile, helpless with delight until she came to him, straddling him and chasing away the breath in his lungs.
He shifted forward and tugged her closer until his cock nestled against her sex. Even with several layers of fabric between them the contact was electric, and he moaned, smothering the sound in her neck as she clung to him. When she moved, rubbing herself against him, he knew he was lost. This was fate. Karma. Inevitable. They’d tried to fight it, but fate had other plans for them, and he was glad. In this perfect moment, this woman filled his senses. She was everything he’d ever dreamed of; a woman he could talk to, clever and funny and caring, challenging too. Clever and caring enough to understand what his sisters had needed, sweet enough to explain it to him without making him feel guilty for not having understood. She made him laugh, made him ache with wanting, made him feel like his soul would unravel if he couldn’t keep her near him.
“I don’t know your name,” he said, and it sounded like a tragedy, the longing in his voice so raw he almost flinched. Yet it was true, he needed her name, needed every intimacy she would grant him, every part of her that only a lover would have.
She laughed a little, a wonderful breathy sound that fluttered over his mouth. “Gwenn,” she said, sliding her hands from his shoulders to his neck.
“Gwendoline?” he guessed, his smile faltering as she hesitated.
If he hadn’t been so focused on her he wouldn’t have noticed, it was so fleeting.
Melting Miss Wynter (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 17) Page 12