The Governess Affair
Page 10
“Any work I could get my hands on.” He looked away. She had no idea what kind of work a fourteen-year-old child would do, but she suspected that this man, dressed in clean and sober clothing, might not want to admit to being a common laborer. “But I knew what I wanted. I’ve always known what I wanted, ever since I left.”
“You wanted to be a duke’s right-hand man?” she asked dubiously.
“This?” He looked down, as if surprised to see himself, and then shook his head. “No. I’ve never aspired to serve anyone. But it’s as good a way as any to meet those involved in business. And the money… By the time I’m forty, I’m going to have my own empire. I intend to be the richest coal miner’s son in all of England. This is just the first step in getting there.” He grinned at her. “Did I shock you? I know I’m supposed to declare my undying devotion to the man I serve.”
“I have no fondness for that particular man,” Serena said. “As you may recall.”
He was smiling at her. He shouldn’t be doing that. He shouldn’t be doing any of this. Her hands tingled where his had so recently touched her. Her breath caught with the normalcy of this.
Well. Perhaps normalcy was not the right word. There was nothing ordinary about being seated next to her enemy in a driving rainstorm, drinking tea and chatting about life in the mines.
But there was his smile. She’d thought of the Wolf of Clermont as the duke’s tool, his thing. Yet Mr. Marshall was sitting in the rain feeding her sandwiches. Maybe this was some twisted, diabolical strategy on his part. It seemed unlikely. It would have made more sense to keep her cold and hungry.
Her heart beat hard, half fear, half excitement. This was the man who, if the gossip papers had it right, had brought Clermont’s estates back from the verge of imminent doom. The duke relied on him for everything. Without him, Clermont was nothing.
She could steal him away.
That thought—that she might rob the duke of someone so valuable—put her in sympathy with Mr. Marshall. He didn’t want to be her enemy. Well, he didn’t have to be.
Serena took a deep breath.
“I was never good at devotion myself,” she admitted. “When I was a governess, I saved money because I wanted my own farm. Not a large one,” she added, as he cocked his head in puzzlement. “I wanted to grow lavender and lilac. I taught myself how to extract the essence of the lavender plant. I was going to make fine-milled soaps and package them in dainty boxes and sell them at a tremendous profit to ladies who did not know any better.”
His eyebrow twitched upward. “Ambitious,” he remarked.
“Why do it, then?” she asked him. “Why drive me away, if not out of loyalty to the duke?”
He hesitated a beat before answering. “As it is,” he finally said, “I have granted my unswerving devotion to someone.”
He was looking at her with a steadfast, earnest look. Her heart fluttered. He couldn’t mean her. It was too soon—they scarcely knew one another. And yet the way he was looking at her…
“Oh?” she heard herself answer.
He gave her a wicked smile and leaned an inch closer. She felt as if she were the only person in the world—as if the rain and cold had disappeared in the blaze of his eyes.
“I am devoted to me,” he said. “My fortune rises and falls with the duke’s. I do not wish to see your life in ruins, but I will not give up my chance to be someone just for you.”
Serena swallowed.
“Your tea is getting cold.” He gestured.
She took a sip. The liquid had cooled. With the edge off her appetite, she became aware that the tea was not perfect. She could taste a faintly metallic tang, and it had grown tepid and slightly bitter.
But there was nothing tepid about the attraction between them. She could steal him, if only she knew how.
He sat back, crossing his arms, and that moment of warmth passed. “Miss Barton,” he said, slowly and distinctly, “do not make this any worse for yourself than it must be. I’ll give you fifty pounds, and we’ll manufacture a reference for you so that you may obtain another position.”
She met his eyes. “That’s all you want with me—to convince me to leave?”
“No.” He spoke calmly. “But what I want with you is neither here nor there. I need you to go away, and so go away you shall.”
“Not for fifty pounds and a reference,” Serena answered just as calmly. “How could you think a reference would paper over what happened to me? I want justice, Mr. Marshall. Not a reference.”
He leaned toward her. “Did he force you?” There was something of a snarl in his voice.
Her breath caught. That night—that horrible night—recreated itself in her mind, filling her with shame and guilt and regret. She was temporarily robbed of speech, consumed by the unending silence.
She forced herself to swallow that bitter swirl of emotion. She raised her chin and looked him in the eyes.
“No.” Her voice broke on the word, but she did not look down. “He did not force me.”
I let him do it.
There may have been a touch of pity in his eyes, a hint of gentleness as he took the teacup from her hands. But there was not the slightest trace of charity in his voice when he spoke. “Then it’s fifty pounds and a reference,” he said. “And not one iota of revenge.”
Chapter Four
THE MESSENGER RETURNED FROM Wolverton Hall the day after the rain. Hugo stood at the window of his office, looking over the square below.
It was dry today, and the pensioners were back on the solitary bench. If he read a rebellious cast into her stance… What did it matter? It would change nothing.
He didn’t take his eyes from her, but he was still aware of the messenger standing behind him.
“So,” he finally said. “What happened?”
He’d sent Charles Gordon to find things out. The man was thin and weedy, and more than a little scared of Hugo. From the corner of his eye, Hugo saw the other man swallow, and stare straight in front of him.
“She didn’t leave,” Gordon said, licking his lips. “She was turned off for immoral behavior.”
“Lying? Thievery?” Hugo’s voice was even—all too even. He knew what was coming; she’d told him herself.
“The general gist of the gossip is that she took a man to her bed. In the house, if you’ll believe it.”
“She was caught in the act?”
“You wanted to be a duke’s right-hand man?” she asked dubiously.
“This?” He looked down, as if surprised to see himself, and then shook his head. “No. I’ve never aspired to serve anyone. But it’s as good a way as any to meet those involved in business. And the money… By the time I’m forty, I’m going to have my own empire. I intend to be the richest coal miner’s son in all of England. This is just the first step in getting there.” He grinned at her. “Did I shock you? I know I’m supposed to declare my undying devotion to the man I serve.”
“I have no fondness for that particular man,” Serena said. “As you may recall.”
He was smiling at her. He shouldn’t be doing that. He shouldn’t be doing any of this. Her hands tingled where his had so recently touched her. Her breath caught with the normalcy of this.
Well. Perhaps normalcy was not the right word. There was nothing ordinary about being seated next to her enemy in a driving rainstorm, drinking tea and chatting about life in the mines.
But there was his smile. She’d thought of the Wolf of Clermont as the duke’s tool, his thing. Yet Mr. Marshall was sitting in the rain feeding her sandwiches. Maybe this was some twisted, diabolical strategy on his part. It seemed unlikely. It would have made more sense to keep her cold and hungry.
Her heart beat hard, half fear, half excitement. This was the man who, if the gossip papers had it right, had brought Clermont’s estates back from the verge of imminent doom. The duke relied on him for everything. Without him, Clermont was nothing.
She could steal him away.
That thought—that she might rob the duke of someone so valuable—put her in sympathy with Mr. Marshall. He didn’t want to be her enemy. Well, he didn’t have to be.
Serena took a deep breath.
“I was never good at devotion myself,” she admitted. “When I was a governess, I saved money because I wanted my own farm. Not a large one,” she added, as he cocked his head in puzzlement. “I wanted to grow lavender and lilac. I taught myself how to extract the essence of the lavender plant. I was going to make fine-milled soaps and package them in dainty boxes and sell them at a tremendous profit to ladies who did not know any better.”
His eyebrow twitched upward. “Ambitious,” he remarked.
“Why do it, then?” she asked him. “Why drive me away, if not out of loyalty to the duke?”
He hesitated a beat before answering. “As it is,” he finally said, “I have granted my unswerving devotion to someone.”
He was looking at her with a steadfast, earnest look. Her heart fluttered. He couldn’t mean her. It was too soon—they scarcely knew one another. And yet the way he was looking at her…
“Oh?” she heard herself answer.
He gave her a wicked smile and leaned an inch closer. She felt as if she were the only person in the world—as if the rain and cold had disappeared in the blaze of his eyes.
“I am devoted to me,” he said. “My fortune rises and falls with the duke’s. I do not wish to see your life in ruins, but I will not give up my chance to be someone just for you.”
Serena swallowed.
“Your tea is getting cold.” He gestured.
She took a sip. The liquid had cooled. With the edge off her appetite, she became aware that the tea was not perfect. She could taste a faintly metallic tang, and it had grown tepid and slightly bitter.
But there was nothing tepid about the attraction between them. She could steal him, if only she knew how.
He sat back, crossing his arms, and that moment of warmth passed. “Miss Barton,” he said, slowly and distinctly, “do not make this any worse for yourself than it must be. I’ll give you fifty pounds, and we’ll manufacture a reference for you so that you may obtain another position.”
She met his eyes. “That’s all you want with me—to convince me to leave?”
“No.” He spoke calmly. “But what I want with you is neither here nor there. I need you to go away, and so go away you shall.”
“Not for fifty pounds and a reference,” Serena answered just as calmly. “How could you think a reference would paper over what happened to me? I want justice, Mr. Marshall. Not a reference.”
He leaned toward her. “Did he force you?” There was something of a snarl in his voice.
Her breath caught. That night—that horrible night—recreated itself in her mind, filling her with shame and guilt and regret. She was temporarily robbed of speech, consumed by the unending silence.
She forced herself to swallow that bitter swirl of emotion. She raised her chin and looked him in the eyes.
“No.” Her voice broke on the word, but she did not look down. “He did not force me.”
I let him do it.
There may have been a touch of pity in his eyes, a hint of gentleness as he took the teacup from her hands. But there was not the slightest trace of charity in his voice when he spoke. “Then it’s fifty pounds and a reference,” he said. “And not one iota of revenge.”
Chapter Four
THE MESSENGER RETURNED FROM Wolverton Hall the day after the rain. Hugo stood at the window of his office, looking over the square below.
It was dry today, and the pensioners were back on the solitary bench. If he read a rebellious cast into her stance… What did it matter? It would change nothing.
He didn’t take his eyes from her, but he was still aware of the messenger standing behind him.
“So,” he finally said. “What happened?”
He’d sent Charles Gordon to find things out. The man was thin and weedy, and more than a little scared of Hugo. From the corner of his eye, Hugo saw the other man swallow, and stare straight in front of him.
“She didn’t leave,” Gordon said, licking his lips. “She was turned off for immoral behavior.”
“Lying? Thievery?” Hugo’s voice was even—all too even. He knew what was coming; she’d told him herself.
“The general gist of the gossip is that she took a man to her bed. In the house, if you’ll believe it.”
“She was caught in the act?”
