The Governess Affair

  Freddy wasn’t involved in this dispute. She’d never done anything—not since the dreadful night when she’d been in the carriage with their mother when it was robbed. She’d been sitting right next to her when the highwayman had taken his shot.

  Freddy had never spoken of the event—but she’d scarcely been able to leave the house after. Serena had thought her distress would fade, but as the years went by, her sister had only come to fear the world outside her door more and more. Striking at her, and in this despicable way…

  Mr. Marshall had a great deal to answer for.

  Serena set the letter on the table.

  “I have had quite enough,” she said, her voice shaking with rage. “I will not—will not—let this happen to you, Freddy. I promise.”

  THE DOOR AT CLERMONT HOUSE was hard, but Serena pounded on it with all the force she could muster.

  It was the third time that she’d knocked, and she wasn’t expecting an answer. Still, she wasn’t leaving until she obtained one. After what she’d come home to last night…

  She raised her hand once more, and the door swung open. A gray-haired man peered down at her. Serena drew herself up to the full extent of her height—which unfortunately, didn’t even bring her to the other man’s shoulder.

  “I demand to speak to Mr. Marshall,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster. “I demand to speak to him now.”

  The footman looked down his nose at her. “He is unavailable at the moment.”

  “Make him available. If he doesn’t speak to me—”

  “I have been instructed to give you this.” The footman held out one hand; a crisp piece of white paper was folded in his fingers.

  Slowly, she reached out and took it. It had been folded in a square; a firm hand had written “Miss Barton” across the front.

  “And this,” the footman said.

  She looked up. The man held a pencil. It looked out of place in his white-gloved hands—too mundane to exist in such close proximity to a duke’s livery. She took that, too, and was unfolding the missive when the door shut, firmly and irrevocably, behind her. Serena took the letter across the street and broke the seal.

  Miss Serena Barton, she read. It will behoove you to calm yourself. Convincing Frederica’s landlord to toss the two of you out was the work of a moment. Consider it a warning only.

  As you have little to do with your days, the inconvenience of moving houses is, I am sure, nothing. A woman of your fortitude will find the task poses little problem. If, however, I am forced to inconvenience myself to the extent of ruining Daughtry’s Bank—where your sister draws her annuity—you can rest assured I will not remain so pleasant.

  My offer still stands: fifty pounds and a reference. I can, perhaps, increase the monetary compensation somewhat.

  I’d rather not cause you any further disruption, but I will not hesitate, should it prove necessary.

  As always, I am

  Yours.

  There was no signature.

  Serena stared at the offending missive, anger growing in her heart. She’d been prepared to have any threat leveled at her. But to threaten Freddy once again? It was like abusing baby squirrels.

  She flipped the paper over, and on the blank reverse, scrawled her response.

  Cut line, sir. My sister and I have scarcely a hundred pounds to lose between the two of us. Such infinitesimal reserves will hardly be missed.

  Not true, but in her experience, wealthy men never understood the value of money. She nodded fiercely at that, and then played the card that she’d been holding in abeyance for this moment.

  But you know—and I know—and all of Mayfair knows—that the duchess will not be pleased if she hears my story. I am not frightened of you; how could I be? I have nothing to lose. I am already ruined.

  Clermont, on the other hand… Do remind me. Is it twenty thousand pounds at stake if his wife deserts him, or forty? The gossips never get the figures clear.

  I address one final thing. You are not mine, and I’ll thank you not to address me in so familiar a fashion.

  S. Barton

  She handed her response off to the footman, who actually answered the door for her this time around, and returned to her bench—today, it was vacant. It was cold, but her rage kept her warm. And in any event, she wasn’t kept waiting long. The footman brought Mr. Marshall’s response out to her around noon.

  Dear Serena, he had written.

  She was sure he’d addressed her by her Christian name solely to irritate her.

  You may pretend all you wish, but you and I both know that no matter how you protest, your resources are all that stand between you and a life on the streets. The duke, of course, might be inconvenienced by a lack of money, but he will be shielded from the true cost of poverty.

  Will you?

  Still yours,

  Hugo.

  Serena’s hands had grown cold as she read, but she grabbed her pencil and scrawled a response.

  I, at least, have some experience with poverty. I don’t relish repeating it, but I am positive I will make do. Can your duke?

  I have some tips for him on frugal living; I shall be sure to pass them along if his wife abandons him completely. Here’s one: Did you know that a mixture of two parts vinegar, two parts oil, and one part treacle makes a passable lemonade?

  S. Barton

  It took a little more than half an hour for a response to arrive.

  Serena—

  The vinegar solution was actually quite disgusting, which I presume was your intent. In the interest of fairness and gentlemanly conduct—two things that I cannot pretend that I normally aspire to—I must award you the upper hand in that particular bout.

  I say this in all seriousness: It would give me the greatest sorrow to destroy your future and crush your spirit.

  Yours.

  There was a line crossed out beneath that, so darkly that she couldn’t read the original words, and then:

  Postscript. I am not indifferent to your welfare, even if it seems otherwise. I can see you from my office window. It cannot be good for you to pace so frantically.

  Serena swallowed, and then glanced up. The windows of Clermont House reflected the dying afternoon sun. She could see movement behind the curtains—vague shadowy figures, as of housemaids going about their duties dusting—but nobody that looked like Mr. Marshall.

  I see, she wrote slowly on the reverse of his letter. You’ve been watching me. If you’ll look out your window now, I have a special surprise for you.

  She handed this to the butler and then stood by her bench, waiting. Her heart pounded. Her hands were clammy. God, Freddy had it right—she jumped into everything without thinking, and now look what—

  Her breath caught. A figure appeared in a window on the second floor. She couldn’t make out any features, just a dark silhouette. Still, he could probably see her in sunlit detail. Serena forced her lips to curve into a smile.

  The Wolf of Clermont raised his hand.

  Before she could lose her nerve, Serena made a fist and delivered an extremely rude gesture. He stood at the window, stock-still, before turning away.

  She received his note not two minutes later. She opened it, her heart pounding. But there were only two words on the paper.

  Marry me.

  She stared at the page for a few moments longer, struggling to make sense of it all. He’d threatened her sister. He’d threatened her well-being. But this…this was, perhaps, the most sinister thing that he’d said.

  It reminded her of the foolish, inexplicable sense of security that she felt in his presence, of the sense of attraction that pulsed between them. Those words took her most vulnerable self and made a mockery of her desires.

  But then, she would not be cowed. She would not be vulnerable. Her child’s future was at stake, and no matter what weapon Mr. Marshall leveled at her, she would not flinch.

  Serena raised her chin, and scrawled her response.

&nbsp
; I was wondering when you would start threatening me with fates worse than death. Congratulations, Mr. Marshall. I am now officially frightened.

  Chapter Five

  IT WAS LONG PAST DARK by the time Hugo left work, whistling tunelessly.

  He shouldn’t have felt so ridiculously pleased with himself—he still had no idea what he was going to do about Miss Barton. Still, by the time she’d bested him—for the third time!—with that snipe about fates worse than death, he’d had an enormous grin on his face. It hadn’t faded, not through the hours that passed, not even though he’d needed to stay long past his usual time to finish his work.

  He came out from the mews, turning onto the street, tapping his walking stick against the ground in a happy rhythm. And then he stopped.

  Miss Barton was still sitting on the bench.

  He’d not seen her in the dark from his window. He’d assumed she was gone. If he’d known she was still present… No. He wasn’t sure what he would have done, if he’d known she was waiting in the dark where any blackguard might prey upon her. He crossed the street slowly.

  “Miss Barton?” he asked, his voice low and threatening. “What are you still doing here?”

  She stood at his approach. Her face was grim. “What do you think? I’m waiting to speak to you.”

  “Me?” He took another step toward her. “Why?”

  He couldn’t see her expression. The street lamp was ten feet behind him, casting her face into shadow. She started toward him, and his latent awareness of her roared to life. She was a good bit shorter than he was. The fabric of her skirts rustled in the darkness. Her strides were sure and confident; her kiss would be as certain. His skin prickled in anticipation as she came up to him, within touching distance.

  Before he had a chance to think, she made a fist and punched him in the jaw.

  He caught her hand before she could do it again. “Never hit a man with a closed fist,” he told her.

  He could feel her pulse.

  “Why? Because it gives you an excuse to manhandle me?”

  He let go. “Slap his face instead.”

  “Ha.”

  “It will make him take you less seriously, and then he won’t be expecting it when you knee him in the groin.”

  She let out a surprised burst of laughter at that.

  “That’s better,” Hugo heard himself say. “I spent my day flirting with a beautiful, maddening woman,” he told her. “How was yours?”

  She snorted. “I spent mine receiving cowardly threats of violence,” she tossed back. “Other than that, it was just lovely.”

  Hugo’s bright, pleasant mood grew a shade darker. “Did you, then.”

  “Yes,” she said passionately. “And as soon as he lets down his guard, I’m going to smack some sense into the fellow who threatened me.”

  “Was I as bad as all that, then?” Was he apologizing to her for doing his work? No. Of course he wasn’t. That would be ludicrous.

  She set her hands on her hips. “You convinced my sister’s landlord to toss her out on her ear with almost no notice. We must vacate in two days. Two days.”

  “Have you nowhere else to go?”

  “You don’t understand. Were it just me, this would pose no difficulty at all. But my sister…she doesn’t leave her rooms, not unless she has to. When she met me at an inn a few weeks ago, she almost fainted in the crowds. It will kill her to leave.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said before he could think better of it.

  Apparently, he was apologizing. Apparently, he even meant it.

  “You should be.”

  To his horror, he heard a faint sniff. That quiet suggestion of tears was quite possibly the worst thing she could have done.

  He stepped closer to her. “You’re not letting me get you down, are you? I have it on the best of authority that the Wolf of Clermont is all shoulders, no neck. He doesn’t deserve an inch of your sentiment.”

  “Make up your mind,” she snapped. “Either threaten me with bodily harm or be kind to me. Don’t do both. It’s bewildering.”

  “Don’t exaggerate. I threatened to destroy your livelihood. But I don’t threaten women with physical violence.”

  “Oh?” she demanded. “How do you explain your last message, then?”

  It took Hugo a moment to recall what he’d said. Those impulsive two words—he’d not even known what he meant by them.

  “You cannot tell me it was a serious proposal of marriage,” she said. “It was intended to intimidate. And I will not be intimidated.”

  Hugo swallowed. “Marriage—to anyone—has never entered my mind. I am not the sort of man who is destined for matrimonial bliss. I have too much I wish to do with my life to saddle myself with the expense of a wife and children. Take those words as they were intended—as my frankest expression of admiration for a worthy opponent.”

  “You’re a clever fellow,” she retorted. “Express your admiration some other way. It makes me think—” She cut off, and took a step back. “What are you doing?”

  He took another step toward her. She held up her hands to ward him off. Slowly, Hugo extended his walking stick to her. “Take it,” he said.

  “But—”

  “Stop arguing, Serena, and take it.”

  Her hand closed around the head, and she pulled it from him.

  “That,” he said, “is a weapon. If I do anything you don’t like, hit me on the head. It’s dark. You’re unaccompanied. And I am seeing you home.”

  She looked up at him. “I don’t understand.”

  He didn’t, either. “Don’t make too much of it.” Hugo shrugged and set off down the street.

  SERENA DIDN’T KNOW what to think as she trotted down the street beside the Wolf of Clermont, swinging his heavy walking stick. His strides were not long, but they were quick and steady, and her heart beat quickly as she kept pace with him. Her mind was whirling nearly as fast.

  When they slowed to pick their way across a street, Serena tried again. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this.”

  “Yes, you do,” he said, not looking at her. “You understand perfectly well what is happening. We’re attracted to one other, and it’s inconvenient.”

  She sucked in a breath.

  “Don’t act so surprised. If I were a greengrocer, and you the charming shopkeeper’s daughter across the street, we’d be calling the banns this Sunday. Likely we’d anticipate our marriage vows while our parents looked the other way.”

  “I wasn’t acting surprised. But you’re trying to unsettle me again, and I—”

  “I am not. I am as far out to sea as you are.” He spoke in a rumble so deep she almost didn’t notice the complaint in his voice.

  Serena halted on the street corner; he turned to look at her. “If I were a footman,” he said, “and you a maid, we’d know every nook, every closet where we might hide away together.”

  Safe, her dastardly senses whispered. He’s safe. There was something comforting about his forthright recital—comfort with an edge that only sharpened when he took a step closer to her.

  “If I were a cobbler,” he said, “I’d offer you a discount on shoes.”

  “Now you’ve completely lost your mind.”

  “No. It would give me an excuse to measure your feet with my bare hands.” His lip twitched up. “And don’t think I’d stop at your toes.”

  She had both her hands on top of his walking stick. She felt herself lean toward him, ever so slightly.

  “But you’re not,” she said. “You’re the Wolf of Clermont, and I’m the woman you cannot drive away.”

  “Can’t is such an unforgiving word,” he said. “I prefer do not wish to.”

  This was a man who had walked away from his family at fourteen. He had a reputation for getting what he wanted.

  But there was so much more to him than the boorish drone she’d once envisioned. He had talked about crushing her hopes and dreams,
but when he stood next to her, he drove away the despair she’d carried for so long.

  She wanted to steal him away—not to deprive Clermont of his use, but to have him for herself.

  “Don’t tell me I can’t,” he was saying. “It implies an incapacity.”

  “Can’t,” Serena repeated with a smile. “Can’t can’t can’t.”

  “Ah, now you’re just taunting me.” He reached out and touched the side of the walking stick. “It’s a good thing this is between us, because otherwise I might forget that I’m not a footman. Or a cobbler.” He took another step in, and he was so close now that he warmed the night air around her. It scalded her lungs.

  She’d thought him safe. She was wrong; there was nothing safe about him. But he stood along the path to safety. If she could steal his loyalty for her own…

  For a brief moment, a dark shadow passed over her at all that would entail.

  She squelched it. Never mind how she was to accomplish it. There was no point looking down when climbing. She’d repeated the word can’t, but after months of can’t, she was just going to have to prove that she could.

  She uncurled one of her hands from the walking stick and laid it against his cheek. His jaw was rough and stubbled under her touch.

  His breath sucked in. “Not a good idea, Serena. I’m no simple grocer. I don’t intend to marry, and even if I did, it is my job to thwart you.”

  But he didn’t move back. He didn’t move forward, either. He simply waited, his eyes dark in the night.

  Serena let go of the walking stick; it balanced on end, momentarily, before crashing to the ground.

  And then he did move, slowly, leaning those final inches toward her.

  At first it was just his lips that brushed hers, warm and certain, a fleeting pressure, swiftly removed. Then he rested his hand on her hip, drawing her to him. His mouth brushed hers once more; his lips parted, nipped at hers, and then again. Her whole body warmed.

  She mimicked his motion—parting her lips—only to have him take them between his own, nibbling at her. She could have lost herself in that back-and-forth—the warmth of his breath, the taste of his mouth on hers. Shockingly, overwhelmingly sweet.