Authors: Christina Dodd
He continued, “But the formalities should be observed.” He bowed again. “Jude Durant, the earl of Huntington, at your service.”
She curtsied. “Miss Caroline Ritter, at your service, my lord.” His insistence on the proprieties made her feel as if she were on solid ground, as if she could do the task set before her, for she’d been raised in the world of society and proper behavior. With complete solemnity, she extended her hand. “I’m your new governess.” Had he come to refuse her services? For she wouldn’t allow him to intimidate her.
Taking her fingers between his two gloved hands, he held it firmly, and in a tone new to her, a tone of deep appreciation, he said, “Hm. Yes. When I was a lad, I dreamed of having a governess like you.” His intense gaze swept her from head to toe, stripping away her clothes—or was it her pretenses?
Once again she thought he was bigger than she had realized, a strapping man with broad shoulders that looked out of place in that absurd jacket. In the wavering light of the candle, his face no longer looked smooth and young. A line bracketed either side of his mouth, as if bitterness had placed it there, and his eyes were sharp and far too observant.
He didn’t look like a dandy. He looked like a man who had met the world and found it harsh and unforgiving.
With a jolt, she realized—she might be in as much danger from Huntington as she was from Freshfield. They were alone. She was an unprotected female. And with a single glance, Huntington had proved he was obviously, shockingly, completely male. Furthermore, she had seen his expression at Hyde Park, and she had not a doubt that she had irritated him. Irritated him, and intrigued him, and made him look like a fool.
Then he let go of her hand. Petulantly, he demanded, “Why should I learn to flirt? I’ve always planned to coast through life on my looks. Look at me.” He posed with his profile to her, his lips pursed. “Like chiseled marble.”
She almost laughed. Almost. She had to stop imagining a threat where none existed. This man might appreciate the female form, but he was absorbed in a lifelong love affair—with himself. “There’s more to finding the right woman than wearing the right clothes and posing to show off your perfect chin.”
“Do you think it’s perfect?” She would have sworn his eyes were twinkling. “Because I’ve thought so, too. Strong, manly, yet sensitive, with a rather dashing cleft in the chin.”
He did have a rather dashing cleft in his chin, one that made her want to press her finger in it and see if it sprang back like well-risen bread. But such sentiment was foolish; he would be a duke, and she…before long, if she were lucky, she would be taking a ship to France. In a firm tone, she said, “Nevertheless, your father has contracted my services for whatever reason, and I intend to fulfill that contract to the best of my ability.”
“As if I need to learn to flirt!” He waved his handkerchief with petulant fanfare. “Why, I have ladies fawning on me at every party.”
With a brutality brought on by desperation, she answered, “For no other reason than you’re the heir to a dukedom.”
Radiating indignation, he drew himself up. “That’s not true! The ladies also enjoy conversing with a gentleman who understands fashion.”
Words failed her. Fashion? What he wore wasn’t fashion, but an abomination against good taste. But if she said so, she would violate more rules of courtesy than she had already. “I imagine the ladies do enjoy speaking with a lord who comprehends the intricacies of material and color.”
“Exactly.” Her trepidation fell away as he continued, “I must tell you, that color you’re wearing is an outrage with your skin. What made you select gray? It makes you look sallow and does nothing for your hair.”
In shock, she looked down at her new riding costume. “I think it’s quite attractive.”
“Ha, ha!” He laughed in a manner so affected she gritted her teeth. “Quite amusing. So. You will teach me to flirt—as if I really need such lessons!—and I will teach you to dress.”
“I have gowns being sewn right now, gowns ordered by your father.”
“I will inspect them all. I shan’t be embarrassed by the companion on my arm.”
“I won’t be the companion on your arm.” Painstakingly, she explained, “I’m the female who’ll help you find a companion for your arm.”
“If you must.” He touched the wall. He grimaced as his white gloves came away soiled, and with elaborate disdain, he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at his fingers. In his old, light, society voice, he said, “This will never do! Not at all. I can’t learn to flirt here.”
She spoke in a tone pitched to reach his ears and not pierce the thin walls where others listened. “You’re not required to learn here. I intend to visit His Grace’s home, and it is there you will learn the art and the subtleties of flirting.”
“Exactly.” He looked around fretfully. “Are you packed?”
“What?” What was he talking about? Was he always so arbitrary in his conversation? “Packed? For what?”
“Weren’t you listening? My father sent me here to bring you to his home.”
“You didn’t say that,” she pointed out, head spinning.
“A woman of superior understanding would have comprehended and been packed by now.” Huntington moved into the room, found the stack of clothing she had placed on the table beside her bed, lifted them, and looked around. “Is there a bag anywhere to be had?”
He confused her with his rapid change of subject and his arrogant insults. “I didn’t think His Grace would care where I lived, and if the only reason the ladies enjoy speaking to you is your appreciation of fashion, your ability to find a suitable mate is impaired by contradictory interests.”
He waved her clothes at her, and she leaped forward when the frayed leg of her drawers dangled downward. “Let me pack for myself, please.” She had, she realized, given in to his imperious command without knowing whether he spoke the truth. And even if he did, she could scarcely believe the arrogant duke of Nevett would send his heir to arrange what a servant could do better. Yet what other reason besides his father’s command would Huntington have for taking her in his custody and transporting her to Nevett’s town house?
She looked around the tiny, grimy room and wondered—why did she care? She had the chance, an honorable chance, to escape the poverty of London’s East End and the terror of Lord Freshfield’s pursuit, and she would seize that chance with both hands.
Pulling her bag from beneath the bed, she packed her clothes.
From the cover of darkness, Freshfield watched as Huntington removed Caroline from her room and herded her down the street. Freshfield had plotted to have her for three years, and now Nevett’s heir had swooped in and taken her from underneath Freshfield’s nose. He wouldn’t have it. He had put up with Brenda’s shrieking and nagging ever since his aborted seduction undertaking. He had successfully sabotaged two of Caroline’s attempts at employment. He had stalked her throughout London, and damned if that ridiculous fool Huntington would have her first.
Perhaps after Lord Freshfield had tired of her, but not yet.
Not yet.
A
s Jude paid the driver of the cabriolet, he heard Miss Ritter take a long breath. “I really don’t think this is the proper thing to do,” she said.
She was a shadow on the stairs of the elegant town house. The light spilled from the windows and over her shoulders and outlined her glorious curves. Her face was in shadow, she stood completely still; nevertheless, she attracted him like some nymph with mystical powers. And she didn’t seem to realize it. Because of the way he dressed? God, he hoped so. It was better than thinking she felt indifference where he suffered lust, or that she was so used to fascinating her companion that she found his interest commonplace.
“You have met my father, I believe. Do you intend to tell him he desires an improper act?” Jude didn’t wait for the reply, of which there could be none, but took her firmly under the arm and ushered her to the door. Lifting the huge iron knocker, he let it drop and listened with satisfaction to the thud.
Beside him, Miss Ritter flinched.
Was kidnapping her the proper thing to do? No, certainly not. To use her to distract the Moricadians was the act of a scoundrel, and Jude knew he trod a fine line, for a man tempted by a woman always ran the chance of revealing his true self.
The butler opened the door and stood astonished as Jude escorted Miss Ritter inside. “Here you go.” Jude handed Phillips her bag. “Please take this to the silver bedchamber for Miss Ritter.”
Phillips looked down at the bag in his hand. “But my lord, the silver bedchamber is not made up.”
Miss Ritter made a small squeak of distress.
Jude tsked in disgust. “Did His Grace not warn my stepmother of Miss Ritter’s arrival? How like him. Better prepare the room.” Turning to Miss Ritter, he said, “If you’d take a seat in the lesser drawing room, I’ll locate my stepmother and inform her of the circumstances.”
Miss Ritter had seemed bold in the park, setting her plan to capture him in motion with timing and flare. In that pathetic little flat, she had been determined, straightforward, and brisk. Yet when faced with a time spent in the luxury of Nevett’s town house, she viewed Jude with suspicion. She held her shabby parasol uneasily clasped in her hands.
Jude hoped she would prove brave and stalwart, for she was a useful addition to his plans.
“Thank you, Lord Huntington.” She entered the small drawing room he indicated. “I think.”
He couldn’t completely ignore her trepidation. Not now that he had her in the house. Taking her gloved hand, he bowed over it, and to build her confidence, he put all of his charm into his smile. “I assure you, you’ll be pleased with your quarters, and my stepmother is a dear. The two of you will get along felicitously.”
When her eyes widened, he realized he had lied to himself. He hadn’t smiled at her to build her confidence. He’d been testing to see if he could capture her interest. He had. Her lashes fluttered. Color stained her cheeks. Gently, she withdrew her hand, and she looked shy and confused and as if she wanted to smile back but didn’t dare.
Of course not. Last time she had trusted a man, she had been betrayed and destroyed, and if Jude tampered with this girl, if he took advantage of her vulnerability, he would be no better than Freshie. Freshie hadn’t wanted to be noticed—although with that bright cravat, there was no way to miss him—and when Freshie wanted something kept quiet, it was because what he intended was slimy and cruel and would reflect badly on himself.
Miss Ritter had definitely not wished to discuss the matter with Jude. He understood her wish for privacy, but he also knew he would have to put a stop to Freshie’s pursuit of Jude’s governess. Jude had plans for her.
He straightened. “Please sit down. I’ll send my stepmother to you.”
He found Mum alone, reading in her study, and her bright, welcoming smile told him only too clearly how dreary she must be.
Kissing her cheek, he said, “As my father commanded, I’ve brought the lady.”
She tucked her finger into her book to keep her place. “What lady are you talking about, dear?”
“The lady Father hired to teach me to flirt.” Obviously, his stepmother knew nothing about Miss Ritter, and Jude rather enjoyed the progression of expressions that crossed her face.
Disbelief, anger, and amused resignation. She laughed as if she couldn’t help herself. “To flirt! That old devil. I told you he was up to something.”
“You were right.” Jude seated himself across from her, discarded his gloves, and adjusted the crease in his trousers. “He hired a governess from the Distinguished Academy of Governesses to help me snare a wife.” Smoothly, Jude moved to his falsehood. “Father requested she be housed beneath his roof, I suppose so he might more easily retain control of the proceedings.” And to provide protection as well as a refuge for her. Jude could feel easy that Miss Ritter would never be in danger from his clandestine activities.
This was the kind of maneuver at which he excelled—lightning assessment of the situation and the ability to arrange matters to his best advantage.
Yet at the most important moment of his life, long-range planning had availed him nothing. He had hesitated, and so he had lost his elder brother. The heaviness of remorse weighed on him, and nothing could wipe the stain on his soul clean. He would go to hell for his misdeed—but not until he had first sent de Guignard and Bouchard to the flames.
Mum laughed again, her tired eyes alight with a glee directed at him. “Who is your governess?”
“You might know her. A Miss Caroline Ritter.”
Mum’s mirth died. “Yes, I know her. The poor child. Is she reduced to this?”
“I would say she has not been reduced to this, but elevated. I found her in a hovel.” He valued Mum’s opinion, so he asked, “You like her, do you?”
Mum placed her book on the table and folded her hands in her lap. “It is—or rather was, for I haven’t seen her since her disgrace—impossible not to like her.”
Remembering Turgoose’s report, Jude said, “That’s not what I heard. I heard a great number of people disliked her.”
“She was the belle of the season, a diamond of the first water, and from a less-than-aristocratic background. She generated a great deal of jealousy, which contributed to her downfall.” Mum smiled slightly. “But for herself, she was charming.”
“Yet she lost all.”
“She’s a silly girl.” Mum rested her plump cheek on her hand. “But I was a silly girl once, too. One does not deserve to have one’s whole life ruined for a single mistake.”
“It happens more than we can imagine.”
“Yes.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “It seems it does.”
Her insight startled him. Had he been so transparent in his guilt and anguish that she knew he was to blame for Michael’s death? Remembering the charred body of his brother, he rubbed the warped signet ring on his forefinger.
“Everything conspired to make her
faux pas
fatal to her reputation. Lord Freshfield’s secret plan, which ended by being no secret at all, Lady Freshfield’s persecution, and, of course, Mr. Ritter’s refutation.”
All Jude could remember of Lady Freshfield was a voice that grated the flesh with its high notes. “Isn’t Freshie’s wealthy wife from a merchant background?”
“Yes, and unattractive, and married for her money. That made her all the more venomous in her vendetta against the pretty, common, popular Miss Ritter.” As only she could, Mum made a moue that expressed disdain. “Five hundred years ago, Lady Freshfield would have lit the torches, tracked Miss Ritter with dogs, and burned her at the stake.”
“Lovely woman.” And another bump in the road of restoring Miss Ritter’s respectability. It looked like an exciting Season, filled with social intrigue and personal vengeance. When Jude was finished, he would have helped a wronged young woman regain some measure of respectability—and he would have vengeance on his brother’s killers.
He rose. “At any rate, Miss Ritter has brought her belongings and is ready to occupy one of the bedchambers. Would you make her comfortable? I wish to go to the opera.”
To see if my tip has sent the Moricadians chasing after Miss Gloriana Dollydear.
“Of course.” Invigorated, Mum rose as if on springs. “I’ll take care of her.”
“By the way, Father ordered clothes for her. You might want to check and see what he deems as appropriate wear for a young lady.”
“Heavens,” Mum said faintly. “He has appalling taste.”
“Exactly. If she’s to go out in public with me—”
“Is she?”
“So Father says, and I won’t be escorted by a fashion disaster.” He sniffed. “It would be fatal for my reputation.”
Mum examined him as if not quite sure if he was jesting. “As you say. When do the lessons start?”
“Officially, tomorrow morning.” He gathered his gloves. “I instructed Phillips to make up the silver bedchamber for her.”
“Absolutely!” Mum bustled out of the room, then back in. “Where is she?”
“In the lesser drawing room.” As she left once more, Jude reflected with satisfaction that his father would never notice Miss Ritter was staying under his roof in one of the numerous bedchambers, and his stepmother would have someone to coddle and promote. Unlike Jude, Mum did things out of pure kindness.
Jude had turned his father’s plan to his own advantage, and his stepmother’s, and Miss Ritter’s. All in all, a most profitable situation.
Caroline sat with her knees together, her feet placed directly below her knees, her hands in her lap, and her heart in her throat. Occasionally, when she wasn’t completely intimidated, she sneaked glances at the gilded frames around the portraits, the lush carpet threaded with inky black, sky-blue and soft peach, and the velvet curtains hung on gold rods. Then she remembered this was the
lesser
drawing room and was properly intimidated again. Ducking her head, she watched her hands as they flexed on the rod of her parasol and considered the difference between this chamber and the one in her father’s house. This chamber reeked of wealth, as did her father’s, but while her father’s house had been designed for show, the chair on which she perched was gloriously cushioned and so comfortable she fought the temptation to put her head back and nap.
If only her room had been ready! Not that she disbelieved Huntington when he said his father wanted her here, for what reason had he to lie? Yet in his carriage, something about the way he watched her gave her the sense he was playing his own game, and she had already been a pawn in one game, with disastrous results. She didn’t ever want to revisit that humiliation.
She heard footsteps and the murmur of voices out in the foyer. The outer door opened and closed.
The duchess of Nevett herself entered, hands outstretched. “My dear, how good to see you again. I suppose you don’t remember me, but we met during your Season.”
“Your Grace, of course I remember you.” As if she would forget a duchess! Caroline scrambled to her feet.
“Please, don’t call me that! Save the exalted title for my husband. My name is Nicolette.”
Beside the petite and gracious lady, Caroline felt tall, skinny and gawky. “Your Grace…Ma’am…I couldn’t…”
“Of course you could, at least in the confines of my own home.” Taking Caroline’s hand, the duchess squeezed her fingers companionably. “You want me to be easy, don’t you?”
Caroline swallowed. “Yes…Nicolette.”
“There. That wasn’t so difficult. And I shall call you Caroline.”
“Yes, please. Only my sister calls me by name now, and I miss hearing it.” That was the truth.
“Jude tells me he brought you to stay with me. I’m so glad, for you may have heard we had a tragedy recently, and I’ve been dull and lonely.”
“A tragedy?” Then Caroline wished she knew the gossip, for Nicolette’s smile faltered.
“I’d forgotten you have been out of society.”
A tactful way of expressing Caroline’s exile.
“Our son Michael was killed while abroad, but our deep mourning is over, and having a beautiful, vivacious young lady in the house will provide just the tonic we need.” The duchess tucked Caroline’s hand in her arm and led her toward the foyer and the stairs. “It’s very clever of you to find a way to use your talent. I always envied your skill at flirting, and Lady Bucknell recommends the best governesses!”
“You’re too kind.” She was. Caroline was dazed by the welcome.
The stairs rose from the foyer in a graceful arc, and Nicolette continued to escort Caroline upward. “Jude says you’re to start teaching him tomorrow.”
“I taught him a little lesson today.” Caroline’s mouth curved as she remembered.
“You look like the spirit of mischief. Tell me!”
Caroline found herself confiding the whole incident to the duchess, who laughed with seeming glee and approved Caroline’s tactics.
As they approached a closed door in the corridor, a footman sprang to attention and opened it.
“Here we are,” Nicolette said. “Jude suggested the silver bedchamber for you, and I know why he did. It’s the perfect setting for you.”
Caroline knew she shouldn’t allow her jaw to drop. It was unfeminine and unattractive. But whatever she expected of her bedchamber, it wasn’t this. Not this spacious, graceful room decorated in cool blues and warm browns. The fireplace was laid with wood and waited only a flame. A dressing screen stood in one corner. Gleaming silver vases stood on either side of the curtained bed, and the chambermaid was filling them with flowers.
She dropped at curtsy. “Just a few final touches, Yer Grace, and it’ll be ready fer yer guest.”
“Thank you, Daisy. You’ll act as Miss Ritter’s maid while she is staying with us.”
“Very good, Your Grace.” Daisy bobbed a curtsy at Caroline, and her gaze examined her up and down. “ ’Twill be a pleasure. May I have yer hat and gloves?”
Caroline peeled off her gloves, but she didn’t have to untie the ribbons under her chin. Daisy stepped close and did it as if Caroline shouldn’t weary herself with such labor. Carefully, Daisy removed the bonnet and took the gloves and the parasol. “Are the rest of yer bags coming later, Miss Ritter?”
Caroline cleared her throat. “I believe there’ll be deliveries with more clothes, yes.”