It was a very small creek, really. Peter threw another rock, apparently content to stay well away from the edge of the water. Alice was complaining that Helène had not allowed her to bring her sketchbook. She began drawing something in the snow with a stick. The burble of water was almost hypnotizing. Helène took a small step forward, imagining what it might be like to glide over a river of ice.
“You
are
a little fool, aren’t you?” teased a male voice, almost in her ear.
Helène jumped. One foot slipped as she turned around, and she began to fall. Immediately, a strong arm wrapped itself around her waist, hauling her upright and away from the creek’s edge. She looked into the eyes of Lord Charles Quentin. He was smiling.
“What are you doing? Let go!” Helène tried to extricate herself, but her captor was unyielding.
“Alice. Peter. Go back to your father.” Lord Quentin’s arm was still around her waist. He motioned the children away from the creek.
“But Lord Quentin!” protested Alice. “It’s pretty!”
“I’m sure the marquess can arrange for James to bring you more hot chocolate,” he told her. “And Alice–”
“Yes, sir?” said the girl.
“We wouldn’t want your father to scold Miss Phillips, would we?”
“Oh no, sir!”
“Why would Father scold Miss Phillips?” asked Peter, eyes wide.
“Because she almost fell into some very cold water. Your papa might not think she was clever enough to be your governess, doing something as foolish as that.”
The mock seriousness of his tone was lost on both children, and Peter looked up at her with a shocked expression.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” said Helène.
“We won’t tell!” said Alice.
“Good. Now off with you.” They trooped away obediently, but Lord Quentin did not loosen his grip. Helène stopped struggling and stood, rigid and furious, feeling his breath warm in her ear.
“You are no longer joining us at dinner,” he said. “Why is that?”
“I did not ‘almost fall into cold water!’” she told him, choosing to leave the playfulness of his words unacknowledged. “Are you mad? I wouldn’t even have slipped if you hadn’t startled me!”
“You’ve entirely the right of it,” said Lord Quentin. “I do apologize.”
Startled by his answer, Helène found herself with nothing else to say. “Very well,” she muttered, finally. “Now be so good as to let me go–”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
She was beginning to feel a little weak in the knees. Lord Quentin’s body was strong and warm against hers, and Helène felt his lips nuzzling the top of her head.
“I prefer to eat alone.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Her body betrayed her, insisting that it wished to remain standing there enfolded in his arms. But... what had Lord Quentin just said?
“I don’t care what you believe,” Helène retorted, and, pushing his arms aside with sudden strength, she stomped away.
* * * *
The marchioness had decided that champagne was
de rigeur
for a winter’s picnic, while the marquess preferred the warmth of brandy. Consequently, both were offered in addition to the wine, in liberal portions, and by mid-afternoon the greater number of the guests were somewhat unsteady to foot. Lady Sinclair was in her element, shrieking with laughter at every jest or
bon mot
from the gentlemen, and had attached herself quite firmly to Lord Quentin’s side.
“Doesn’t the marquess notice anything?” Helène asked Lady Pamela and Lady Detweiler, and was promptly embarrassed to think she had voiced such an impertinence aloud.
“An excellent question,” answered Amanda. She shrugged. “I believe much of what Celia does is indeed
designed
for her husband’s notice. But Jonathan’s attention seems quite difficult to catch, these days.”
“Can’t he see what she’s doing–?” Helène stopped. Both women were looking at her with raised eyebrows.
“He?” Lady Detweiler asked the girl. “The marquess? Or Lord Quentin?”
“I–well–” She blushed.
What is wrong with me?
wondered Helène. Mooning over an arrogant, conceited lord as if she believed in fairy tales! The shy governess and the handsome earl-to-be, living happily ever after in some ivy-covered castle. Well! Celia Sinclair could just
have
him, every last bit of him, because Helène was finished with such nonsense. She’d sooner marry a
footman.
“Why are the gentlemen cutting down a tree?” she asked, focusing her attention on a less aggravating subject.
“Oh, don’t get me started,” begged Amanda.
Lady Pam laughed. “In a word,” she said, “tradition.”
“In a word,” said Amanda, “a parcel of male nonsense.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” Pamela turned to Helène. “All of the local countryside was once wooded. But even before the modern century began much of the forest was gone. Used for cottages and firewood, I suppose. One of the early marquesses tried to forbid the cutting of timber on estate property–”
“But it’s a very long story,” interrupted Amanda, motioning for one of the footmen’s attention. “D’ you suppose Celia thought to bring any sherry?”
“Yes,” said Lady Pam. “Well, to shorten things a bit, each year the gentlemen of the household cut one large tree–”
“Drunk as a lord, every one of them. It’s a wonder no one’s ever been killed.”
“–and present it to the people of Luton-on-Lea on St. Raymond’s Day,” finished Lady Pam. “There’s a very nice ceremony in front of the church, that sort of thing.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t forget to tell her the part about the donkey,” said Lady Detweiler.
* * * *
Viscount Dreybridge approached Helène a short while later, wondering if he might ‘borrow’ Alice and Peter for a ‘scientifical experiment.’
“I–I believe,” he stammered, “I believe that children have a natural... instinct for geometry. Figuring the height of that tree, for example. We will employ the So–Socratic method, and–”
“Alice is but seven,” said Helène. “Peter is five. Surely they are not ready for geometry.”
“No, no!” said the Viscount, undeterred. “It is a perfect age. They have no previous misunderstandings of scientifical methods to overcome. Now adults, on the other hand–”
He rambled on. The children adored the viscount and were agreeable to the project, so, with some misgivings, Helène gave them leave to go. Accepting a small glass of mulled wine from one of the footmen, she stood in front of one of the bonfires. The heat was almost painful on her cheeks, and Helène hoped some of the warmth would find its way to her toes.
“I will teach you to ice-skate, if you wish,” The soft voice was right behind her, and Helène had just enough presence of mind not to jump. Lord Charles Quentin. Of course. He stood grinning, his hand already at her elbow.
“The Lea is often frozen thickly enough by the middle of January,” he added. “But you must promise never to go near it without me.”
He steered her over to the far side of the bonfire. It would be churlish to refuse his company, thought Helène, and so she went unresisting, but with a worried glance in the marchioness’s direction. Lady Sinclair looked displeased. Wonderful, thought Helène. He amuses himself with the hired help for a scant few minutes, and I have
her
looking daggers at me for the rest of the afternoon.
“I appreciate your offer, my lord,” began Helène, hoping, as she told herself, to be rid of him quickly. “But I really don’t think–”
“We haven’t finished our conversation,” said Lord Quentin, as if she had not spoken.
A conversation! Is that what he called it? Helène felt a twinge of annoyance at the man’s high-handed manner. “I don’t recall–”
“And I will continue to plague you until you have heard me out.”
“Then by all means, my lord,” said Helène. “Let us finish at once. You have my entire attention.”
Her heart had begun to thump alarmingly, and her thoughts raced. Why was he here? Was he playing some game with her–or with the marchioness? Perhaps his attentions were all to make Lady Sinclair jealous, and Helène no more than an expendable pawn.
Yes, decided Helène.
That
was undoubtedly the reason for his interest. Even the other night... was it a coincidence that Charles Quentin appeared at her door moments before they heard Celia? Suddenly this seemed very unlikely, and Helène’s annoyance changed to fury. How like the Quality, to assume other people had no feelings!
“What is it?” she heard Lord Quentin ask. She turned to see an honest question in his eyes. Helène had never been skilled at hiding her emotions, and she realized that much of what she was thinking must have been mirrored in her face.
“ ’Tis all a good game to you, I’m sure, my lord,” she told him. “But I am not playing.”
“A game?” He had the grace to look confused.
“Aye,” said Helène. “But I pray you, choose someone else to gain Lady Sinclair’s jealousy. I’m afraid I could not muster enough interest to make the charade convincing.”
There! Let him think again, if he was so convinced she was easy prey.
Lord Quentin shook his head and chuckled quietly.
“What Celia thinks should be a matter of indifference to you, Miss Phillips,” he told her. “As it certainly is to me.”
Helène shot him a disbelieving look. “Ah, but you are mistaken, my lord,” she said. “ ’Tis a matter of great concern to me, if I have a position at Luton Court, or must needs return to an uncertain future in London.”
The fire blazed up for a moment, a shower of sparks falling out into the snow. They stepped back and once again Helène felt Charles Quentin’s strong arm at her back. A chill ran through her that had nothing to do with the weather.
“Your future is not uncertain.”
Startled by the odd intensity of his words, Helène looked up at Lord Quentin. His brown eyes were warm and compelling, and she forced herself to turn away.
“No,” she answered. “No, I indeed hope not. Now, if you will excuse me–”
“Don’t go.” He placed both hands on her shoulders. Helène fancied she felt the marchioness’s stare knifing into her back. She attempted to back away but his grip was strong, his fingers decidedly intimate even through the heavy wool of her cape. She felt short of breath, and angry at herself for her own, mindless reaction.
Foolish girl.
“I understand your concerns,” Lord Quentin was saying. He spoke in a near whisper. “But I have a... an idea.”
An idea? What was this?
“I can imagine no idea of yours which would be of any help, my lord,” she whispered back. “Unless you have children in need of a governess.”
There was silence for a moment. While the fire crackled and warmed her cheek, the other sounds of the party–the murmur of conversation, the clatter of silver–seemed to fade. Abruptly, as if the knowledge had been transferred directly into her soul, burning there like a brand, she knew exactly what idea Charles Quentin was talking about.
Helène turned to face him. She raised her eyebrows. “Ah. I see. I’ve been a bit of a slow-top, I suppose. You mean to offer me
carte blanche
?”
It was plain speaking. Lord Quentin appeared momentarily disconcerted, then he smiled at Helène. “Perhaps I’ve been too forward. But I had the impression–the other night–that you do not judge me... repugnant to your sensibilities.”
The words spoke of hesitation and doubt. But Helène saw amusement in Charles Quentin’s eyes, and she realized that he felt sure of himself. Sure that she would say yes.
“You are a beautiful, intelligent woman. You are wasted here–”
“And I should find my true worth in your bed?”
Lord Quentin blew out a slow breath. Perhaps it now occurred to him that he was approaching his subject in an awkward way.
“Your pardon,” he finally said. “I do not mean to imply that your worth lies only in your... mmm... ”
“Physical attributes?” supplied Helène. “I am glad that you admit some possibility of other talents on my part.”
“You misunderstand the nature of what I am suggesting.”
“Misunderstand
carte blanche
?” Helène spat back. “I think not.” Her voice was sharp, her pique rapidly mounting. Perhaps it was her very real attraction to the man that added fury to the insult. She longed to slap him, to hurl curses at that smiling, arrogant face. But a public scene was unthinkable. Helène was aware that Lady Sinclair was watching every gesture between herself and Lord Quentin. Even if the marchioness could not hear the words–
She forced herself to speak calmly, as if they were discussing nothing more than the height of the tree selected to be cut for St. Raymond’s Day.
“Let me assure you, my lord, that I do not find you personally repugnant,” she told Lord Quentin. “Only your idea of proper employment for a respectable female.”
“Don’t be so quick to dismiss the idea. Is
this
what you aspire to in the way of employment? Alice and Peter are pleasant enough children, I dare say, but–”
“They’re quite wonderful, actually.”
“–but this cannot be what you wished for your life. It is customary to settle a certain sum of money on one’s... mistress. You would never need work again, even if our relationship... mmm... ”
“Even after you send me on my way? ’Tis a pleasant thought, I admit.”
“You are deliberately twisting my words!”
Helène noted, with satisfaction, that the gentleman was now just as angry as she was.
“This conversation is over, my lord. Whatever you may think of governesses, ” she told him, “I can assure you that we are not whores.”
“Miss Phillips, I never meant–”
“You never meant!” Helène knew that Lady Sinclair still watched them, knew, too, that it would be no difficulty for the marchioness to guess the source of conflict between Lord Quentin and the governess. She was past caring. “Oh, my lord, you meant
exactly
that!”
His eyes blazed. “I can assure you, Miss Phillips, that any mistress of mine is no whore.”
“We disagree, then, on the plain meaning of an English word.”
“You would have your own establishment in town. Clothing, jewels, anything at all. Most women in your station would jump at the chance to better themselves–”