скачать книгу бесплатно
“Say, Daisy. I’m wondering if we have enough pencils and bits of chalk. Would you help me count them out?”
“I—”
“Daisy,” Rosamund interrupted sharply. “I think I hear Millicent coughing.”
As her sister went to nurse her ailing patient, Rosamund fixed Alex with an unflinching—and unmistakable—look. Stay away from my sister.
Alex’s spirits dipped. The challenge before her was already intimidating. She had no teaching experience, the younger of her two charges had not yet learned to read, and her employer would be completely unhelpful.
However, it was plain that the most formidable obstacle in this entire endeavor would come in the shape of a mistrustful, strong-willed, ten-year-old girl.
So. The war of wills began here.
If she didn’t want to leave this house penniless, it was a war Alexandra had to win.
Chapter Six (#u4fc783d2-94ad-5d57-ba14-150cc7d31447)
That evening, Chase stood in the doorway of his governess’s bedchamber, waging a fierce battle with temptation.
He’d stopped by her room with the most innocent of motives. He intended to see that she’d settled in, and be assured that the accommodations were to her liking.
What he was doing, however, was admiring her sweet, round little bottom.
It wasn’t as though he’d intended to ogle her. He wasn’t some perverse old man leering through a peephole in the closet. Her door was open, and her back was to him, and she hadn’t taken note of his presence—probably because she was bent over that cursed telescope.
So there it was, presented for his view. The most delightful peach of a backside. More generously rounded than he would have guessed, given her slender figure.
At his sides, his hands instinctively cupped, estimating size and plumpness.
Chase, you despicable bastard.
He shook out his hands and cleared his throat. “Miss Mountbatten?”
Startled, she stood bolt upright and reeled to face him. “Mr. Reynaud.”
“So. Do you like what you see?”
“Do I like what I . . . ?”
Her gaze wandered over him. In his evening attire, he could only imagine he made a markedly different picture than he had on their first meeting. He’d actually bathed and shaved, and gone to the trouble of buttoning his cuffs.
She stammered. “I . . . er . . . that is to say, I should imagine that—”
“The room,” he said. “Does it meet with your satisfaction?”
“Oh, that,” she said with relief. “Yes. Thank you. Very much. I wasn’t expecting something so spacious.”
“Mrs. Greeley usually gives the governesses a chamber next to the nursery, but I told her you required the one with the largest window and a clear view of the sky. I’ll send up a maid to assist you in unpacking your things.”
“I’ve already unpacked them,” she replied, looking self-conscious. “There was only the one trunk.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” He strolled across the room to the window, taking a look at the arrangement of the telescope and window. “There’s space out here for a narrow verandah. I’ll have plans drawn up for a platform and railing this week.”
“That’s too generous of you.”
“Nothing of the sort. It’s entirely self-interest. If you’re satisfied with your accommodations, you’re less likely to leave.” He bent and squinted to peer through the telescope. “Why did you want it? I can’t help but be curious.”
“Well, our agreement is temporary. At the end of the summer, I will need a new occupation.”
“I should think you’d go back to setting clocks.”
She shook her head. “I’m planning a new business venture. Instead of selling the time, I’m going to sell comets.”
“Selling comets?” He laughed a little. “Oh, I must hear this. Pray tell, how do you intend to catch them?”
“The aristocrats are positively mad for comets, but most don’t have the time or interest in doing the work. I’ll search the skies and chart observations, and then I’ll find a patron willing to pay me for the effort.”
“So you’ll find the comet, and this patron claims it as his discovery? That sounds highly unjust.”
“I’m not interested in it for the glory. A woman of my station has to be more practical than that.”
“So you intend to be an astronomical mercenary. I’m impressed.”
She smiled a little. “That makes it sound far too exciting. It’s boring work. A matter of searching the sky, one dark patch at a time, looking for anything smudgy.”
“Smudgy? A proper scientific term, that.”
“I’ll show you an example, if you like.”
She joined him, crowding into the small window alcove, and bent to adjust the telescope—affording him, should he choose to take it, a view directly down the neckline of her frock. Chase pulled his gaze away, but not swiftly enough. That split-second view of two celestially perfect crescents of soft, feminine flesh was going to linger.
In need of distraction, he swept a gaze around the room—which, in its own way, was equally revealing.
This was the sum total of her possessions? The bedchamber remained empty for the most part, save for a simple dressing set on the washstand, a row of books and writing supplies on the corner table, and a few articles of clothing hanging on pegs. On the wall above the table, she’d affixed items clipped from newspapers and magazines. A map of the constellations, a card with an illustration commemorating the appearance of Halley’s comet in 1759, and a few smaller notices that he had to squint to read from this distance. At the top of one, he could just make out the words “Cottage for Let.”
“Here it is. Have a look, if you like.” She beckoned him to look through the eyepiece.
Chase bent awkwardly, closed one eye, and peered into the brass tube. His reward was a blurry glimpse of a wholly unremarkable speck of light. “Apparently I’m a natural astronomer. I can declare with certainty”—he squinted—“that is a smudgy sky thing. I shall expect to imminently receive my medal from the Royal Astronomical Society.”
“That’s not a comet. Most of the smudges aren’t. Before declaring it a new discovery, you have to rule out the other possibilities. Fortunately, others have done much of that work. There’s a book by a Frenchman. Charles Messier. He catalogued a great many of the known not-a-comet smudges, so that comet-hunting observers know to ignore them.” She went to retrieve a folio from the table and flipped through the pages for him to view.
“You said a book. That’s not a book.”
“I couldn’t find a copy I could afford to purchase,” she admitted. “So I borrowed it from a circulating library and copied it out by hand. After consulting Messier, one must check against lists of identified comets. If it’s not among those, then you can report your smudge to the Royal Observatory for verification. Even then, nine times in ten it will have already been claimed.”
“And the smudges that aren’t comets. What are they?”
“Nebulae, mostly. Or star clusters.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to define these things if you want me to have any idea what you’re talking about. Alternatively, you can simply go on talking while I stare at your earlobe.”
She blushed. “You needn’t trouble yourself.”
“It’s no chore.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the window casing. “I’m a veritable connoisseur of earlobes, and yours is rather nice.”
“I meant you needn’t pretend to be interested, Mr. Reynaud. Clearly you have an engagement this evening, and I don’t wish to delay you.”
“I’m not pretending. I’m finding this conversation most fascinating. Even though a great deal of it is lost on me.”
That wasn’t precisely the truth. He was finding Alexandra Mountbatten fascinating, and nothing about her was lost on him. He wasn’t all that interested in gazing at the sky himself, but he was captivated by the experience of watching her gazing at the sky. Her figure and earlobe weren’t the half of it.
Standing this close, he could detect the faintest hint of orange-flower water about her. Not enough to qualify as a perfume. Just the suggestion that she scented her bathwater with a few sparing drops. An amount carefully poised between the indulgence of a small feminine luxury, and the economy required to make a small vial last for months.
A tiny, beaded, cross-shaped pendant was tied about her neck with a narrow satin ribbon just long enough for the coral beads to nestle at the base of her throat. Again, that balance between prettiness and practicality. The best quality ribbon she could likely afford, purchased in the smallest possible amount.
Damn, she would be a delight to spoil. If she weren’t his employee, he could shower her with little gifts and luxuries. Remove all the small worries that came between her and the sky.
“Do go on,” he said. “I’m listening.” And looking. And noticing.
“Nebulae are clouds of stardust floating in space. Star clusters are just as they sound. Stars appear so close together in the sky, they’re sometimes mistaken for one object. My favorite smudge, however, isn’t a nebula or cluster. It’s Messier’s number 40. A double star. Perhaps even a binary star.”
“Oh, truly.” And with that, he was back to the earlobe.
She bent to peer through the eyepiece. “A binary star is created when two stars are drawn together. Once they come near enough, neither one can resist the other’s pull. They’re stuck together forever, destined to spend eternity revolving about each other, like . . . like dancers in a waltz, I suppose.” She scribbled a note in her notebook. “The fascinating thing is, a binary star’s center of gravity isn’t in one star or the other. It’s in the empty space between them.”
He was silent for a while. “I’ll be damned. You were right when you scolded me for letting this instrument go to waste.”
“I’m glad you see its value now.”
“Absolutely. To think, I could have been using it to seduce women all along.” To her chastening look, he replied, “Come now. All that waltzing star business? It’s deuced romantic.”
“I would never have marked you as a romantic.”
“I suppose it’s all that glory-of-the-universe talk. Makes a man feel rather small and insignificant. And that makes a man want to grab the nearest woman and prove himself to be otherwise.”
Their gazes met, and they both became keenly aware of the obvious.
She was the nearest woman.
He was not—absolutely not—going to pursue his governess. Yes, he was a rake. But for a gentleman, chasing after the house staff wasn’t rakish behavior. It was repulsive.
“The girls,” he blurted out, breaking the tension. “How was your first day?”
“Challenging.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Can you tell me something about their interests, or their schooling? Anything at all?”
“They’ve had little proper schooling, but are somehow far too clever despite it. Their interests are mischief, disease, petty thievery, and plotting crimes against the house staff.”
She laughed a little. “You speak as though they’re hardened criminals.”
“They’re well on the way to it. But now you’re here to take them in hand. I have every faith in you, Miss Mountbatten.” He patted her shoulder gamely. “I’ve seen your natural talent as a disciplinarian.”
She cringed. “Yes, about that . . .”
“If you’re intending to apologize, don’t. I richly deserved all your censure, and then some. I wish I could say you’ve already seen me at my worst, but that’s nowhere near the case. However, I do wish to say one thing.”
“Yes?”
She gave him her full attention—and she had an intimidating amount of attention to give. Only natural, he supposed. Here was a woman willing to stare into dark emptiness night after night, on the hope that someday some tiny speck might shine back. As she gazed at him, Chase found himself wishing he could reward her observation.
Only darkness here, darling. Don’t waste your time.
“If my reputation worries you,” he said, as much for his own benefit as hers, “it needn’t. Seducing you would never even cross my mind.”
She nodded. “Thank you for your assurances, Mr. Reynaud. I appreciate them very much indeed.”
Chapter Seven (#u4fc783d2-94ad-5d57-ba14-150cc7d31447)
Seducing you would never even cross my mind.
What a perfectly timed reminder. Really, the man had a way of withering Alexandra’s pride to a dried-up husk. One moment, he was listening to her babble away about comets, hanging on her words, and complimenting her earlobe, and the next, he left her with a few parting words to remind her that she was a fool.
Embroidery wasn’t her favorite hobby, but Alex planned to stitch those words on a sampler and hang it above her bed:
Seducing you would never even cross my mind.
—Mr. Charles Reynaud, 1817
She no longer wondered at his popularity with women. Devilish charm simply radiated from him, like one of nature’s essential forces. Gravity, magnetism, electricity . . . Chase Reynaud’s masculine appeal.
His every lopsided grin or low, teasing word sent a frisson of excitement rushing along her skin. That alone wouldn’t be a problem. But then her brain caught up all those sensations, rolled them into a ball, and set it on a shelf. As if that quivering mass of feminine reaction was something that deserved to take up space. As if it needed a name.
Well, Alexandra would label it, right this moment.
I-D-I-O-C-Y.
She heard the creak of a door down at street level, and she gave in to the temptation to peer over her windowsill. There he stood, waiting on the pavement in that immaculately tailored black topcoat. He gave his cuffs a smart tug and ran a hand through his tawny brown hair. A pair of matched bays pulled a fashionable blue-lacquered phaeton around from the mews, and the groom handed him the reins.
Off he went to spend his evening enjoying the company of others. And here Alex was left mooning over him like a fool.
She readied herself for bed and put out the candle. And then she lay awake far too long listening for the sounds of a returning phaeton, or the creak of a door. Not that it was any of her concern what time he returned home, or whether he returned at all.
She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she woke to the sensation of someone poking her in the arm.
Repeatedly.
