Книга - The Runaway Governess

The Runaway Governess
Liz Tyner


In the arms of Prince Charming…When Isabel Morton’s desire to sing leads her from a prospective governess post to a disreputable and dangerous establishment in London, she’s rescued by dashing William Balfour. But when her saviour is accused of being a party to her misfortune, it’s Isabel’s turn to save William…by becoming his bride!Brought together by fate and now bound by a vow, it’s time for these two strangers to explore the unexpected passion of their new marriage—and find a way to live happily ever after as husband and wife!The Governess TalesSweeping romances with fairytale endings!







In the arms of Prince Charming...

When Isabel Morton’s desire to sing leads her from a prospective governess post to a disreputable and dangerous establishment in London, she’s rescued by dashing William Balfour. But when her savior is accused of being a party to her misfortune, it’s Isabel’s turn to save William...by becoming his bride!

Brought together by fate and now bound by a vow, it’s time for these two strangers to explore the unexpected passion of their new marriage—and find a way to live happily ever after as husband and wife!


The Governess Tales (#ulink_05917a3e-790f-561b-876e-b837978b374a)

Sweeping romances with fairy-tale endings!

Meet Joanna Radcliff, Rachel Talbot, Isabel Morton and Grace Bertram.

These four friends grew up together in Madame Dubois’s school for young ladies, where they indulged in midnight feasts, broke the rules and shared their innermost secrets!

But now they are thrust into the real world, and each must adapt to her new life as a governess.

One will rise, one will travel, one will run and one will find her real home...

And each will meet her soulmate, who’ll give her the happy-ever-after she’s always dreamt of!

Read Joanna’s story in

The Cinderella Governess

Read Rachel’s story in

Governess to the Sheikh

Read Isabel’s story in

The Runaway Governess

All available now!

And look for Grace’s story in

The Governess’s Secret Baby

Coming soon!


Author Note (#ulink_c9107415-d84c-58d1-af43-6baaa034d927)

When my editor suggested I write about a woman with a natural gift for song, I was deeply interested.

Having grown up in a home with very little music, and a mother who was tone deaf, I am impressed by people who have musical ability and can elicit an emotional response from a listener. I once watched with amazement as people around me tried to control their emotions when a well-lauded singer performed and I felt no response. However, the beauty of violin music has caused my tears to flow.

Stage fright is very real, though, and some people who have musical talent resist every opportunity to perform—even in front of close friends. I cannot imagine a bird that would not sing to the heavens, and it is sad when a gifted performer cannot experience the joy of sharing their good fortune with an audience. Even if stage fright prevents some people from singing or playing music in front of others, I hope they can often express their musical abilities for their own enjoyment.

My mother sang to her children, though, and her voice was beautiful to us. I wish everyone who reads this story and has the ability to sing to take a moment to delight in the sound of their song.


The Runaway Governess

Liz Tyner






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


LIZ TYNER lives with her husband on an Oklahoma acreage she imagines is similar to the ones in the children’s book Where the Wild Things Are. Her lifestyle is a blend of old and new, and is sometimes comparable to the way people lived long ago. Liz is a member of various writing groups and has been writing since childhood. For more about her visit liztyner.com (http://www.liztyner.com).

Books by Liz Tyner

Mills & Boon Historical Romance

The Governess Tales

The Runaway Governess

English Rogues and Grecian Goddesses

Safe in the Earl’s Arms

A Captain and a Rogue

Forbidden to the Duke

Stand-Alone Novel

The Notorious Countess

Visit the Author Profile page at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).


Dedicated with gratitude to Laura McCallen, who helped me find the story I wanted to tell.


Contents

Cover (#u3785feb6-3263-519a-a2ae-d00eacf9bfd8)

Back Cover Text (#u2adeb64a-b44f-5c3d-a115-ba8d1a12323f)

Introduction (#ulink_6aa92f35-b957-5ace-b84f-860f04411a70)

Author Note (#ulink_bb552240-d8c2-5f21-b0bb-b05d5bb8e4cc)

Title Page (#u86d67d9e-8824-5bc9-9816-4d7510eb39d3)

About the Author (#u5e0a1bab-c803-55ed-9a78-0d5a3c2cf288)

Dedication (#u2b46bbe8-6cac-5c35-b8d9-8dff90e61d30)

Chapter One (#u44607c87-ece2-5219-9a65-88d5646fc17e)

Chapter Two (#u7a0b0548-e09d-5a65-a310-3b732bc170b7)

Chapter Three (#u3ccb263d-4bca-57e3-8dfb-aa731f484e39)

Chapter Four (#u32a3342c-3819-5669-8dc8-2c2411364f47)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One (#u53344f14-f3ba-5b23-b900-45e163b7be24)

Isabel watched from the window as the older couple’s driver stepped on to his carriage perch and called to the horses. She’d not believed her luck when she’d spotted the man and woman waiting for their carriage to be readied. It had taken her all of a minute to find out their destination and pour out her sad tale.

She didn’t want to think of what might happen when the other coach arrived in Sussex without her. But the family could find another governess. This was her one chance. Her chance to soar.

Isabel turned to the man whose eyelids almost concealed his vision and the woman who matched him in age, but her eyes danced with life. Isabel clasped her hands at her chest and promised herself she would never again lie, except in extreme circumstances such as this. Taking a deep breath, she let the words rise from deep within herself. ‘You have saved my life.’

A barmaid, hair frazzled from the August heat, stood behind the couple. She looked up long enough to roll her eyes heavenward.

‘Miss...’ the wife patted Isabel’s glove ‘...we just could not bear that your evil uncle was selling you into marriage to a man old enough to be your father—and your betrothed a murderer as well.’

‘Thank you so much.’ She sighed. ‘If my parents were alive today...’ they were, but they’d understand and forgive her once they discovered how famous she’d be ‘...they would fall upon their knees in gratitude for your saving my life.’

The barmaid snorted and Isabel sighed with emphasis, knowing she mustn’t let the couple notice the scepticism.

‘You’re sure if you go to London with us, your family will give you a home?’ the wife questioned.

‘Oh. Yes.’ The word lengthened to twice its usual length. ‘Aunt Anna, my mother’s sister, who has no idea of the tragedy that has befallen me as my great-uncle would not allow me paper or ink, would give me refuge in a heartbeat. I have always been her favourite niece, of course. It is just that my uncle told her I was...tragically killed in a fall from a horse, trampled by hooves and had to be immediately buried because the sight was too exceptionally hideous for anyone to see as I would not have wanted to be remembered as such.’

The woman’s eyes could not have been more kind. ‘Tragic.’

‘Yes. Frightfully so.’

The man arched one brow, enough that Isabel could see the scepticism. ‘We will certainly deliver you to your aunt in London,’ he said. ‘To her doorstep.’

‘I will be in your gratitude for ever.’ Oh, good heavens. That might not end well as she had no aunt in London. ‘It is near Charles Street—Drury Lane.’ She almost shivered, just saying the words Drury Lane. Not that she was going to be an actress. Oh, no. Not something so disreputable as that. Her voice would be her fortune. Her very best friends, Joanna, Rachel and Grace, had told her time and time again at Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies that she could sing better than anyone else they’d ever heard. Even the headmistress, Madame Dubois, had commented that Isabel’s singing voice was bearable. Since Madame Dubois had called Grace Bertram ‘passable,’ whom Isabel thought favoured a painting of a heavenly angel—then to have a bearable voice was the highest praise from Madame Dubois.

She’d been so lucky Mr Thomas Wren had heard of her when he attended one of the school presentations. Now he was her patron—albeit a secret patron. She would be the lead of his new musicale. She would sing her heart out. Even though her voice was not perfection itself, something about the way she sang stirred people. When she was performing, others would listen and eyes would water. Nothing made her happier than when someone gave her that rapt attention and they were brought to tears. She loved making people cry in such a way.

She gathered her satchel and linked her arm around the older woman’s. ‘My Aunt Anna will be so grateful.’

‘We must meet her and make sure she will not return you to that dreadful man.’ The woman’s voice oozed concern.

Isabel leaned forward and batted her lashes. ‘Of course. You simply must meet my aunt.’ Easily said, albeit completely impossible.

The couple’s meal was left behind, crumbs still clinging to the man’s waistcoat, and they spirited her to their carriage.

When she stepped into the vehicle, she slumped a bit, keeping the man’s frame between her and the windows of the coaching inn. It would not do for anyone from the other carriage to note her leaving before the end of the brief stop. She grasped her satchel and settled into the seat, ever so pleased to be leaving the governess part of her life behind. True, she had enjoyed the friendships of the school. But as she became closer and closer to graduation, she’d felt trapped. Mr Thomas Wren’s notice of her was indeed fortunate. Apparently another student’s father had informed him of Isabel’s voice. Mr Wren had known the rules of the school and had known to be secretive in their correspondence. He’d offered her the lead in a new production he’d planned.

She could barely concentrate on the task at hand for thinking of the good fortune of her life. This change of carriage would even make a grand tale. She could imagine recounting the tale of how she stowed away, risking all to travel with a couple she could but hope was reputable, and who transported her at great personal risk to help her achieve her life’s dream.

Isabel spoke as quickly as the wheels turned on the carriage, not wanting to give the couple a chance to think too much of the events of the day. She recounted honest tales of her youth at the governess school, leaving out the parts about the visits to her parents—and keeping as close to the facts as possible. She had already used her share of untruths for the year and it would not be good to blunder at this point.

* * *

When the carriage neared Drury Lane, Isabel kept one eye to the road, knowing she must make a quick decision.

A woman wearing a tattered shawl and with one strand of grey hanging from her knot of hair walked near an opening between two structures. Isabel saw the chance she had to take.

‘My aunt,’ she gasped, pointing. ‘It’s my aunt.’ She turned to the man across. ‘Stop the carriage.’

He raised his hand to the vehicle top, thumping.

She bolted up and tumbled out the door before the conveyance fully stopped, scurrying to the woman. ‘Aunt. Aunt,’ she called out. The woman must have had a niece somewhere because she paused, turning to look at Isabel.

Isabel scurried, then darted sideways behind a looming structure, running with all her might, turning right, then left. When she knew she was not being chased, she stopped, leaning against the side of a building. She gulped, and when her breathing righted she reflected.

She would become the best songstress in all London. She knew it. Mr Thomas Wren knew it. The future was hers. Now she just had to find it. She was lost beyond hope in the biggest city of the world.

Isabel tried to scrape the street refuse from her shoe without it being noticed what she was doing. She didn’t know how she was going to get the muck off her dress. A stranger who wore a drooping cravat was eyeing her bosom quite openly. Only the fact that she was certain she could outrun him, even in her soiled slippers, kept her from screaming.

He tipped his hat to her and ambled into a doorway across the street.

Her dress, the only one with the entire bodice made from silk, would have to be altered now. The rip in the skirt—thank you, dog who didn’t appreciate my trespassing in his gardens—was not something she could mend. She didn’t think it could be fixed. The skirt would have to be ripped from the bodice and replaced. That would not be simple.

How? How had she got herself into this? Oh, well, she decided, she would buy all new clothing when Mr Thomas Wren gave her the funds he’d promised.

Yet, she didn’t quite know where to begin in her search for him and she’d have to find him before nightfall. She would certainly ask someone as soon as she left this disreputable part of London. The dead fish head at her feet didn’t give her the encouragement she needed.

But then she looked up. Straight into a ray of sunshine illuminating a placard hanging from a building. A bird on it. She didn’t have to search. Providence had put out its golden torch and led her right to the very place she was searching for. This sign—well, the sign was a sign of her future. This was Mr Thomas Wren’s establishment. The man with the ill-mannered eyes had gone inside but still, one did sometimes have to sing for unpleasant people and one could only hope they gleaned some lesson from the song. She had quite the repertoire of songs with lessons hidden in the words and knew when to use them.

She opened the satchel, pulled out the plume, and examined it. She straightened the unfortunate new crimp in it as best she could and put the splash of blue into the little slot she’d added to her bonnet. She picked up her satchel, realising she had got a bit of the street muck on it—and began again her new life.

Begin her new life, she repeated to herself, unmoving. She looked at the paint peeling from the exterior and watched as another man came from the doorway, waistcoat buttoned at an angle. Gripping the satchel with both hands, she locked her eyes on the wayward man.

Her stomach began a song of its own and very off-key. She couldn’t turn back. She had no funds to hire a carriage. She knew no one in London but Mr Wren. And he had been so complimentary and kind to everyone at Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies. Not just her. She could manage. She would have to. His compliments had not been idle, surely.

She held her head the way she planned to look over the audience when she first walked on stage and put one foot in front of the other, ignoring everything but the entrance in front of her.

As she walked through the doorway, head high, the first thing Isabel noticed was the stage. A woman was singing. Isabel concealed her shudder and hoped her ears would forgive her. She supposed she would be replacing the woman. The songstress’s bosom was obviously well padded because it would be hard for nature to be so overzealous, but perhaps it had been to make up for the error of her voice.

A man with silver hair and a gold-tipped cane sat gaping at the stage. The woman put her arms tighter to the side of her body and bent forward to emphasise her words.

Isabel turned her head. She could not believe it. She would have to have a word with Mr Wren about this, although—

Then her eyes skipped from person to person to person. It would take more than a word. Men sat around a table playing Five Card Loo, but it seemed only pence were on the table.

The men at the game could not decide whether to watch the stage or their hand. Two women obviously championed their favourites, alternately cheering and gasping at the cards. Then the game ended. Whoops erupted. A man stood, bowed to the table, and waited. The other players reached into their purses, took out coins and handed them to the women. The winner put his arm around the women’s waists and led them through a curtained hallway.

She let out a breath and all her dreams fluttered away with it.

* * *

William strode under the faded placard and stepped into Wren House, giving himself a moment to let his eyes adjust from the bright August sun to the dim light of a world only illuminated because men needed to see the cards in their hand. He’d have to go to a stable to get the scent of Wren’s out of his nostrils.

If his father knew this was where Cousin Sylvester spent every Wednesday night, things might have been different. But now Sylvester had Marvel and Ivory, the two best horses in England and the only ones whose eyes flickered regard when William neared them. The beasts would always stick out their necks for a treat when William appeared. ‘Spoiled,’ the stable master muttered each time.

William always replied, ‘And worth it.’

William surveyed the table, and spotted his cousin immediately. Sylvester mumbled a greeting and two others looked over, recognising William and giving him a grunt of their own before they returned to the cards. William jerked his head sideways, motioning for Sylvester to join him. The answer, a quick shake of Sylvester’s head, and a brief upturn of the lips, didn’t surprise William. He took a seat near the corner where he could watch the room. He didn’t want anyone at his back. A woman on stage finished singing, thankfully.

He ordered an ale and when the barmaid brought the drink, her brows lifted in question and she looked to the curtain at the back. He shook his head, smiling to soften the refusal. His fingers clasped the mug, but as he lifted it, he paused. Sticky residue lay under his touch. Jam? He gazed into the liquid, half-expecting to see something floating, but nothing looked alive in it. Then he sat the mug back on the table.

A perfect ending to a perfect day, but Marvel and Ivory were worth it.

And having a roof over one’s head did have some merit.

William’s father had visited early in the morning and had pontificated well into the day. The Viscount had picked a fine time to regain an interest in life and an excellent plan to disinherit his only son. The Viscount knew the entailment laws as well as anyone. He had to leave his property to William. But he could, however, lease his nephew the estate for the next fifty years. Upon the Viscount’s death, William would receive the proceeds of the lease. A bargain to Sylvester at one pound per year.

If his father had mentioned that once, he’d mentioned it one hundred times. And he’d had no smell of brandy on his breath.

The inheritance could be dealt with later. Marvel and Ivory were already gone from the stables.

Sylvester smirked at the cards, but William knew the smugness was directed his way. No hand could be that good.

William glanced around and, even though his eyes didn’t stop until they returned to his mug, he noted the woman sitting on a bench at the other side of the room. She sat close to the wall, her body slanted away from the group of men. The shadowed interior hid more of her than it revealed. He was certain she had a face, but she’d pulled the bonnet off-centre and it perched askew so he couldn’t see her features unless she turned his way. If not for the plume, he wouldn’t have noticed her.

In one movement to relax his frame, he twisted his chair just a bit in her direction so he could stare forward, but see her from the corner of his eye.

The barmaid sauntered by him. He waved a coin her way and asked for another drink, discarding any thought of asking for a clean mug. He didn’t imagine she would take kindly to that, particularly when he saw the crust at her fingernails.

He thought the lady at the bench was above the others in the room, particularly by the way her back didn’t leave the wall behind her and her hands gripped the satchel as if it might protect her. He wondered why she stayed.

The barmaid plunked another mug in front of him and brushed against his side before leaving.

Nothing floated in the liquid. Nothing stuck to his hand. He would take that as an omen that the ale was—he took a drink and smothered a cough. The mug’s contents could have been watered down more. He hoped his tongue hadn’t blistered. The owner apparently didn’t mind if his customers wobbled a bit and knew drink could loosen the ties of a purse.

The door opened and light dappled across the bonnet the miss on the bench wore. She turned towards the light. For an instant he could see wisps of her hair. Copper.

He took a small sip. The ale tasted better than it had before.

Copper. Just under the ghastly plume. His favourite colour of hair—now. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman with just that shade of hair. A shame the bonnet covered it.

Someone from Sylvester’s table belched and the woman with the falling plume stiffened even more and twisted away from them.

William noted the dress. Not quite the dash of colour his sisters insisted on. It reminded him of something he might see on a miss at a country fair, yet not a walking dress. Not a soirée dress either. He could see underskirts peeking from a tear in the skirt. All his muscles stilled. A woman would not be going about with such a rip in her skirts. Particularly not one sitting so straight and gloves locked on her satchel.

He stood, mug still in hand, planning to offer her his assistance. At his movement, her eyes darted to him. She took in a breath and the back of her head bumped against the wall.

He gave her a grim-lipped smile. The woman didn’t want him to approach her, obviously. Perhaps she was at Wren’s hoping to find her husband. In that case, William certainly didn’t want to draw notice her way. He sat the mug at the table and moved to stand at Sylvester’s side.

Putting a hand on the woollen shoulder of Sylvester’s coat, William leaned forward. ‘I must talk with you.’

‘Anything you have to say,’ Sylvester’s voice boomed, ‘you can say in front of my friends.’

‘I’m sure I can,’ William answered. ‘But I thought we might step out to speak of family matters.’ Sylvester had to have noticed if the Viscount was sotted when he gave the horses away.

‘These men are like family,’ Sylvester answered. ‘Only better, because they do not gift me with horses not worth feeding.’ He spoke to the man on his left. ‘Did I tell you my uncle gave me two horses? Broken-down old things. I could hardly refuse them and hurt the man’s feelings, particularly if his mind is clear as a cloudless day.’

Sylvester wouldn’t have said the Viscount’s mind was clear if it wasn’t true. ‘I will take them off your hands.’

‘Oh, I could not do that to you.’ Sylvester let out a breath. ‘I’ll just keep them for now, though I don’t see feeding them like they’re used to. A bit on the plump side. A few less rations will be good for them. Or maybe I should just put them down.’

William tightened his grip on Sylvester’s coat. ‘You will feed them properly and you will care for them.’

Sylvester laughed. ‘Just having a jest with you, dear Cousin. I know those beasts are your favourites. Your father does as well. Can’t think what he’s up to.’ He brushed a hand over his chin, tugging at it. ‘Or maybe I can.’ Sylvester spoke to the other players. ‘If Cousin William doesn’t get it on his mind to marry and have an heir, sadly, the title will pass to my son, should I have one, and I intend to have a full brood. I can’t think if I were in his boots that would be difficult. I’d be wedded, bedded and enjoying the bondage of matrimony, although that is not how I put it to Uncle. I told him I’m deeply in love and near to proposing. And I am.’ He smirked again. ‘Deeply in love with William’s inheritance and near to proposing to...’ Looking around the table, he asked, ‘Any of you have an unmarried sister who wants a husband?’

‘Not that we’d let wed you,’ one of the men answered. The rest laughed.

‘I will have Marvel and Ivory back.’ William released his cousin’s shoulder.

‘Well, I’m going to wager the horses if I run out of funds. Of course, with the way my luck is going tonight, I’ll own everyone’s livestock before I leave.’

‘I’ll buy them from whomever you lose them to.’ William leaned forward and briefly met eyes with the others at the table. ‘If any of you men win those horses from Sylvester, I’ll buy them from you at double what you’d get at Tattersalls.’

The others grinned, chuckling.

‘That’s why Uncle is concerned about you, William.’ Sylvester pulled out a card, waved it for others to see the back of and then dropped it on to the table with a flourish. ‘You’re planning to buy a pair of old horses not worth a pence when you might be able to win them with a single game of chance. Yet, you gambled away a carriage once. You’ve even lost your own boots and then threw in the stockings. It’s all a game to you, but you don’t care if you win or lose.’ He raked in the coins. ‘I play to win.’

‘I enjoy the sport,’ William said. He’d had enough of the night.

Turning to leave, he made it as far as the door before looking back at that feathery trimming. His youngest sister had once pulled such an adornment from his middle sister’s bonnet and the roof had barely stayed on the house in the aftermath.

He retraced his steps to the sticky mug. He sat, staring straight ahead. The joy of being called a wastrel by one’s father meant William could sit all night watching a plume on a bonnet. He tried to imagine the bird that lost the feather, but he could only see a caricature of a bird prancing, preening, and sprouting a blast of unnatural feathers from its head, while wobbling under the weight.

He needed to stop with the ale.

The singer returned to the stage and opened her mouth. He would not call it singing, exactly, but if one didn’t care much about quality of voice, then it could pass the time. He swatted at a fly that landed on the edge of the mug. Just because he didn’t want the drink didn’t mean he intended to share.

The woman with the tear in her dress adjusted the bag in her lap. The singer hit a high note, or had her foot mashed by a carriage. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could do the same for his ears. As the note ended, he opened his eyes while pulling the cleaner mug to his lips. His hand stopped when he caught Miss Plume watching him.

She looked away and his hand moved again. He finished the drink, not tasting it. He would wait until her husband arrived to take her home. If the husband walked in with some woman hanging on him, William would make sure to give the man a reminder of propriety. A man didn’t embarrass his wife so. To let her wait alone in a place like Wren’s was unforgiveable.

William looked directly at her, not able to see through the glove on her left hand, or into her mind to see what memories resided there.

He eased back in the chair. He wasn’t leaving until she did.

* * *

Isabel knew the man who wanted his horses was aware of her. But he was hoping to get his stock returned and he wanted them fed properly. The other men even seemed more decent after he’d spoken with them. When she’d noted him walking to the door, leaving, fear tremored in her midsection and she’d had an urge to follow, not wanting to remain without his presence. But he’d paused and returned to his chair. He must want to be certain he received those horses.

She peered around her bonnet brim, searching for Wren.

Mr Wren should be about. Earlier she’d asked that barmaid and the woman had glared and mumbled that he’d be in when he walked in. Wren had told Isabel he would meet her. He’d said he spent each day working, except when he attended Sunday Services. She no longer believed that, unless he attended with her aunt.

The one, William they’d called him—his face had pinched when the singer got stuck on that dreadful note. Apparently he could hear quite well. And when he’d opened his eyes and caught her examining his expression, he’d looked startled.

He was rather ordinary except for those legs that didn’t want to fit under the table, but yet, he made her feel safer.

Then the barmaid approached and brought him another mug. He’d not requested it, but he took it. The woman brushed a lock of his hair over his ear, which hadn’t needed touching, but Isabel couldn’t blame the woman. That hair did make a person curious about what it felt like.

The woman whispered something to him. He laughed, changing everything in his face, and creating the same thump in Isabel’s heart that she felt when the music was perfect. His smile could carry its own tune.

He saw Isabel watching. He gave a flicker of a smile and shrugged his shoulders.

She ducked her head, pleased not to feel so alone.

The barmaid was a tart, but Isabel couldn’t blame her for noticing him. He was the only man in the place who didn’t make her feel like bathing.

The door opened and she saw the familiar checked waistcoat of Mr Thomas Wren, his eyebrows as light as the gold buttons on his coat. She wasn’t as impressed with the fastenings as she’d been before.

* * *

He made his way to her bench, his grin almost suffocating her. She scooted away, gently wedging the soiled side of her satchel in his direction as she put it between them. Half her bottom was already off the bench, but she could not let Mr Thomas Wren’s breath closer. Apparently he’d had something to do with the fish she’d seen in the street.

She forced a positive lilt to her voice. ‘Mr Wren, I do believe you forgot to tell me something in your letters.’

‘No.’ His eyes widened. ‘I can’t think I did.’ He put an arm at the back of the bench. He could not possibly have eight hairy fingers on one hand, but that’s what it felt like when his knuckles brushed at the top of her glove. ‘You really do sing quite well, Miss Morton, and I am happy to have you on my stage.’

‘You mentioned a suitable chaperon.’

‘Why, yes, I believe I did. And if you look around, you’ll notice there are plenty of women here to...’

She lowered her chin, but raised her brows at him. He didn’t appear chagrined at all. Instead, he grinned while his eyes devoured her.

The air in the room boiled into her and she could hardly force the words past the sweltering heat. ‘I fear that on the way here,’ she spoke, ‘I realised that I cannot forgo my duties as a governess. I will not be able to accept the position.’

She didn’t know how she’d manage or what she’d do. She had hardly enough coins in her satchel to buy bread. She could only hope for another married couple to notice her and this time she would tell the truth. Some of it. She hoped she had not totally used her portion of lies for the year.

‘Oh, my.’ Wren’s words mocked themselves. ‘I seem to recall in your correspondence a distinct aversion to those duties and a sincere wish to follow your true talent. And you are quite talented, Miss...Morton.’

‘I can’t. I wouldn’t be—’

He leaned forward, his voice covering her with fumes of the summer heat. ‘I am saddened. But I admit, I considered the possibility you would not wish to continue in our bargain.’ He stood, his tongue clucking as if he’d caught her doing something terribly wrong. He whisked one hand to the bottom of the satchel and the other over hers on the grip. Involuntarily, she jerked her hands from his touch.

Brows lifted, he turned, striding away. ‘Come with me to my office and I will see what we must do now.’

‘We can discuss it here.’ She stood, running a hand down the side of her skirt, hoping to pull that rend together just a little more.

He paused, turning back. ‘Will you be needing funds to return to your home?’ His voice faded so low that she read the words on his lips more than heard them.

He hadn’t given her money for the trip to London, saying he’d once done so and the woman he’d hired never arrived.

She couldn’t answer.

‘Then come with me,’ he continued. ‘We can discuss it in my office. The funds are in my safe.’ He looked to the window. ‘The hour is getting late. I hate to think of you alone on the streets, in darkness and finding your way. It’s not safe at night for a woman out and about. Just last month, one of the women, Molly, went out. They found her the next morning, bruises on her neck. Blood on her hands. Buried her in a pauper’s grave.’

Before she answered, he was at the curtain, her satchel clasped in his hand.

She stood, glancing around, hoping no one would see her follow. She would be ruined. If she wasn’t already. But it was better to be ruined than buried in some lost grave. She didn’t quite think Mr Wren would be rushing to see that a proper burial would take place.

She watched his retreating coat. She would never again complain about being a governess.

He had the only funds she had—hidden in the bag. An unmarked grave would not quite fulfil her dreams. She followed, planning to grab the satchel as soon as he released it and run.

Stepping through the curtain and into a cramped office, relief brightened her spirit. A copy of a Mrs Radcliffe novel lay on his desk. Surely a man who liked to read had some refinement.

* * *

‘Please sit.’ He indicated a chair, one rung missing from the back. She did, noting he sat the satchel down at his right side, his body between her and the bag. He still stood. He turned.

‘I don’t believe you realise what position you put me in.’ He shook his head while picking up the novel. ‘We can’t have that.’

‘I just—’ She moved to rise, the fish smell wafting over her.

He crashed the novel to the wall. Before she could believe what her eyes told her had just happened, his hand clamped on her shoulder. The surprise and force thrust her on to the wooden chair seat.

‘I—’

‘You wish to hear me out.’ She could feel all of the fingers again. This time they pressed. Pinched. His hand slid, not releasing, until his thumbnail rested in the soft skin at the base of her jaw. He took a step, moving his body forward, still beside her, her head held back by his thumb. Her backbone firm against the chair, him above forcing her neck back. He untied her bonnet strings and pushed it to the floor.

Her mouth dried. She could breathe—just. Her hands clasped his wrist, pushing. But she could not move him.

‘Sweet, you have to understand, I looked for a long time to find just the right woman. Just the right blend of woman. Taller than most so she stood out. A haunting voice that could also trill in happiness. A look of freshness. Eyes that made a man think he could see her wanting him. Lips that he could imagine on his body.’

‘No,’ she gasped.

‘Do not interrupt.’ He put his other hand over her mouth and leaned closer. She shuddered. All of his bulk loomed over her, his cheeks ruddy. ‘You understand that even the other women would increase their coin by satisfying your cast-offs. You would even be a boon to them.’ He paused. ‘Feel free to nod.’

He took his hand from her throat, but not her mouth. One of his legs pressed against hers.

‘Nod.’ His eyes glistened with an intensity that covered her like the coil of a serpent’s skin against hers.

She didn’t move. Her lower face was in his vice-like grasp. She could feel the pressure of his thumb. The tightness. But no pain. Nothing hurt. Nothing. Except she could not breathe.

His clothes rustled and he moved so that she could see nothing but his face.

‘You understand, I have to have you. I have no choice. No choice. I’ve spent too much time finding you and waiting on you.’ He reached to his waistcoat and a thin sliver of steel flashed in front of her. The blade pressed at her neck. ‘Nod, Sweet.’

She did—the barest amount.

‘You understand there are rules one must observe to work here. You will learn them in time.’ The knife moved, tracing the circle of her neck. ‘Nod, Sweet.’ He moved her head up and down with his hand. ‘Get used to that.’

She remembered how easy it had been to convince the couple of a lie. She nodded, moving her hand from his wrist. He trailed the blade in the same way of an artist’s pen making swirls on a page. He slipped the tip to her shoulder. ‘You don’t have to worry about me hurting your face, permanently. But a man might be aroused by a gentle scar trailing away under clothing.’ The blade caught her sleeve, but rested at skin, pressing. Testing. Drooling, he stared at the blade. ‘He might wonder where a scar led. Where it ended.’

The blade pressed harder, and the sleeve pulled, fabric falling away—no barrier to the steel. Pressure flared at her arm.

Spit pooled at the edge of his lips. ‘Scars, in their way, can be beauty marks.’

* * *

William glanced across at his cousin. Sylvester scratched his earlobe, stared at the cards, and grumbled.

Something had thumped in the back, but none of the others’ attentions wavered from the cards.

Miss Plume was beyond the curtain with Wren. William tapped the side of his mug and pushed his chair back, standing. With the woman on the way to finding whatever she looked for, he had no wish to continue enjoying the smell of worn boots.

He stared at the curtain, unable to move, imagining the look on the woman’s face as she’d left the room. Wren had swooped up the bag and darted to the back. Miss Plume had hesitated before moving.

He shrugged, noting the worn threads where so many had touched the curtain before him, but striding towards it.

He walked through and saw several doors. This would not be the time to open the wrong one.

Ignoring his misgivings, he pressed a hand to the first door and pushed it.

Wren stood over a woman, a blade at the woman’s arm. Instantly, it moved to her throat. In seconds Wren could slice and nothing would be able to erase the moment, ever.

William’s breath left his body. His mind took a moment to adjust to the sight his eyes tried to make sense of. The woman was one movement from death. Wren’s face had the look of a rabid animal, all thoughts absorbed by the sickness. No way to understand reason.

William could not move forward to rescue the woman because Wren could act on impulse. The knife pressed against the slender neck. Wren could kill in the moments it would take William to close the distance. A jolt against Wren’s arm would press the blade into skin. She would be dead and nothing could ever change those seconds.


Chapter Two (#u53344f14-f3ba-5b23-b900-45e163b7be24)

Wren increased the pressure of the blade. Isabel’s pulse thumped against the tip.

‘My pardon,’ the man at the door spoke. ‘I didn’t realise this was a private conversation.’ Nothing flickered on his face. He didn’t even seem to see her.

‘Get the hell out,’ Wren rasped.

Isabel swallowed. Could the man not understand there was a blade at her neck?

‘I certainly will,’ the man at the door spoke. He leaned back a bit, turning his head.

His hand tightened on the door and he was going to leave, letting Wren do as he wished. She could tell. The stranger had not once looked at her eyes.

‘But, I was thinking of making an investment.’ Soft words from the man at the door. His body stilled before turning in her direction.

Finally, he noticed Isabel. His brows lifted and he wet his lips. He appraised her in the same way a butcher might decide which chicken was to be the first to the block. A nausea filled her.

‘I would like to invest, Wren.’ He chuckled. ‘And all it would take would be a bit of pleasure to convince me.’

‘I need no investors.’ The knife didn’t lessen. ‘I own everything under this roof. Everything.’

‘True enough,’ the man spoke. His eyes were again on Wren. ‘I hear nothing but good about this establishment. Nothing. And an investor like myself feels a bit left out.’ His gaze locked on Wren’s face. ‘I have a good bit of coin. A good bit, and I certainly can find better ways to spend it than on gaming.’

The pressure at Isabel’s throat lessened.

‘A man cannot have too much coin,’ Wren said. ‘But he can have too many women about.’ At those words, the knife jabbed forward, tapping Isabel’s neck like a pointed fingernail with a razor at the end.

The stranger’s eyes widened and he caught his breath, speaking as he exhaled. ‘Don’t damage the goods, Wren.’ His voice strengthened. ‘Wouldn’t want to hurt an investment.’

Wren took the knife from Isabel’s neck, looking at it as if he’d forgotten he had it in his hand.

In that moment, the man threw his body in front of Isabel, knocking her backwards with a crash.

For less than a second she could only see the ceiling. She pushed herself up, scrambling to her feet. Wren’s back was on the desk and the stranger’s right fist plunged into Wren’s face.

Wren rolled, falling from the desk, kicking the man’s ribs when he moved forward. But the stranger only turned with the blow. He continued forward, driving on to Wren, using his body as a battering ram. His left hand gripped Wren’s neck and he rose, just enough for leverage, keeping Wren pinned to the floor.

The stranger’s fist rose and hammered Wren’s face, pummelling a groan from him.

She could not bear it. ‘No,’ she shouted, the words more a scream than a command. ‘Stop. No. I beg you, please stop.’ The words could have carried to the top of the Tower.

She shuddered, her voice now pleaded. ‘Please stop.’

The stranger looked at her. His eyes held no recognition of the moment, but his fist stilled on the upswing. Nothing from inside him acknowledged her words, but he stopped pummelling. Again his arm moved up, ready for a downswing.

‘No...’ The word pulled her last thread of strength.

* * *

William stopped, pulling the world around him back into focus. The woman’s body trembled in a circular motion. Another second and she would topple. Dazed eyes locked on him, but he didn’t think she truly saw anything.

William lunged upwards and scooped the knife from the floor so Wren couldn’t grab it. He had to get the woman away from the place. Neither she nor his family would be helped by tales of these events.

In one stride, William had a hand at her shoulder. ‘Miss?’ He tightened his clasp.

She blinked, but didn’t speak and her glance fell to his hand.

‘Miss?’ he repeated. ‘Where do you live?’

He released her shoulder and took her chin in his gasp, pulling her gaze to his. His heart slammed against his ribs with a stronger punch than any Wren had managed.

Seizing her around the waist, he lifted her to the door. Stopping outside, he let her feet flutter to the floor. She kept moving downwards and he pulled her up, tight against him. Her colourless face wasn’t far from his own, yet she offered no resistance.

He had a knife in one hand and a woman in the other. The door still open, he led her to the taproom, trying to keep her on the side opposite the patrons.

Everyone in Wren’s looked towards the curtain when he strode through. They’d heard the commotion apparently, but hadn’t moved. Sylvester’s cards fluttered to the table.

A customer entered at the door. Light filtered on to the woman’s hair, showing the unusual colour to all in the room. The stranger stared at William, unmoving. Uncertainty stilled him as if he couldn’t decide whether to enter or run for safety.

Sylvester’s voice jarred the moments, reminding William of the others. ‘Cousin—you must introduce us to your friend.’

‘Yes, I must.’ William tramped forward. ‘Just not today.’

He glared at the man at the door, gesturing him aside—and then Will realised he gestured with the knife. He dropped the weapon and the man jumped backwards, pulling the door with him. William stopped the swing with his boot. The man darted away.

Sprinting the woman into the fading sunlight, William moved towards his carriage. He shouted to the driver, ‘Just go. Keep us moving.’ The driver stared, then his posture straightened and his chin snapped up in agreement.

Once inside the vehicle, William reached across her to lower the shade on her side. She gasped and the sound slashed into him. She pressed against her side of the carriage.

With the same control he’d used when he spoke to Wren, he turned to her.

He opened his mouth to ask her where she lived, but closed it again. He could not deliver such a bedraggled miss anywhere. She’d been so prim on the bench. And her dress had been ripped even then.

‘You must stop shaking.’ He spoke in the tone that could soothe two sisters trying to strangle each other over an apricot tart.

One at a time, he reached for her hands, holding tight to one when she tried to pull away, but freeing the other. He couldn’t have her darting from the door of a moving carriage.

He stared at the slice on his own knuckles and then remembered her arm. If it had meant losing the horses to put himself in Wren’s while she was there, then he would thank Sylvester—at least silently.

He reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. Even in the darkening light, he saw the moisture, but the wound on her arm only trickled blood.

He pressed and waited, making sure it wasn’t serious. ‘Just relax,’ he spoke in the apricot-tart tone, ‘you’ll be all better in a minute.’ If it would have been his sister, he would have started singing a nursery song, because it always worked, even if they complained about the nonsense.

‘You’re hurt,’ she said.

Relief flooded him. She was aware of something other than the fright.

‘I’m fine.’ He daubed at the dried blood on her shoulder. ‘My horses give me worse bruises and we call it fun.’

She looked at the handkerchief and then her shoulder. ‘Oh,’ she squeaked, not in pain, but surprise.

‘Yes.’ He pressed the cloth at her injury again, not really needing to. ‘But it will mend quickly. I’m sure you’ve had worse.’

She reached up to relieve him of the cloth and for a moment their fingers tangled, then their eyes met, and she breathed in and pulled away.

He hated to move, but he did. He would ask her the location to deliver her and he would see that she arrived safely. Even if it was some distance away, he could direct the coachman easily enough. But his question changed before he spoke.

‘Why were you in Wren’s?’ he asked.

She gazed at him. ‘I was seeking work there.’

He’d been so wrong. His voice strengthened and the first words he thought flew from his mouth. ‘In a brothel?’

Life returned to her eyes. ‘You insult me.’ She straightened. ‘Do I look like someone who would—?’ Her eyes opened wide. She cried out, using both hands to pull the dress over her bare shoulder, then adjusting her grasp, pulling the rip in her skirts closed. ‘Do I look like a...fallen woman?’

‘Not... No. No. Not at all.’ She looked well past fallen, but he had learned as a youth that a pre-emptive reassurance was easier than stopping tears.

‘I must go back,’ she said. ‘You must take me back to that terrible, forsaken place.’ Her eyes widened. Pleading. ‘I need your help.’

‘No. You are not going back.’

‘You don’t understand. I left my satchel. All I have in the world. A dress. My funds.’ She held the handkerchief at her shoulder while reaching to clasp his wrist. Her eyes searched his face and then she sighed, and relaxed.

Letting her hold him, he extended an arm around her shoulders, barely touching, but close enough that he could free her hand of the fabric and hold it in place for her.

‘Is it a great sum of money?’ he asked. She certainly shouldn’t have been in Wren’s if she had funds.

Her voice barely reached him and her head tilted so he couldn’t see her expression. ‘It’s not truly all I have in the world,’ she said. ‘It is not truly all I have. It is just the rest of my things are on the way to Sussex.’

‘How much did you leave in Wren’s?’ he pressed.

‘My songs. A dress. A fan which had paste jewels on one edge. Hair ribbons. Enough to buy a bowl of soup.’ She made a fist. ‘I cannot believe I left the fan. The fan was a gift from three dear friends, but I’m sure they would understand if I sold it to buy food.’

She tensed, moving to stare at him. ‘I am not a tart. I am not a fallen woman. A Jezebel. Or whatever else. I am a...’ Her chin rose. ‘A singer.’ She lowered her face. ‘Or I was to be. That evil debacle of a man was to pay me to sing.’

‘You sing?’

She looked directly at William. ‘Yes. Songs. To sing songs. Wren hired me. He’d promised me wages.’ She snorted, then caught herself. ‘I do have a good voice and the wages were not such a large amount to make me suspicious.’ She straightened her fingers, saw blood on the gloves and shuddered. ‘I have always been told my voice is a gift.’ Her words faded away.

Her hand rested in her lap and her head bowed. ‘My songs are in that satchel. With a picture my friend Grace drew of us singing and laughing with Joanna and Rachel.’

‘So you are a Songbird.’ He reached and tugged at the fingertip of her glove. She didn’t need to be staring at blood.

‘Not any longer,’ she said, pulling away to remove the gloves herself and fold them.

‘Nonsense. Don’t let one person stand in your way.’

‘It’s not one person.’ Shadowed eyes stared at him. ‘It’s everyone. Everyone says I should be a governess. Everyone. And this proves it.’

‘This proves nothing of the sort.’ His words were firm, but Isabel discarded them with a wave of her folded gloves.

‘I will never sing again,’ she said. ‘Madame said it would be the ruin of me and she didn’t know I listened so I suppose she was right. I just couldn’t believe it—until now. She was always right.’

She met the view of the brown eyes. ‘Even when we didn’t let Madame Dubois know she was right—she was right. I should have learned from my friend Grace how things go awry.’

‘And what has happened with this friend, Grace?’

‘She explained to me how...’ She fluttered her hand at her head before pulling the bodice of her dress for more covering and leaning against the inside of the carriage which smelled a bit like a blacksmith’s shop. ‘People make mistakes. And I see now that perhaps I should have been happier about my chance to be a governess. Not everyone is so fortunate to have the parents such as I do who are willing to send a daughter away for education.’ She winced. ‘But I wanted to sing. I truly did. For audiences.’

She remembered the joy flooding her when music sounded. ‘I had to know. Wren and I exchanged many letters and I believed him reputable. I had to know if he had a true job for me. I might have suspected that it would be all for naught, but all my life I would have wondered. Perhaps it is worth the risk of death to know.’

‘No. It was not.’

His words brooked no argument. She examined him through the fading light. He sat, unselfconscious of her perusal, and it didn’t seem that she was being impolite or forward, but just learning what he looked like and trying to learn his thoughts.

But she had to think of her future now.

‘I will send a post telling how I was waylaid,’ she said. ‘I will leave out certain parts and I will hope that Madame Dubois accepts it, and will again reference me to a family. I will be a...’ She shut her eyes and forced out the words. ‘A governess.’

‘The children will be fortunate to have you.’

‘I must hope I am allowed to regain my position.’

‘A governess could sing to her charges.’

‘Of course.’

‘Sing for me,’ he said.

‘No.’

‘Please.’

She tried, but only three words came out before her mouth dried. Her voice wavered, cracking, and no longer sounded her own.

‘I never want to sing again,’ she said. ‘I sang because la vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin. I wanted a chance to drink the good wine.’

‘The results can be the same. But do not give up something you love—something so sweet as song.’

‘My voice has always brought me notice,’ she said. ‘Always, and so many times Madame told me that pride goes before a fall and that it doesn’t cushion the ground a bit.’

‘Songbirds don’t have to remain on the ground.’

‘My wings have been clipped,’ she said.

‘I will find you a safe place to have the good wine tonight and tomorrow you may send the post to your friend. You will have many chances to make the children happy in your care.’

‘If you would just deliver me to a place where I might find suitable lodging.’

‘I know of only one place that would have what you need. My sister’s home. She’s married and too proper for good health. Tomorrow, my sister can quickly send a messenger to your destination and make up some folderol about how you aided her, causing you to become separated from your carriage. She’ll even put together a new garment for you. This will only be a small detour in your travels.’

She let out a breath. ‘Thank you.’ The words hurt her throat. Wren must have pressed against it more than she’d noticed. She trailed her fingers over her neck, searching for a cut but finding none.

He leaned forward, sliding the wood aside which covered the small trap window. ‘Sophia’s.’ he called out. But before he closed the window, he added, ‘Slowly,’ before glancing at Isabel and smiling.

That one word wrapped around her, suffusing her with wellbeing.

He relaxed to put an arm at the back of the seat, not touching her skin, but enveloping her all the same. ‘So, Miss Songbird, let us introduce ourselves on the way. Just listening to your speaking voice is quite the treat.’


Chapter Three (#u53344f14-f3ba-5b23-b900-45e163b7be24)

The carriage creaked to a stop and instantly Isabel saw William’s eyes shutter, then he straightened, slipping his arm from behind her.

‘If you will wait for a moment,’ William said, hand on the door. ‘I’d like to send my sister’s butler on an errand so you can go into the house without being seen. It’s better if it’s assumed you arrived with Sophia.’

He lowered his voice. ‘And you can trust the coachman to keep his silence, I assure you.’ Jumping out, he exited into the dark night. She pushed her hand against the warm leather of the seat, loneliness creeping about her. She wished he hadn’t left her—now the memory of the knife resurfaced.

She was alive and, except for a detour, her life was going to continue on just as planned. Now she could embrace being a governess. She’d seen the truth of what a singer’s life was really like. Her mother had warned her countless times that people assumed all singers were really paid to do other things. That hadn’t mattered then, but now it did.

She shuddered and opened the carriage shade. Enough light filtered from the moon so she could see a mansion. A mansion. William hadn’t told her his sister was wealthy. Immediately, she dropped the shade and worked with the pins in her hair, ignoring the sting the movement caused to her arm.

She was arranging pins when the door opened and William looked inside. His lips quirked up. ‘Songbird, do not do yourself up too pretty. My sister is used to looking at me.’

Her hands stopped. ‘I’m a sight.’

‘You—’ he reached in, took her hands and pulled her with him, as he backed from the carriage ‘—are a sight like a swan in the moonlight. And all swans do not have their feathers always perfect. Sometimes the birds flutter about and feathers fly everywhere, but not for one moment do they stop being swans.’

‘You’re quite flattering.’

‘You deserve it,’ he said, leaning low so he could speak quietly as they walked up the steps. ‘But with three sisters, I’ve had lots of practice, not that they don’t deserve it as well. But my sisters gave me a list once.’

‘A list?’

‘Yes. A list of compliments. They had sat around one evening and decided what wonderful phrases they should like to hear from me instead of my asking if they had memorised their lessons, or practised pianoforte or were kind to each other. Every time I corrected them in any way, I was to repeat one of their compliments and add one of my own.’

‘I should have liked to have had a brother like you.’

Opening the door, he ushered her inside. ‘Sophia said she married in spite of having a brother and Rosalind claims she and Harriet are unwed because if I am among the best of men, then she fears for her sanity should she end up with someone only twice as good as I am.’

Gazing at him, she tried to think of suitable words to thank him for what he’d done. But her voice fled. She brushed a hand to her neck, wishing she could find something to say that explained what she felt.

‘Oh...’ Gently, he took her hand from her throat and his forehead almost touched hers. ‘Please don’t look so stricken.’

‘I owe you—’ she breathed out ‘—so much.’ She clutched his lapel to remain upright.

With the lightest touch at the small of her back, he kept her steady, his whisper caressing her. ‘I would have done the same for anyone.’

She tightened her clasp on his lapel. ‘That only makes you...even better.’

He shook his head, darting a glance upwards, before returning his gaze to hers. ‘I’m only two whiskers away from being a drunken, gambling, rakish, penniless, thankless, conceited heir to a viscount. Please don’t let anything else get out about me and ruin my carefully earned reputation.’

‘You were the only one who came to my rescue and I screamed. I’m sure I did.’ She flattened her palm against the wool of his coat. ‘I’m so fortunate you were there.’

‘I just wish...things had been more like you wanted,’ he said and his eyes fell to her arm.

‘I couldn’t have...’ She tugged at the gown’s shoulder, aware that only a bare inch held the garment. ‘It was almost worth it to know there are men like you in the world.’

He grunted a denial and he watched her hand struggle with the fabric. ‘Do not think about that, Isabel.’ His words softened into a whisper. ‘It is beyond your repair.’ He took a smallest lamp from the side table and held it aloft so she could manage the stairs.

When they reached the sitting room, he led her to an armed chair upholstered in burgundy. He lit another lamp and put it on a table at her side.

‘I’ll get Sophia,’ he said, leaving.

She’d expected him to ring for a maid, but he’d acted much like someone of her own means would. Her mother’s maid-of-all-work wouldn’t have been roused this late in the evening because it would have taken more time than the simple task of fetching someone.

Isabel glanced around the room and found it little different from her parents’ home. The lamps were more plentiful and the painting above the fireplace had quite a large frame, but other than that, the chamber could have been in a country squire’s house.

William returned, and shook his head. ‘She has to put her hair up.’

Immediately Isabel took in a breath.

‘Do not concern yourself,’ he said, his face reassuring. ‘It’s Sophie. My sister. The one with—’

‘With...?’

A woman walked in, hardly looking old enough not to have her own governess. Her hair frazzled around its pins. The dressing gown had the same capped sleeves of a day dress, but the drape and sheen of a something one could wear at a soirée.

‘With the most beautiful smile in the world,’ William continued.

William introduced them, talking as smoothly as if they were at a morning call and the day was dawning with the promise of sunbeams and wildflowers.

When Sophia saw Isabel, her mouth opened and she said nothing at first. Then she said, ‘Your arm... I must get a cloth to clean your arm.’

Isabel stood. ‘It’s dried now. And only stings a little. Your brother saved me.’

‘Oh, him.’ She shrugged the words away. ‘I slipped and fell into a stream head first and he tugged me home by my ear because he said I scared him so.’ She thrust her hand sideways, giving a punch to William’s arm. ‘I still haven’t forgiven him for making one ear crooked.’

William examined her ears. ‘Yes. Hideous. Makes me shudder.’

Sophia waved his words away and stepped towards Isabel. ‘So let us get you all mended.’

‘Soph—’ William interrupted. ‘There is one other thing. I would not want to send a rider in the darkness, but you must pen a quick post in the morning for delivery to her employer. Just make up something about her rescuing you and a companion from a horrible attack of wasps or something and how she could not leave you abandoned... You know, the same story you told Aunt Emilia.’ He winked. ‘It is a shame to let such a tale fade away when it could be used twice.’

Sophia shook her head. ‘I don’t think Aunt Emilia believed me.’

William snorted. ‘I know she didn’t. She told me I must get you married off immediately, so I looked about and tossed a suitable fellow your way.’

Sophia raised her chin, smiled and added drama to her voice. ‘And all it took was one dance and he was smitten.’

‘See, Miss Morton...’ William tucked his hands behind his back ‘...she is good at folderol.’ He turned to leave, then stopped and looked at his sister. ‘You might let Aunt Emilia know of the tale. Just in case.’

‘I shall. But she’ll not be awake early in the morning. She’s attending a dinner at the Brownings’ tonight and she’ll not be the first one to leave as she has put on her marriage-mart gloves again. She thinks our sisters should not rusticate away in the country.’

‘She may be right.’

‘Oh, please.’ Sophia’s voice turned whimsical. ‘Once it’s known that Ros and Harriet are interested in courting, Aunt Emilia will be sorting out the proposals and you will be complaining because the suitors are not worthy. Aunt Emilia is planning to get an early start on the Season. Even the people who have been in the country for the summer are returning to be at the dinner. Apparently it is quite the event because they all wish to discuss Nash’s plans for our town. We can’t let Bonaparte outshine us.’

‘I’m surprised I found you at home.’

‘Only because I do not wish to get into a heated discussion about architecture or Napoleon and prefer to spend the evening with my smitten husband.’

‘Now you will be hearing about Nash’s plans from Aunt Emilia, or her battle plans for capturing beaus for our sisters.’ He raised his chin and smiled at Isabel. ‘Our aunt does like to go about. Even though she has a home in the country near my father, she prefers her residence here. She considers good society vital.’

‘Which means she has to ignore tales of my dear brother,’ Sophia inserted.

He inclined his head to his sister and Isabel. ‘And now your dear brother must take his leave as I trust two such enterprising women will have this night well in hand.’ His glance lingered on Isabel’s face, then her injured arm.

‘Miss Morton, it might be best if you stayed at my sister’s an extra day or so, unless you have a dress with long sleeves with you. That cut on your arm might raise questions.’

‘Yes,’ Sophia inserted. ‘I’ll be able to get you a gown with longer sleeves, but wearing too much covering in this heat might cause more notice. You even have a slight bruise...’ She tapped a spot near her cheek. ‘But after all, the wasps were chasing me at a rapid pace before you flung your bonnet like a sword and frightened them away.’

William’s smile turned to Isabel alone. ‘Do not let her get too carried away or she will have you saving scores of infants and battalions of soldiers, and it will get difficult to remember the details.’ He leaned so close to Isabel that she could feel the flutter of his lashes, but the motion was in her chest. Almost whispering, he said, ‘But don’t even tell her one tiny little untruth and expect her not to remember every last detail.’

‘I heard that,’ Sophia said, voice loud. Then she resumed her regular tone. ‘It’s true.’

William murmured assent and spoke to Isabel. ‘I regret we met under such unpleasant circumstances and I hope you forget all about this night soon.’

The doorway framed him, then he left. His footsteps faded into distance and the room became just a room and she could feel the bruise on her face without touching it.

* * *

William trod down the stairs, forcing himself not to turn around. He rang for the butler and waited, tapping the pull against the wall.

Finishing the last two buttons of his coat, the butler arrived and asked, ‘Yes?’

‘I realised my sister has a friend visiting, so I’ll not be staying.’

‘Yes.’ He pulled his coat tight.

‘Watch over them.’

‘I always do.’ The knowledge of the first time William had visited Sophia in the middle of the night with his own key and nearly got his head bashed in by the servant reflected from the man’s eyes.

‘I know.’ William stayed a second longer, acknowledged the memory with a grim-lipped smile and walked out into the night.

The bolt in the door clicked.

William looked at his carriage, the three-quarter moon and the houses with mostly dark windows.

He heard the woman’s voice again and turned to the open window well above him. Murmurings and a ‘Goodness!’ from Sophia, and then more murmurings and a shocked exclamation. Sophia should know better than to let in the night air, but he stood until one of the carriage horses whinnied and then he turned to go home.

He sat in the carriage, crossed his arms and leaned back into the leathered cushions. A hint of her rose fragrance remained in the vehicle. The knowledge of how close he’d been to leaving Wren’s earlier in the night gnawed at him. He needed to push all recollections of the past hours away and think of nothing but the fact the woman was safe, alive and cared for.

The vision of her face when the knife had been at her throat stayed in his mind. He’d been so close to walking out the door and the Songbird’s life would have been altered for ever. If not for the waggling feather, he would have.

He ran a hand over his knuckles and swollen fingers, inspecting them. When they healed, he might visit Wren again.

Then he brushed a smear of dried blood away. But before the singer left London, he would make his way to his sister’s house and ask Isabel to sing something for him. He smiled. He imagined them standing side by side at his sister’s pianoforte and music filtering through the room.

* * *

The thought remained in his head until he walked inside his parlour. The view from the window was not fascinating, but he never seemed to tire of it. He stood at the middle of the three windows looking down and could hardly see outlines in the darkness below. Another row of town houses, just like his. Another row of windows, just like his. He didn’t care to see the interiors of them or what lay beyond the panes. He feared he might see a rug, just like his. But he knew he wouldn’t see furnishings like his. The room had almost none except for the two tables, the stiff-backed chair and a pretence of a desk with serviceable lamps. The servants’ quarters were better fitted than this room, he hoped. The starkness suited him. Kept him from getting too close to the memories of the past where the picture of home could be painted by the fripperies spread about and the little flower shapes sewn into table coverings.

None of that appeared in his domain and his bed was the only softness in the entire house. A large beast of a bed that had once been his grandfather’s and had been no easy chore for the workman to reassemble.

But he didn’t want to go to bed because he kept reliving the quiet moments with the woman in the carriage, trying to think of the exact tilt of her nose. The colour of her hair was easier to recall and in all the upheaval he wasn’t quite sure what had happened to the plume.

He shook his head. He was standing at the window, thinking of a bit of fluff just as a schoolboy would do. His head must have been hit harder than he realised. But the moment he’d stepped into the room at Wren’s and seen the knife and her eyes widened in fear had left more than a few scrapes on his hand. The knowledge of how fast a person’s life could turn to dust shook him. Now his insides shivered.

His eyes flittered to the decanter on the side table. Half-empty. The servants were not allowed to refill it until it became completely empty. If his father had walked into a room in the family home and not found it full, someone would have heard about it. If not everyone.

His father. William wished the man still looked at the world through hazed eyes.

William resisted the urge to walk forward and put a boot through the bottom glass. That would change the window, but as soon as a servant became aware, the window would be fixed.

One by one he could smash out each pane, yet the world would go on as it always did before. He could not change the way the world rotated and even if he broke the glass, other people would rush to bring the order back.

And his father, after years of a waking sleep, had truly awoken and decided he needed order back and he wanted the world on his path, a path he’d ignored the presence of for years. His father didn’t remember the broken panes swept into the dustbin. He didn’t remember the shattered glass.

Now, the Viscount just cared that his son be married and provide an heir. He had instructed William much like he might tell him to go to a sideboard and pick a confectionery.

The man planned to force marriage on to his son by any means possible—taking the rents William lived on would accomplish a lot. Removing the funds wouldn’t hurt William alone, though, and William knew it. Twelve servants lived in the town house. Thirteen if he counted the little child he pretended not to know about—a boy who had some claim on the cook the housekeeper had hired the year before. He’d only found out about the lad because one of the servants had hidden a badly written note near William’s pillow. Apparently life always didn’t run smoothly among the staff either.

William took the decanter and filled his glass almost to overflow—just to see how close he could get to the edge without a spill. He placed the decanter on the table and slowly brought the liquid to his lips, not spilling a drop. He drank the liquid in one gulp, enjoying the burn.

The glass still in his hand, he stretched and strode to the windows. The servants needed their employment.

William would somehow get the horses back, then he would attend a soirée and dance with all the unwed ladies. Give his father some hope. Fruitless hope, but it wouldn’t do to torment the man.

Everyone would be happy. William would find a way to have the horses returned to the stables. His father would believe a search for a bride had commenced. Sylvester would know his son would inherit the Viscount’s title. Everyone satisfied if not happy. End of plan.

* * *

William slept well into the next morning and lingered through his morning wash. His dreams had been of birds fluttering about with feathered bonnets.

When dinnertime came, he would be at Sophia’s house. He pulled a book from the table where it had sat for a year, planning to read enough of it so he could say he’d finished, then he would return it in time to sit for a meal with his sister, and her guest, and hopefully an evening around the pianoforte. It was only natural that he might want to visit and make sure their plans were progressing well and offer assistance.

* * *

With the mostly finished book tucked under his arm and his chin feeling raw from the second shave of the day, he strode to the front door when a carriage pulled to the front of the house.

Sophia didn’t have a town coach. It could only be his father.

William put down the book and walked to the staircase before the butler could answer. The front door shook with a violent knock.

William opened the door. His father brushed by him, bodies connecting as a shove, and William stepped back.

His father raised his eyes to his son’s face, slammed his beaver hat and gold-tipped cane into William’s hand and said, ‘Get used to that.’ He continued up the stairs. ‘I will see that if you are not hanged, then you will be transported. It is apparently your wish.’

Transported? Hanged? His father was daft. Completely. The years of liquid grief had turned his mind into pudding.

The Viscount rushed ahead, more at a run than William had ever seen him. William followed, knowing he didn’t want his father’s conversation carried to the servants’ quarters. His father stopped inside the parlour, whirling around. ‘You thankless piece of conceited tripe. You’ve gambled your name away and mine, too. Generations of our heritage. Destroyed. For ever. By you. I thought you cared more for your sisters than this.’

William put the hat over the globe of a cold lamp and propped the cane against the wall. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘My sister—’ his father jabbed his own chest ‘—my sister, Emilia, came to me in tears. You are less than a son.’ He splayed his hands, fingers arched. He pulled in air through his teeth. ‘You called my bluff, only it was not bluff. I merely threatened to circumvent the inheritance laws. But I had no need. You were quite willing to take care of that yourself.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’ His voice grated on each word. ‘I only wished for the horses.’

The Viscount whipped his head away from William and stared to the windows. ‘I cannot even bear the sight of you.’ His words raced. ‘I didn’t think you would perhaps jump to marry someone suitable, but I didn’t expect you to destroy our entire heritage.’

‘I’ve done no such thing.’

His father waved his hands in the air. ‘You wanted to make sure no woman would consent to wed you. You abducted a woman in daylight, in front of as many witnesses as you could find.’

‘Abducted? Are you foxed?’ His voice rose. The man had lost his senses.

‘Do not try to turn this back at me.’ He rushed by William and to the windows. He stretched his arms at each side of the window, as if holding himself erect. His head dropped.

‘Your Aunt Emilia has even begged to say that you were with her to save you. But I have forbidden it. Besides, too many have seen you.’

‘The woman was attacked.’

‘Attacked? Of course she was attacked. It’s said you near dragged a reddish-haired woman screaming from a brothel.’

‘No.’ William’s throat clenched. ‘No.’

‘Why am I not surprised? I have heard. Always I have heard. I have heard of the night you were foxed and fought the Duke of Wakefield’s brother. I have heard of your gambling. But I never thought you to be so low as what transpired last night.’

The Viscount put closed fists over his eyes. ‘My son,’ he gasped out the words. He pulled his fists away, eyes reddened. ‘I caused this. I caused it.’ His voice cracked, then gained momentum. ‘But I can correct it. You will vacate the premises by the end of a fortnight. I suppose sleep in your new carriage. I do not wish to see you again.’ His lips trembled. His voice had the same fury as when he had told William to take the ring from Will’s mother’s finger on the last night of her life.

The jewellry had slipped easily from her finger and he’d felt as if he had stolen her last breath.

Pushing the memories aside, William turned so he would not see his father’s face. The same vice clenched him that had surrounded him so many times before, only this time, he had to use all his might to push it away so he could speak. ‘What happened?’

‘Tonight,’ the older man said, ‘I have lost my only son. I could not sup with someone such as you.’ He stepped around William, pulling his hat from the shade and grasping the cane.

William turned. ‘Father. What is going on?’

The Viscount took his hat, and clenched the cane. ‘I must blame myself, William. But it does not change a thing. I shouldn’t have mourned your mother so long. I should have opened my eyes before it was too late. But it is now too late.’

He stepped forward, but lowered the walking stick. ‘Oh, you showed me. You really did. But I will not ignore such behaviour. No longer. This was beyond the pale. Even for you.’

William squinted at his father. ‘The woman is safe at Sophia’s house. I took her from Wren’s, but she wished for me to.’

‘Sophia?’ His father started. ‘What does she know of this?’ His fists clenched. ‘I could pay the hangman myself for you attacking an innocent woman.’ He stepped back. ‘Your sisters. Think of your sisters.’ He dipped his head. The room was silent. ‘This will reach their ears. They’ll be humiliated.’

Attacking an innocent? His father believed William attacked Isabel? The vice gripped again.

‘The whole town will hear of it.’ His father’s voice ended on a high shriek. ‘Apparently the talk of your—behaviour became the centre of the dinner. Your aunt was mortified. The whispers have already started and will become shouts. She came to me in tears. She found Sylvester and he agreed that you dragged a woman from Wren’s. He said he was so shocked he didn’t think to chase you and rescue her until after you had spirited her away in your carriage.’

‘I didn’t do anything wrong.’

‘All the men saw you leave carrying a woman of quality from Wren’s. A copper-haired woman with a bruised cheek. The men at cards heard her scream. Saw her in tatters. Blood on her sleeve. You forcing her out the door and into the carriage. Leaving a knife behind. It is thought her body was tossed into the Thames.

‘Oh...’ William stepped back, reaching a hand to the wall, steadying himself. ‘No. No. It is not that. I didn’t—’

This... This would destroy his sisters.

‘You will never step foot in my house again. You will distance yourself from your sisters for their sake. I hope you care enough for them for that.’ His father’s eyes twitched.

Events of the night before careened through William’s head. He’d done nothing wrong, except perhaps in letting Wren escape a magistrate, but he’d not wanted any notice of the night.

Now his name would be destroyed. The tales of his past weren’t enough to grieve his sisters, but with this added, everything would be embellished. The tarnish would never be cleansed.

William took in a breath. ‘Father.’ He laughed, but could barely manage the sound. ‘That is so absurd.’ He waved a hand. ‘She was to meet me, but was early and confused at her direction. When she was alighting the carriage, a dog, obviously trained by a cutpurse, ran out and startled the horses. The culprit knocked her about, but Isabel fought back before running into the back door of Wren’s. The criminal chased her and caught her there.’ He hoped no one had truly noticed her in the shadows before. But he doubted they had. At first, the bonnet had hidden her face and covered her hair. She’d remained in shadows, her presence overridden by the woman on the stage. Then, when he’d moved her outside, her clothing dishevelled—everyone had noticed them and the light reflected on her hair when the door opened.

He took a breath, gathering his thoughts. ‘The driver had to keep the horses steady while fighting off the dog and didn’t realise Miss—’ If he’d heard her surname, he’d forgotten it ‘—my Isabel had exited the carriage and been attacked.’

His father stared. ‘And why would a woman of quality be wishing to meet you there?’

‘We had corresponded. We were to go to Gretna Green. I plan to wed her, but could not start out with her in such a state. That is why I bought the new carriage. To elope. She is waiting at Sophia’s to recover and then we will marry.’

The heat of the day had collected in the room and the Viscount rubbed sweat away from his forehead with the back of his hand.

‘She is alive? A reddish-haired woman?’

‘Very much alive. She is a good woman. I wish to marry her. We are betrothed.’

His father examined William’s face. ‘Without so much of the piffle spread in—did you attack her?’

‘No. I could never do that.’ He used his eyes to convince his father. ‘She didn’t realise where she was.’

‘You believe her?’

He nodded. ‘She is a country squire’s daughter. She had no notion.’

‘From the country, you say?’ He shut his eyes. ‘And you have been corresponding with her and she agreed to meet you—’

‘Father. We have corresponded many times while she trained to be a governess. We were not certain, with the differences in our station, that people would accept our union. So I thought it best, to avoid dissension, to present Isabel as my wife.’

‘You can produce her for view?’

‘Of course.’

The Viscount slammed his cane against the door frame. ‘I will remember this story well enough. I cannot have my only son accused of defiling a woman. I cannot.’

‘I didn’t. When she didn’t meet me as planned, I found her crouching behind Wren’s and without thinking I took her through the place, hoping I might see the cutpurse and have him contained.’

‘I could not believe what the others are saying, but I have heard the tales of your courting the women of the demi-monde. You are known in every gambling hell and tavern in London. And yet, you say you were with an innocent miss. If she weds you I will know you tell enough of the truth. If she doesn’t, I forbid your name spoken to me and I’ll not have it said in my presence that I have a son.’

He stopped mid-turn to the door and then returned his gaze to William. ‘Should I trust you enough to spend the day at the club laughing at the tale Sylvester is telling because he thinks to get me to switch funds his way and a jest got out of hand?’

‘Yes.’ The word had the strength of a church bell.

He turned his back to his son. ‘I will explain this fluff to your Aunt Emilia and she will begin combating the tales. But you must produce this sweetheart of yours and she must be at your side. And she’d better have red in her hair.’

Every rail on the bannister sounded to have received a thwack from the cane as the Viscount left the house.

William went to the window. His mouth was dry. He put a hand on the wooden shutter running the length of the door. No, the houses across the way were not like his. He swung his leg back, planning to kick out the window, but returned his boot to the carpet. He could not. If he did, they would think him the one cracked and no one would believe him innocent.

He would marry. Isabel must understand. His future depended on her saying yes.


Chapter Four (#u53344f14-f3ba-5b23-b900-45e163b7be24)

The clean dress looked more mending thread than cloth, but it did wonders for Isabel’s spirit. She held the skirt away from her body and curtsied to her image in the mirror. She dreaded sitting down to dinner with Sophia and her husband because she’d never eaten in such a fine house and she hoped she didn’t embarrass herself.

A maid knocked, then entered when Isabel answered. ‘Miss, you are requested to the mistress’s sitting room.’ The woman darted away before Isabel moved.

Truly, she didn’t want to step outside the bedchamber. But she must. She must put on a brave face and accept her fate as a governess. Quickly, she practised the brave face in the mirror and then she laughed at herself. To be safe was all that mattered.

She would regain that governess position without losing her reputation. Her parents had sacrificed so that she might attend Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies and have the best education they could provide. She could not reward them by failing to be able to care for herself.

When she walked into the sitting room, Sophia wasn’t present. A lone figure sat on the sofa. William, legs stretched, his gaze on some distant thought. Her spirit leapt. Isabel rushed forward to thank him again. William rose from the sofa, legs straightening in a controlled slowness.

She lost her thoughts. She’d not seen a man such as him. Ever. He could have trampled any man in one of her novels. This lone man had saved her against a man with a knife. His inside was as magnificent as his outside.

A true rescuer in gentleman’s clothing. The cravat, perfect. The waistcoat under his dark coat gold with matching buttons.

‘I do not know how I will ever thank you,’ she said.

His lips thinned, then turned up. His kept his gaze on her. His eyes had no true happiness in them, but his mouth seemed determined to laugh.

‘Marriage?’ he asked.

She leaned forward. ‘I didn’t hear you.’

He clasped his hands behind him. ‘Will you be so kind as to wed me? Vows. For ever. All that nonsense.’

She needed two tries before she could speak. For ever? Nonsense? ‘You did save my life,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I could stitch you up a rather nice nightcap. My father quite likes the one I did for him.’

‘We have quite a kettle boiling around us,’ he said, leaning his shoulders forward and tipping his head close to hers. He smelled better than any perfume she’d ever scented. Perhaps like lilacs, but not flowery. More like something to deflect the scent of shaving and masculinity and things that might tempt a woman.

Yet the words he spoke had no sweet fragrance in them.

For ever? Nonsense? She had dreamt of true love. Of all that ‘for ever’ and ‘nonsense’. And even asked that if there were angels up above, one might send a nice vicar or soldier her way. He didn’t need all his teeth, or hair or even the usual number of fingers or toes, and this man seemed to have all that, whereas a man missing a few parts might be more willing to share all his love to find a wife. She wanted someone who gazed upon her as a shining star. Someone who could shower her with love...and perhaps not be found in a brothel. Although she could not complain he had been at Wren’s the night before, but still that didn’t induce her to wed him.

She put a firm, competent look on her face. ‘I am quite good at making stockings which keep the feet warm on a cold night,’ she said.

He shut his eyes briefly and pulled back, lips upturned, as if they knew no other direction. ‘You would not ever know I was about. I doubt I would be home enough you’d notice. You would be a governess of sorts still, but it could be for your own children. One would hope for children to be a part of the endeavour.’

Oh, that was what this was about. The man needed some sons and perhaps he’d only been at Wren’s and not noticed the many fine places where a decent woman could be found.

‘Children?’ She looked past his shoulder to the wall. ‘You’re not unpleasant to look at,’ she said. ‘I could recommend several young women who are now at Madame Dubois’s School for Young Ladies who would be quite good wives.’ She appraised him and fought to keep speaking. William had helped her most efficiently and she should do the same in return. ‘What colour hair do you prefer?’

He appraised her, eyes lingering at her head. ‘A copper colour. Like sunlight has softened it.’

‘Um...’ She looked at him. ‘I admit, my hair is a good shade. I have heard that all my life. And I can understand you might think to have children with this colour of hair, but it is indeed a bit rare and one cannot count on such a thing.’

‘Probably a bit much to expect the sky-blue eyes to go with it.’

Her stomach curled, making it hard to maintain her composure.

‘Yes, I’m a bit of an aberration.’

‘A lovely aberration.’ He paused. He looked at her without flirtation. ‘And your voice. I like your speaking voice. It doesn’t grate on my ears.’

‘Oh, my...’ She put her hand to her bodice and ducked her head in the way she did when someone praised her singing. ‘You are quite efficient with the compliments. I hope that is one of your own and not from the list.’

He nodded and his lips turned up at one side before speaking. ‘You would be surprised how many times a woman’s voice has grated on my ears. I have three sisters, remember. So when I called you Songbird, it was not idle. But it would be best for us to wed.’

She put her palm out, touching his coat just above his elbow, giving a brief pat, trying to ease the rejection. Oh, candlesticks, no one would ever believe she had refused a viscount’s son. ‘You do not have to concern yourself with my honour. Your sister has agreed to help me get to Sussex. If that does not work out, I can return to my parents’.’ She could not go home in disgrace though. She would have to find a post.

‘I am not concerned only about your honour.’ His eyes sparkled and his lips, still firm, returned to their rueful smile.

‘I know a quite lovely girl of near marriage age,’ she said. ‘I could see that you have an introduction. Blonde hair. Eyes the same colour as mine.’

‘Do they sparkle quite as well as yours do?’

‘I’m sure when she looks at you they will quite outshine...’ She paused. Cecilia was so sweet and kind and rather younger. An older rake would not do at all. ‘She may not quite suit you, though. I think perhaps all my friends remaining at the governess school might be young for you and the ones who graduated with me are quite busy. Perhaps, um...’ she stumbled ‘...a nice widow. A woman with some—knowledge. More your age.’

‘I’m twenty-four. Not quite ancient.’

‘Oh,’ she muttered, ‘I thought you older. At least thirty. Closer to thirty-five.’ Particularly if he seemed desperate to find a wife.

One brow rose.

‘I suspect you have rather included many adventures in those years. I do seem to remember asking if it was your first time at that horrible place and I think you answered that you were long past first times at anything.’

‘Except marriage. It would be my first time at marriage.’

‘I fear you do not understand the concept.’

‘I disagree.’ He took a step away. ‘I have seen it quite close. Love and all that...conflagration of mindless emotion.’ He stopped. ‘Isabel. I am quite slogging in the wrong direction. I hate to tell you what has transpired, but I feel I must...’

‘The talk is out about my misfortune.’ She met his eyes. They confirmed her words. She continued, ‘You are asking for my hand in marriage to save my honour.’

He was valiant. No knight could surpass him.

His eyes shut. ‘Not entirely.’ He stepped forward.

Again, when he stood so close, something about him distracted her thoughts and took them as directly as one might take the bridle of a horse and turn its face in a desired direction.

‘I would hope that I would be so noble as to marry to save you, but I am not sure.’ He took her fingertips. She could not move.

Now he spoke softly, conveying the importance of his words with his gaze.

‘It is said that I ravished you in Wren’s. I spirited you out by force. The dishevelment. The torn dress.’

‘You didn’t ravish me. You rescued me.’

‘Yes. But to have that untrue story—no matter how it is said—your presence in such a place will cast aspersions on you. I would prefer us both to get out of this as best as possible. I would not wish to spend the rest of my life with the lingering question in the minds of others as to whether I truly attacked you or not.’

She balled her fists within his hands. ‘I will tell them. I will tell them all.’

‘You may,’ he said. ‘Other questions will arise that neither of us particularly care to be subjected to. You will be seen as a woman afraid to tell the truth about a wayward viscount’s son for fear of repercussions. I do not have a...’ He searched for a word. ‘A sombre past.’





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/liz-tyner/the-runaway-governess/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.