Bronwyn Scott - How to Sin Successfully

Cecilia beamed at her and Maura knew the sweet taste of victory, a taste she’d barely swallowed before Lord Chatham said, ‘And me? Perhaps I should have a special name for you, too. Shall I call you …?’ He let the question hover provocatively, forcing her to interrupt if she didn’t want him to provide an answer. He would say it, too. If the last half-hour had shown her anything of his character, it was that.

‘Miss Caulfield. You should call me Miss Caulfield,’ Maura supplied hastily. The situation was fast spiralling out of control. She should establish her authority before it slid away entirely. She didn’t want Chatham thinking she could be swayed by a simple smile. ‘Cecilia, why don’t you and William go upstairs to play while I settle in? Then we can spend the afternoon getting acquainted over a walk in the park.’

Maura recognised her error immediately. Sending away the children meant she was left on her own with the outrageous Lord Chatham. ‘I must apologise for my slip of tongue.’

‘No need to apologise, Miss Caulfield.’ Lord Chatham leaned back in his chair, his eyes studying her with amusement. ‘In my experience, slipping tongues can be quite entertaining.’

His remark was the final straw. She tried an arched eyebrow of her own. ‘You forget yourself, Lord Chatham. In the past hour I’ve been landed on, flirted with and flustered out of my usually solid wits. I’m starting to see why the other five governesses left.’

‘No, you’re not. You’ve barely scratched the proverbial surface.’ The good humour that floated in his eyes disappeared instantly at her remark. He rose, suddenly an icier, more distant version of himself. ‘The housekeeper will show you your rooms.’

A crash and squeal sounded overhead, followed by a child’s cry of despair. Voices were raised as maids scurried to clean up the latest disaster in what was clearly a long string of disasters of which Aunt Cressida’s vase was only a recent victim. Maura turned her eyes towards the ceiling. ‘It seems, Lord Chatham, you don’t need a governess, you need a miracle.’

He gave a cold chuckle. ‘And Mrs Pendergast sent me you. Welcome to Chatham House, Miss Caulfield.’

She was late. Riordan glanced towards the mantel clock. The hands showed only a minute had passed since the last time he’d checked. He wished Miss Caulfield would hurry up. He was hungry and he was regretting his harshness with her that afternoon. She couldn’t possibly know what she’d walked into. Still, late was late. He’d been very clear when he’d sent up the invitation that he’d wished to dine at seven o’clock sharp. It was now five minutes past.

Not that he was in the habit of dining with governesses. He wasn’t. He hadn’t dined with the first five. But they hadn’t been young and pretty. Nor had they dominated his thoughts for the duration of the afternoon. They’d been dried-up old sticks who thought far too much about propriety and far too little about living. It was no wonder they hadn’t lasted. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to have fun. He was determined the children would have that, if nothing else, after all they’d been through. On those grounds, he was doing quite well in his new role as a father figure.

He’d be the first to admit he liked children. He just didn’t have a clue about how to bring them up. His brother, Elliott, had been the mature one there. It had been Elliott who’d taken on Cecilia and William four years ago after the children’s father died of a sudden fever. Now Elliott was gone, too. No one had ever imagined the children would be stuck with him and whatever help he could cobble together.

The rustle of skirts at the door told him his latest attempt at acquiring such help had arrived. ‘I apologise for being tardy. I’d expected to dine with the children. The summons was a surprise.’ This last was said with the faintest hint of frost, to suggest he wasn’t quite forgiven for his earlier harshness.

‘The invitation ,’ Riordan corrected with a smile in an attempt at melting her glacial greeting. He’d expected as much, especially after his rather cold dismissal this afternoon. He hoped to make it up to her with dinner. He couldn’t afford to have another governess leave. He knew what he meant by offering dinner, but it was clear from her choice of dress she didn’t know what to make of his request. Was this work? Was this a get-to-know-you welcome sort of dinner? She’d clearly opted for the former.

She’d chosen a modestly cut gown of deep-green poplin trimmed in white lace. It was prettily done, nicely suited for tea at the squire’s or an afternoon of shopping in the village, but nowhere near fashionable enough for dinner in London with the town’s leading rogue. The simplicity of the gown and the practicality of its fabric created a stark contrast against his formal evening attire.

‘Are you going out this evening?’ Her eyes swept him briefly, likely trying to gauge the gravity of her mistake. Her mind was easy to read, not because she was transparent, but because she was not afraid to be straightforward. He’d enjoyed her boldness this afternoon even if it had ended on a sour note.

‘Yes, but nothing that demands my attendance with any scheduled rigour. I am free to arrive when I choose.’ Going out had lost much of its allure in the month since his brother’s death. Three months of mourning was the standard for a sibling if the sibling had managed to die conventionally. Elliott had not. As a result, London was happy to let Riordan proceed as usual with his customary social routine after a two-week hiatus to fetch the children from Chatham Court.

Riordan suspected such benevolence had more to do with society’s greed for gossip. If he was left rusticating for three months in grief, there’d be considerably fewer rumours for the scandalmongers to spread regarding his brother’s demise and the Season would be that much duller for it.

The butler announced dinner and he offered Miss Caulfield his arm, secretly pleased she was as discomfited with his show of propriety as she’d been with his earlier impropriety.

‘Such formality,’ she commented, taking the chair Riordan held out for her at the table. ‘I apologise for being under-dressed. I wasn’t sure …’ Her voice trailed off and Riordan imagined her upstairs in her room debating the merits of the green poplin or the one good silk gown she owned. ‘You were right to save the silk for a better occasion,’ he said lightly, taking his own seat.

‘How did you know?’ She shot him a sharp look, her thoughts evident. He’d bet odds of two to three she was imagining peepholes secreted in the walls of her room. It was a fairly worldly thought for a governess, or any young lady, and it did make him wonder.

Riordan dismissed her fears with a laugh. ‘Have no worries, Miss Caulfield. It’s all very simple. To understand women, a man must understand their clothes.’ He’d learned that particular skill a long time ago and it had served him well in the intervening years.

She settled the linen napkin on her lap and gave him a doubtful look that said she didn’t believe him. Riordan leaned back in his chair, letting the footmen serve the soup while he studied the effects of candlelight on Miss Caulfield’s features. This morning, much of her hair had been hidden under her bonnet, but this evening it was pinned up in a pretty twist that hinted at its thickness and length while it exposed the delicate arch of her neck. The effect was enough to make him imagine what it would be like to take all that hair down and sift it through his fingers. ‘The light turns your hair into red-gold; very lovely,’ he commented as the footmen moved away.