Elizabeth Beacon - Rebellious Rake, Innocent Governess

‘To get back to our sheep, exactly when’s his lordship due home?’ he asked, partly because he wanted to know and partly to divert Miranda’s attention from his determination never to wed anyone, let alone Miss Wells.

‘Last night,’ Miranda said mournfully and he could have kicked himself for reminding her, then his friend for giving her so precise a date for his return.

‘I’d best go and find the rogue for you then, hadn’t I?’ he said and immediately felt better on making that decision, so he must be more worried about Kester’s thick hide than he’d let himself know.

Then he glanced at Miranda’s intent face and decided Kit hadn’t stood a chance against those brave blue eyes of hers. No, he amended, his friend hadn’t a hope in hell of resisting his true love, and that was just how it should be, he supposed. Suddenly the lure of such a love was strong after all—to be loved and to love so deeply seemed like a wonder to a boy brought up on the harsh reality of one of the poorest neighbourhoods in London. Yet it had also forged him into a man suspicious of all human weakness, and he really had no idea that he was now regarding Miss Wells with a stern frown that even made her shiver briefly under its frosty reproach.

‘If only I could come with you,’ Miranda said wistfully and Ben reminded himself he’d cause to deal with her gently and wiped the glower off his face.

‘The best thing you can do for him is stay safe and keep close,’ he said, horrified by the idea of taking any pregnant woman on such a quest, let alone his best friend’s precious countess.

‘Indeed,’ Miss Wells backed him up, which must go sadly against the grain, ‘nothing would worry his lordship more than knowing you were abroad and vulnerable and, given the vagaries of the weather, let’s hope the sea crossing was calm. Not even Lord Carnwood could swim the Irish Sea if the captains won’t leave port,’ she added shrewdly and he nearly cheered.

‘That’s true,’ Miranda conceded, relief taking some of the tension out of her braced shoulders at last. ‘And I’m being a terrible widgeon, am I not?’

‘You always look more like a swan than a duck to me, my lady,’ Ben teased lightly.

‘Say that again in a few months’ time and I’ll very likely hug you, if I can reach you,’ Miranda said with a rueful smile and he sensed the worst of her megrims were fading at last.

‘And as I’ve no wish to be challenged to a duel by my best friend, I beg you’ll contain your transports, my lady,’ he observed with mock terror and even got a laugh out of her at that very unlikely idea.

‘I hope Kit knows he’s no need to be jealous of any other man on this good earth of ours,’ Miranda said cheerfully enough, reminded of the passionate love that existed between herself and the man Ben had once thought too damaged by his early life to let himself love so completely.

Again he felt the tug of feeling that sort of love, then dismissed the notion as impossible even if it did make him feel at odds with himself. Seeing Kit happy in the midst of so much domesticity must be turning him soft, for suddenly he longed not to be forever guarded and aloof from the wider world. If there was some special she he could lay aside his omnipotence in front of, he felt as if some gap in him might feel complete. The idiocy of being able to set the man he had made of himself aside for a space occurred to him at the same time as he frowned formidably at the coal scuttle. It would take an exceptional kind of woman to love him once she knew who he really was, deep inside. And he could never be innocent or unguarded enough to let them find out, he reflected bitterly, nor could he lay himself open to the danger of such hurt if he ever dared do so.

The truth was that he had outgrown the wenches of the streets, both honest and otherwise, and would never be admitted far enough into the ton to win himself an aristocratic wife brought up to expect a marriage of convenience. He wasn’t fish, or flesh, or good red herring, and he could hardly search for some pale imitation of his friend’s countess, even if he wanted to. A picture of a certain stern and very respectable female who would certainly never approve of him slipped into his mind and he did his best to dismiss her, for even the idea seemed absurd.

Miss Wells would obviously rather eat nails than marry a parvenu like himself, then he forced himself to be a little fairer to the formidable governess. Somehow he doubted his low beginnings made her look at him as if he had just emerged from under a stone. He’d seen her look icily severe in the presence of any unattached male, from the third footman to the septuagenarian Duke of Denley, when he visited Wychwood and was reckless enough to ogle any female under the age of fifty. It occurred to him that perhaps Miss Wells was a man-hater, but she would never have an easy friendship with Kit if so, or the young vicar of Wychwood village, who was almost as happily married as Kit himself. So the lady was wary and perhaps that was just as well, but what if she could be persuaded out of her formidable shell and he discovered the real Charlotte under all that starch?

He eyed the stately figure seated across the room from him and considered that prospect with surprising pleasure. He’d long ago decided those truly awful gowns and ‘you can’t see me’ caps were a disguise. And she was the one female he knew who didn’t make him feel like an awkward and ungainly bear in her company, considering she easily reached as high as his chin. If her slender, long-fingered hands were any indication, under all the acres of grey shroud there could be a very different female. He forbade himself to dwell on that incendiary subject in mixed company and coolly examined the idea that a lady in her circumstances might be persuaded to accept a less-than-perfect suitor.

He was certainly wealthy enough to turn even the most resistant female’s thoughts to marriage, if money was her overriding concern. He knew that without vanity, especially since one or two of the grand ladies of the ton had hinted they would welcome such a rich lover even if, regrettably, he wasn’t noble enough to pay court to their daughters and become their rich son-in-law. So maybe he was handsome enough as well, as even for the pleasure of plundering his deep pockets he doubted such grande dames could get the smell of the shop out of their delicate noses without a healthy seasoning of desire. His smile was cynical as he met Miss Wells’s eyes with some of his thoughts in his clear grey eyes and, when he saw her shiver, immediately regretted it. She was different, he assured himself with a certainty that almost shocked him, even if he didn’t know quite why.

Glaring at the very annoying Mr Shaw, Charlotte wondered for perhaps the hundredth time since she had first met him why he made her either want to prickle like a rolled-up hedgehog, or itch to be the sort of blonde pocket Venus he seemed to admire. It was almost as if he regarded her as he might some odd curio he had spied in a museum and came back to inspect now and again, in the mistaken belief that one day he would work out her mechanism and remove all mystery from the conundrum.

Little did he know that there was far more to the curio he sometimes eyed like a botanical specimen than he, or anyone else, suspected, she thought, and smiled rather secretively. If he ever had an inkling that she was other than what she seemed, he would never give her a moment’s peace until he had her worked out and suitably recorded. Not having the least wish to be considered an intellectual challenge by the famously astute Mr Shaw, she told herself it was almost her duty to be as tediously predictable as possible and took a certain joy in fulfilling his low expectations. In his presence she became a parody of the correct governess, and, remembering that fact now, she dug about in her reticule and triumphantly pulled out her spectacles. Perching them on her nose, she felt as if she had assumed a latter-day version of a shield before going into battle and dared him to comment.