Rebecca Winters - The Complete Regency Bestsellers And One Winters Collection

A few scattered, blessed hours of forgetting everything else.

“Which of these would look better hanging above the bar?” Chase held up two paintings. “The fan dancer, or the bathing nymphs? The nymphs have those delightful bare bottoms, but that saucy look in the fan dancer’s eyes is undeniably captivating.”

Barrow ignored the question. “So if you haven’t found—or kept—a governess, who’s minding the girls?”

“One of the maids. Hattie, I think.”

No sooner had he said this than screams and a thunder of footsteps came barreling down the stairs.

Hattie appeared in the doorway, her hair askew and her apron slashed to tatters. “Mr. Reynaud, I regret to say that I cannot continue in your employ.”

He cut her off. “Say no more. You’ll have severance wages and a letter of character waiting in the morning.”

The maid fled, babbling with gratitude.

Once he heard the door close, Chase sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. There went his plans for the evening.

“Now that, ” Barrow said, “was a despairing sigh.”

The front doorbell rang. “I’d better answer that myself.” Chase rose to his feet. “I’m not certain I have any servants remaining to do it.”

He opened the door, and there she was: Miss Alexandra Mountbatten. Soaked to the skin, her dark hair dripping.

He tried not to look downward, and when he did so anyway, he told himself it was out of concern for her well-being. He was concerned for her well-being. Especially if one defined “well-being” to mean “breasts.”

So he noticed her nipples. What of it? He spent a ridiculous portion of his waking hours thinking of nipples. Hers just happened to be the nearest, and the most chilled. Hard as jewels beneath her bodice. Red as rubies, maybe. Or pink topaz, pale amethyst . . . ? No. Given her dark coloring, they were most likely a rich, polished amber.

The chattering of teeth pulled his attention back upward. God, he was every bit the repulsive cad she’d called him, and more.

She caught her bluish bottom lip beneath her teeth. “Is the post still available?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Name your price.”

“Ten pounds a week. Another hundred once they’ve gone off to school.”

“Five pounds a week,” he countered. “And two hundred once they’ve gone off to school.”

“One more thing.” From beneath a dripping umbrella of eyelashes, her eyes met his. “I want the use of your telescope. The one down in your . . .”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the door. “Cave of Carnality?”

“Yes.”

Chase supposed he had offered her an astronomical sum. Besides, he wasn’t making use of it. “Very well.”

She sniffled. “I’ll report first thing tomorrow.”

He caught her arm as she turned to leave. “Good God. At least come in and get warm first.”

I’ll warm you.

He chased the errant thought away, like he would an eager puppy. She was in his employ now, and there would be no such ideas. Even he had that much decency.

“Thank you, no. I’ll need to pack my things.”

She walked away, leaving a trail of sloshy bootprints. Chase looked about the entrance hall for an umbrella and found none. Of course there wouldn’t be a greatcoat, either, not in the middle of June.

With a curse, he bolted through the door empty-handed and dashed after her. “Miss Mountbatten.”

She stopped and turned on her heel. “Yes?”

“You’re not leaving dressed like that.” He shrugged out of his tailored topcoat, shaking it down his arms.

“I can’t accept your coat.”

“You can, and you will.” He swung the coat around her shoulders and tucked it tight. She was so petite, the garment’s hem nearly reached her boots. The sight was equal parts comic and piteous.

“But—”

He jerked on the coat’s lapels, drawing them together. “Yes, yes. I know you’re bossy. As a governess, it’s to your credit. But I’m your employer, as of two minutes ago. For as much as I’m paying you, I expect you to do as I say.” As he worked the buttons through their holes, he went on. “Given the alacrity with which you fled my offer of employment this morning, it’s obvious something dire occurred to make you change your mind. If I were any sort of decent fellow, I would ask about that dire situation and sort it out. Seeing as I am a selfish blackguard, however, I intend to take full advantage of your lowered circumstances.”

There, now. He had her buttoned, and he stood back to look at her. She looked like a sausage roll.

A soggy sausage roll.

A soggy, confused sausage roll with slick ebony hair that would feel like satin ribbons between his fingertips.

Right. He dragged himself back to the point.

“I need a governess. Not just any governess, Miss Mountbatten. I need you . Which is why I will not have you walking home in the rain and catching the grippe.”

“But it isn’t—”

“I insist. Most insistently.”

She blinked at him. “Very well.”

Finally, she heeded his demands. She walked down the pavement and turned the corner, disappearing from view.

As he returned to the house, Chase took note of an unexpected sensation. Or rather, the lack of an expected sensation. Miss Mountbatten had appeared at his front door soaked to the skin, and he hadn’t yet felt a single raindrop.

He tipped his head to the sky. Strange. Nothing overhead but the periwinkle and orange streaks of twilight.

It wasn’t raining.

In fact, now that he thought of it, it hadn’t rained all day.

At home, Alexandra unwrapped herself from Mr. Reynaud’s coat and hung it on a peg. She’d likely ruined the thing. The garment had smelled deliciously of mint and sandalwood when he’d wrapped it about her shoulders. Now it reeked of the Thames.

After bathing and changing into a clean shift and dressing gown, she followed the scent of baking biscuits down to the kitchen. Thank heaven for Nicola and freshly baked biscuits.

She sat down at the table and laid her head on folded arms. “Hullo, Nic.”

Nicola whisked a tray of biscuits from the oven. A sweet, lemony steam permeated the kitchen. “Goodness, has the day gone already?”

“It has, I’m afraid.” And what a day it had been. Alex lifted her head. “Do you remember the Bookshop Rake?”

“The Bookshop Rake?” Nicola frowned. “It’s not a poem or limerick, is it? I’m useless at those.”

“No, it’s a man. We met with him in Hatchard’s last autumn. I was carrying a stack of your books in one arm, and reading one of my own with my free hand. He and I collided. I was startled, dropped everything. He helped me gather up the books.”

Nicola piled the biscuits onto a plate and carried it to the table, setting it between them.

“Tall,” Alex prompted. “Brown hair, green eyes, fine attire. Handsome. Flirtatious. We all decided he must be a terrible rake.” And we didn’t guess the half of it. “Penny teased me for months . Surely you must remember.”

Nicola lowered herself into a chair, thoughtful. “Maybe I do recall. Was I buying natural history books?”

“Cookery and Roman architecture.”

“Oh. Hm.” Biscuit in one hand and book in the other, Nicola was already absorbed in other thoughts.

Alexandra reached for a biscuit and took a resigned bite. That was Nicola for you. She jettisoned useless information like ballast. She needed the brain space to cram in more facts and theories, Alex supposed. And to come up with her ideas.

When Nicola was concentrating, she set aside everything else. She would neglect the passing of hours and days, if not for the odor of burnt cakes coming from the kitchen, or the clamor of the twenty-three—