Liz Tyner - Governesses Under The Mistletoe - The Runaway Governess / The Governess's Secret Baby

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.