Read Lady Windermere's Lover Online
Authors: Miranda Neville
Tags: #Fiction, #Historical romance, #Georgian
Lady Windermere's Lover (25 page)
He took the paper, a product of her own pen and imagination, glanced at it for perhaps two seconds, and set it on a table. “Come,” he said. He turned his back on her, offering her an admirable view of his figure from behind. His well-tailored coat showed off shoulders broader than she’d first noticed, narrow hips, shapely calves and a grace of movement that made her mouth water. There was no reason to believe that the controlled energy he displayed was any promise of bedroom skills and stamina, but Jane was sure the Duke of Denford would make a superior lover. A wave of the hand told her to follow him, and at that moment she’d have let him lead her to perdition and beyond.
This was not why she was here. She clenched her teeth and remembered that the man was a Fortescue, even if he wasn’t the man she sought, who hadn’t possessed a title.
“Show me your island,” the duke said.
She hurried past him to a corner occupied by a large globe in an elaborately carved, gilt-chased stand. If this was her only test she would pass easily. Study of geography had been one of her favorite lessons with the real Miss Grey. She spread out her hands and hovered over the North American continent, admiring the quality of the engraving and colors. “This is a very fine globe, a Vaugondy product if I am not mistaken.”
Without making a sound he crept up behind her, so close that the deep rumble of his words had an almost physical effect on her skin. “Nothing but the best for the Fortescues. They always lived well.” It was an odd thing to say, as though he were not the head Fortescue, and as though the state of his house didn’t contradict the statement. But she was too busy resisting her attraction to this member of the cursed family to dwell on it. She adjusted the position of the globe, noting the solidity of the orb, skillfully mounted so that when she found the place she wanted it stopped moving on her slightest command. The one in the schoolroom at the Hôtel Falleron–a smaller Vaugondy model–was too loose and took only a little push to spin wildly, sending one off to the wrong part of the world. She blinked away an incipient tear, glad the disturbing duke was behind her and couldn’t see. Returning to aristocratic life, even in another country, affected her more than she had expected.
“Here,” she said, finding a tiny island not far from South America.
She felt the duke’s chest warm her back, his breath on her neck. “This one?” Her ear buzzed. A black-clad arm snaked around her waist and a long finger touched the little blob of Saint Lucia, brushing her hand.
Enough.
Catching her breath, she stepped sideways out of the lee of Denford’s tall figure and retreated so that the globe lay between them. She had a position to win and a task to complete.
Julian had decided within a minute of Miss Grey’s entrance; the position was hers. Of his mistress. Such a delightful creature was wasted on his sisters when she could be in his bed. It was quite possible she could serve in both capacities but he supposed he’d better find out if she was qualified for the schoolroom. Of her suitability for the bedroom he had no doubt.
“Let us sit down,” he said.
She ignored the divan against the far wall, which he’d planned to share with her, and lowered herself into a sensible chair next to the central library table, moving with innate grace and quiet deliberation. Her posture was flawless yet the straight back and demurely folded hands didn’t make her appear anything like a prickly spinster.
She had managed to snub his advance very neatly and his admiration grew, as did his determination to win her. This was no strait-laced virgin beneath a sensible gray cloak and plain bonnet. At first glance she was nothing extraordinary, pretty but not a beauty, with agreeable features and slightly rounded cheeks. From what he could discern, her figure was neatly proportioned. But after a minute in her company Julian had detected the indefinable appeal of the siren. Something in her eye and the way she carried herself sent a message straight to his groin.
She might be gray by name and in her dress, but there was nothing dull about this governess. She wore her drab attire with a certain air of confidence and style that reminded him of Paris. Neither for a second did he believe her a virgin. He tamped his growing interest in her sensual experience and tried to consider the duties of a governess.
“You must have questions for me,” she said, drawing him out of a lust-blurred perusal of her pink mouth.
“How old are you?” he asked, taking the chair next to her so that his knee was only a tantalizing foot away from hers.
“Twenty-seven.”
“You look younger.” She had the dewy skin of youth yet there was nothing innocent about her eyes. “How long have you been a governess?”
“Eight years.” He wondered if she told the truth, but when it came down to it he didn’t much care. Perhaps this Johnson fellow, her late employer, had been her lover too. That would make a useful precedent.
“What age children?”
“I have taught young ladies of all ages.”
“What about your experience with gentlemen?”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Don’t governesses teach young gentlemen, too?”
“I understand,” she said firmly, “that there are no boys at Fortescue House.” She knew what he was about and would be no easy conquest. Excellent.
Meanwhile, he must pretend to take the interview seriously. Mentally he consulted the list of qualifications Cynthia had enumerated. “Do you teach music?”
“But of course,” she said, tilting her chin provocatively and meeting his eye with a mixture of severity and amusement. “What kind of governess does not? Do you wish me to demonstrate?”
“There is a music room next to the drawing room but I will take your word for it for now.”
“Perhaps you should not,” she said. “To tell the truth my skills at the piano and harp are only rudimentary but I sing very well.”
“Do you want this position?”
“Of course. But I don’t want to promise more than I can deliver. I can oversee the musical education of young ladies of average aspirations. What level have your sisters reached?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. If they have progressed beyond your abilities we can hire a music teacher to come in. Do you draw and paint?”
“Indifferently.”
“Never mind. I know a young artist named Oliver Bream who is always in need of a guinea or two. You mentioned languages?”
“French,
bien sûr
.” She switched to that language. “In Saint Lucia we speak French as well as we do English.” She displayed a purity of accent and grammar he’d heard among the French nobility before the Revolution.
“Italian?”
“Only a little,” she replied, in French.
“Never mind. I’ll hire someone.” He’d hire someone to tie her shoes if she wasn’t up to it, just as long as she stayed. Come to think of it, he’d take care of any dressing and undressing problems himself.
“I have many excellent and more important skills,” she said.
“I’m sure you do.”
“I can teach dancing and table manners, and prepare your sisters for presentation at court.”
“You learned court customs in your West Indian island?”
“The English governor’s wife had an exaggerated notion of her own importance. She held drawing rooms like the queen for all the notables of Saint Lucia society.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“All the young ladies on the island had to attend her
en grande tenue
and exit backwards after making their curtseys.”
“I always thought that sounded like nonsense.” Julian Fortescue had never been important enough to attend court and since he’d become duke he hadn’t bothered. “It’s not important. I doubt the girls will need to come out before my mother returns. What I need is someone to keep them busy and out of mischief. The things my mother would do if she’d hadn’t gallivanted across the Atlantic. Can you do that?”
“Certainly I can.”
“Very well. Blackett will settle with you about salary and find you somewhere to sleep.”
Cynthia would find it reprehensible that he hired a governess more for her suitability as his mistress than for her skills as a preceptress. Too bad. She’d had a chance to find someone better. Besides, no one expected Julian to behave properly, least of all himself.
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The Duke of Dark Desires
T
he silk industry centered on Spitalfields in the East End of London was huge and prosperous, employing thousands of skilled workers in the eighteenth century. The series of laws known as the Spitalfields Acts regulated the wages of the silk workers. Economists, then and now, disagree about the consequences of the acts. For the purposes of my story I decided to interpret them as beneficial; I also invented an extra act between those of 1792 and 1811.
I slotted Damian into Sir John Malcolm’s embassy to Persia, intended to protect British interests in India and prevent a Persian alliance with the French. The new Shah Futteh Aly (Fath-Ali in modern usage) was a patron of the arts and a cultivated man. He is said to have read the entire
Encyclopaedia Britannica
, a fact I couldn’t fit into this story so I’m sharing it with you now. Alt-Brandenburg and its prince, on the other hand, are entirely invented, as is the Falleron collection of paintings. Exactly what the Duke of Denford was up to in France will be revealed in my next book.
Lady Windermere’s Lover
is the third novel in The Wild Quartet series. Earlier books are
The Importance of Being Wicked
(Caro Townsend and the Duke of Castleton) and
The Ruin of a Rogue
(Anne Brotherton and Macrus, Viscount Lithgow). In addition, there is a prequel novella,
The Second Seduction of a Lady
. The fourth and final novel will be
The Duke of Dark Desires
, featuring Julian, Duke of Denford, and an unknown lady.
As usual,
Lady Windermere’s Lover
required the help and support of many friends, relatives, and colleagues to come to the page. My gratitude goes to Jill Tuennerman, Kathy Greer, Megan Mulry, Caroline Linden, Sarah MacLean, Katharine Ashe, Maya Rodale, Isobel Carr, Rebecca Mallary, Celia de Borchgrave, Susan Hanewald, and Meredith Bernstein. I would like to extend special thanks to my new editor, Chelsey Emmelhainz.
Miranda
MIRANDA NEVILLE
grew up in England before moving to New York City to work in Sotheby’s rare books department. After many years as a journalist and editor, she decided writing fiction was more fun. She lives in Vermont. She loves hearing from readers and may be reached through her website, www.MirandaNeville.com.
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