What a Lady Demands (6 page)

Her stomach gave a growl, and she pressed her hands to her belly, glancing sideways to see if anyone had noticed. Every last one of the staff kept his eyes trained straight ahead. Trained, yes, and wasn’t that the most apt expression? They’d known what to expect and had doubtless come prepared. She made a mental note to request a substantial tea next Tuesday.

Smithers finished his report, and Lindenhurst called on the next man, a complete stranger to Cecelia, the head gardener, based on his report and his rough dress.

She glanced sideways down the line. But for Smithers, the housekeeper, and the head groom, every single face was new to her. She searched through her memories of the times she’d spent here as a guest and dragged up a recollection of the giggling upstairs maid who used to come in to light the fires in the morning, of a gawky groom who used to blush every time he had to assist her onto a horse. Gone, all of them. Dismissed for gossip, if there was any substance to Mrs. Carstairs’s hints.

No one’s position is safe here. Not even mine. Especially not mine.

One by one, each servant gave a detailed report of his activities. The head gardener reported all the flower beds were weeded and mulched, and tomorrow he planned on trimming the hedges along the front drive. Regan had made certain all the tack was polished and noted that one of the carriage horses had thrown a shoe.

Mrs. Carstairs was interviewing candidates to replace a downstairs maid while a new upstairs maid was settling into her duties. “Grant shows a tremendous desire to please, my lord.”

“Make certain she understands all my expectations, and she should not fail.” During all this reporting, the food on Lindenhurst’s plate disappeared. Had he no heart at all?

But even as she asked herself the question, her mind leapt back to his vast expanse of a dining room, the table large enough to seat any respectable
ton
gathering—and he had no one to share it with. Could the echoing solitude of that cavern have driven him to eating before his staff, so he wouldn’t have to dine alone?

“Miss Sanford,” he said suddenly.

She nearly jumped. “Yes, my lord?”

“Well?”

Good Lord, did he expect her to give him a report, as well? “Your pardon, my lord.” She nearly curtseyed, but that felt rather like overdoing things. “No one informed me I’d be required to report to you.”

He laid his fork aside and ran his serviette over his lips. “And you couldn’t surmise as much as you listened to the others go before you?”

“Why, yes, I suppose I might have, but…Forgive me, I was just so surprised. I’m quite certain my governess never had to do such a thing for my father, and I find myself unprepared.”

“My years in the army taught me the value of well-informed officers. I’ve extended the practice to my civilian life.”

“It won’t happen again,” she added for good measure. She had no idea what else to say.

“See that it doesn’t. And now, would you kindly inform me as to how you spent your day with the boy?”

The boy
again. She pressed her lips together. “Jeremy and I attempted to engage in a constitutional, and we got to know each other somewhat. As you know, I might add, since you came across us on the grounds. I plan to continue the practice with your permission.” She paused, half expecting him to mount a protest, but he gave a curt nod, all the reply she needed. His expression was sufficient to remind her of his strictures.

“Naturally, we will remain on those areas of the grounds that meet your approval,” she went on. “I have also noted Jeremy’s avid interest to all things military, and he seems adept at picking up notions of military strategy. I believe it might be a good idea to encourage him along that path.”

While she spoke, Lindenhurst had used a chunk of bread to sop up the sauce in his plate, but he let the crust drop with a moist
thump.
“No.”

Just one word, simple and final, and clearly Lindenhurst thought it sufficient to put an end to the conversation. “But if it interests him, perhaps I could take advantage to encourage him to learn to read and write and calculate, which is what you require of me.”

“No. He has no business believing he can make a career in the military.”

The glare he’d turned on her might have been sufficient to cow any number of his servants, but she refused to let him intimidate her. Perhaps arguing with him wasn’t the best strategy, but something inside her prodded her to rebel. “He wouldn’t have to believe you’d buy him a commission, but—”

He turned the full force of his scowl on her. “Miss Sanford, do you not understand a direct order when you hear one?”

She clenched her hands into fists. “Yes, sir.”

“Then do me the courtesy of obeying.”

She’d like to show him courtesy. She’d like to take that wineglass and dash the dregs straight into his arrogant, overly handsome face. “If you say so.”

“I do.” Once more, he dabbed at his lips with his serviette. “Tell me, how many times has he fallen today?”

Her mouth dropped open. And what sort of question was that? She stopped herself before she blurted something unconsidered in front of the rest of the staff. “I’m afraid it never occurred to me to keep count. Is that something you’ll require me to tally in the future?”

“It might be worth taking note of.” He raised his wineglass and drained it. “Dismissed.”

The others were obviously well trained, because they filed out of the room. Cecelia remained rooted to the spot, not quite believing the bizarre ritual that substituted for the Tuesday evening meal in this house.

Lindenhurst looked up at her, his expression quizzical. Yet somehow that gaze still penetrated. He possessed an odd power, one that made her feel like she was fifteen again, except now she was the one who was naked, not him. A delicious sort of shiver passed down her spine. “I said dismissed. I cannot think why you’re still here.”

Delicious, except when he barked orders at her. “Forgive me. I am not used to this household and its routines. Mrs. Carstairs told me you expected me for supper, and naturally, I assumed…”

“The staff gives me their reports during my Tuesday evening meal.” An evening meal he couldn’t even be bothered to take in the dining room like a civilized gentleman. But once again she recalled the cavernous hall with a table that seated twenty-five or more guests. “I find it a more efficient use of my time to take care of both matters at once.”

“I see.” And had his eccentricities led to the other governesses not staying on?

“I believe the others take their supper in the kitchens. If you hurry along, you might catch them. Or if you think yourself above that, you might take a tray in your chambers.” As she had last night.

Just as he’d said, dismissed. All that was missing were the hand gestures to shoo her along.

As she trudged toward the kitchens, she tried to call to mind the man she’d known before—her brother’s school friend. Lind. The young man she remembered had never been so serious. Quiet, yes. Intense about all he set his mind to, most definitely. Fiercely competitive, certainly. But the intervening years had stolen something from him.

No doubt his experiences in the war and his wife’s passing had contributed greatly to that. A pity, though. Perhaps, somewhere, the person she once knew still lurked.

But that wasn’t her purpose here. She’d come to prove a point to her brother, and to succeed at that, she’d have to concentrate on Lindenhurst’s son.

For the next two days, she did just that, ensuring Jeremy applied himself to writing his name with the same devotion and attention to detail he employed in lining up his tin soldiers. And eventually, despite his letters remaining rumpled and uneven, his improvement became clear. Even he could see it.

“I’m getting better,” he crowed.

She placed a hand on his neck, and her throat went oddly tight. Legible, not perfection. That’s all Lindenhurst had asked for. “You are indeed.”

She couldn’t wait to show Lindenhurst. For Jeremy’s sake.

Lind downed the last of his brandy and leaned against the fireplace, drumming his fingers on the marble mantel. But for the pain the movement would cause, he’d have paced. The sitting room was large enough to accommodate a good show of tension; at least ten feet separated the paneled door from the mullioned window that overlooked the back terraces.

Sanford was due to arrive at any moment, and Lind hadn’t seen his blasted governess for two solid days. Not since she’d made her weekly report along with the other servants, but he hardly counted that particular interview, even if she had shown more cheek in front of his staff than he ought to tolerate. His mind would much rather dwell on an earlier event, when she’d left him on the grounds to make his wearisome way back up to the house step by painful step.

He’d had no choice but to send her on. It was that or allow her to help him, but her arm about his waist, her hip to his, the softness of her breast pressed into his ribs would have been too much. Too many lungsful of her fresh, feminine scent and he would have tossed her skirts there on the lawn, and the devil take propriety.

Just as well he hadn’t seen her or the boy. At least that meant she was doing her job, even if her methods struck him as unorthodox.

But with her brother due to arrive for supper at any moment, he began to wonder. Would she even bother to put in an appearance? Sanford didn’t know she was here. To hell with that. Whether or not she showed her damnably fetching backside this evening, Sanford was likely to find out the truth either way. And if the situation angered him, then God help her.

God help the both of them.

Moreover, an overly irritated Sanford just might defect to Battencliffe’s side. That was the last thing Lind wanted. He needed Sanford’s cooperation, and if he couldn’t get that, he must at least ensure Sanford wouldn’t help Battencliffe, financially or otherwise.

Lind eyed his empty tumbler and stared at the carafe of brandy on an end table across the room. He could summon a servant or shuffle.

He’d taken his first painful step when the door opened. Smithers loomed on the threshold. “Mr. Alexander Sanford has arrived with his wife.”

“Yes, yes.” Punctual as ever. “Show them in.” Damn it all, where was Cecelia? “Has Miss Sanford been alerted her presence is required?”

“I believe Grant has been seeing to her, since Miss Sanford has no lady’s maid.”

Grant? Ah, yes, the new girl. Naturally Cecelia had no maid. Governesses did not usually require such luxuries. Unheard of. What a singular situation he found himself in. “Please notify her that she is expected without delay.”

With a nod, the butler retreated, only to reveal Lind’s old school chum hovering in the doorway, just behind his wife. Lind hadn’t seen Henrietta
nee
Upperton in over eight years, since the time of her original engagement to Sanford. She’d never been a great beauty, although a wealth of intelligence sparkled in her light blue eyes, but the years had been kind enough to her. She floated into the room, the embodiment of self-possession, her husband marching behind like a man about to face a firing squad.

An awkward sort of silence fell over the room. Yes, and the last time Lind had seen Sanford hadn’t been any more comfortable. Too many obstacles lay in the road to renewing their acquaintance on its former terms—the biggest one of all, a bastard named Battencliffe. Lind muttered a trite pleasantry and bowed to Henrietta before extending a stiff hand to his former schoolmate.

Damn it, where the hell was Cecelia? Not that her presence was likely to relieve the tension in the room. She would only shift its focus, but that would have to do.

Plastering a taut smile on his lips, he gestured to the carafe. “Brandy?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Sanford replied.

“Smithers should be along shortly with some sherry,” Lind added to Henrietta.

Her lips stretched into a valiant attempt at a smile. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this invitation?”

“To congratulate you on your recent marriage and welcome Sanford back to England, as well. I’ve been rather remiss in renewing our acquaintance.” He winced to hear himself. He’d never been handy with these sorts of social niceties. He’d always left that to Lydia, and in the past, he hadn’t needed to worry about putting on such a façade for Sanford. Then, to call the man an acquaintance after running Eton’s gauntlet together.

Such a thing would have been unthinkable before Sanford left for India. But then, so many other unthinkable occurrences had come to pass. No one could have predicted Lind’s injuries and near-death. No one could have predicted he’d be a widower before he was thirty. No one could have predicted Jeremy’s accident. Above all, no one could have predicted Battencliffe would plunge a knife into Lind’s back while he was in Belgium with Wellington. Lind had never before had reason to question his friend’s loyalty.

Lind cleared his throat. “Last time we met…in the village near your aunt’s manor…” To the devil with it, he’d never been any good at this. “We may have got off on the wrong foot. I intend to make up for that.”

Before Sanford or his wife could respond, Lind felt a shift in the air. It might have been the thickening atmosphere in the room, or it might have been the slight rustle of a skirt. Whatever it was made him turn. Cecelia hesitated in the doorway, her dark gaze pinned on her brother, her cheeks reddening.

He had no idea what sort of wardrobe such a young lady as she would possess, but the gown she had donned for supper was the last thing he’d expect to see on a governess. It shimmered in the firelight with the soft glow of costly, pale rose silk. While she was alive, his wife had worn that shade to perfection, and it managed to enhance Cecelia’s dark beauty just as it had set off Lydia’s blond loveliness.

The bodice plunged to reveal an expanse of creamy bosom. His throat went dry, and he wished more than ever he’d reached for the carafe sooner. As it was, he nearly downed the glass he’d just poured for Sanford.

Sanford leapt to his feet. “What the devil are you doing here? Lindenhurst, what is this?”

Henrietta reached out and tugged at her husband’s sleeve. “Sit down, darling. I’m sure an explanation is in the offing.”

Cecelia advanced slowly into the room, her skirts swishing. Her dark hair swept up in layers of curls that revealed the long curve of her nape. Lind couldn’t take his eyes off the contour of her neck. In the flickering firelight, he imagined he could see the soft flutter of her pulse just below her ear. And if he pressed his lips to the spot, just how might she react? With a sigh or a slap?

“Lord Lindenhurst has requested my presence at this supper to round out the numbers,” she said quietly, as if she were a regular guest at his table.

“That does not explain how you come to be here,” Sanford insisted.

Cecelia looked her brother in the eye and raised her chin. “Lord Lindenhurst has hired me as his governess.”

Sanford broke into a fit of coughing. “Governess,” he spluttered. “You?”

His wife tugged at him once again. “Do sit down. And why shouldn’t she be a governess? I am forever telling you a woman ought to be able to do whatever she sets her mind to.”

Sanford exchanged a look with his wife. “But…But…Lind, I believe you and I need to have a serious talk about this situation. Now.”

Henrietta yanked at his sleeve until he regained his seat. “I don’t think that’s really necessary.”

Cecelia’s cheeks had turned a deep red, but she looked hard at her brother. “No. Whatever you have to say to Lord Lindenhurst, you can say in front of me.”

Lind had to admire the way she stood up to Sanford, who was glaring at her like a sergeant ready to berate a troop of green recruits. He’d much rather Sanford be on the receiving end of her cheek, at any rate.

“In fact,” she went on, “allow me to say it for you and save us all the pain. My lord, he is about to inform you I am the most irresponsible of chits and the last thing I am fit for is overseeing the well-being of young children. Is that about right, my dear brother?”

Smithers came in at that moment, bearing glasses of sherry. Cecelia plucked one from the tray and swallowed the blood-red wine in a single draught. Muscles rippled along her white throat, and her eyes flashed as she set the glass aside. Damn, she was magnificent in a temper. And she’d never looked less like a governess. In fact, when it came to high dudgeons, she’d give any dowager duchess a run for her money.

Except for the creamy smoothness of her bosom, and the lovely flush that spread across it.

Sanford leaned forward in his seat. “That’s about the gist of it.”

“Now, really,” Henrietta interjected. “It is hardly the time to dredge this up. We’ve been invited to dine, not criticize Lord Lindenhurst on his choice of staff.”

“At least we know where she’s gone.” Sanford nodded in his sister’s direction.

“After weeks of listening to you criticize her over one small mistake, you can hardly blame her for packing up and leaving,” Henrietta replied.

“As well as how much trouble she’s in,” Sanford added, as if his wife hadn’t spoken. “I expect you’ll wish to discuss the marriage settlements with me at an agreeable time.”

Cecelia emitted a strangled screech of outrage.

Lind spit out a mouthful of brandy. “Marriage settlements?”

“Naturally. My sister has been housed under your roof without a proper chaperone for—How many days has it been?”

“Less than a week.” Cecelia forced the words between gritted teeth. “And absolutely nothing untoward has happened, not between me and Lord Lindenhurst. Not between me and his son. So I highly recommend you keep your nose out of it.”

“I’m afraid I must agree with Cecelia, dear,” Henrietta added before Lind could formulate a response. “Society harbors the most vexing expectations when it comes to young females. They must either marry or remain dependent on their families. It is quite commendable that Cecelia’s made a strike toward independence.”

Sanford caught his wife’s eye, and his expression softened. “You married me.”

“It’s not the same thing.” How she kept her tone so reasonable while Sanford insisted on running off on one of his moral tangents, Lind would never know. “I chose to marry you. I was not forced into the situation.”

Then she smiled, and the fool nearly melted. An odd feeling burned through Lind’s veins. It felt strangely like jealousy. His marriage might have been that way. Damn it all, he’d
wanted
to have that sort of marriage with Lydia. He’d been working toward that very thing when the war tore them apart. And now she was gone.

“Be that as it may, I will not have this family embroiled in more scandal.” Sanford riveted his gaze on Lind; his expression clearly said,
What are you planning on doing about it?

“Do not be ridiculous.” Cecelia’s expression mirrored her brother’s only it was turned on Sanford, thankfully. “As I informed you, there isn’t the slightest bit of scandal going on here. I’ve been hired, quite legitimately, as Master Blakewell’s governess, and I intend to fulfill that role until I no longer suit.”

“That shouldn’t be long. Lind, I do believe we need to have a serious talk about this, no matter what the ladies say. You do not have all the facts of the matter. And once you’ve put Cecelia out, what’s to be done with her? She’ll be quite ruined for the rest of society.”

“Alexander.” Henrietta’s voice held a note of warning.

Thank God, Smithers appeared in the doorway once again. “Dinner is served.”

As the door to the drawing room closed behind her, Cecelia resisted the urge to lean back against the carved wooden panel. The better to shut out the men, after what had to be the most uncomfortable dinner party she’d ever experienced. The next time Lindenhurst decided to have guests over, he could deuced well find another hostess. She never thought she’d express such an opinion, but there was something to be said for remaining a lowly governess and taking her meals in the nursery—when she wasn’t summoned to Lindenhurst’s study to give reports.

She might have avoided her brother and his low opinion of her abilities, for one thing. And that went double for his insistence that Lindenhurst make her an offer. An offer. Good heavens. It wasn’t as if she weren’t already ruined. Not that her brother knew anything about that. Not unless Lindenhurst was telling him so over port at this very moment.

But what could Lindenhurst know of any scandal attached to her name? He’d exiled himself from polite society for years. At any rate, he’d never have hired her if he’d held the smallest suspicion her reputation was anything less pristine than new-fallen snow on Christmas morning.

“Do you think we might order some brandy for ourselves?” Henrietta arranged her pale green skirts across the blood-red brocade covering the settee. “After that meal, I declare I need some.”

The very thought set the contents of Cecelia’s stomach to churning. Not that she’d eaten much, but what little she’d picked at now threatened to put in a reappearance. “It was awkward, wasn’t it? How long do you think it’s been since Lord Lindenhurst had a supper party?”

“Based on his conversational skills? Ages, I would think.”

Cecelia suppressed a smile. “The fashionable thing is to hire someone to play the hermit on one’s property, I hear, but Lindenhurst doesn’t need to go so far. He’s already made a practice of being a hermit himself.”

Henrietta let out a trill of laughter. When the sound subsided, Cecelia strained her ears toward the door. “Aren’t you in the least bit curious to know what they’re discussing?”

“Certainly, but not enough to risk getting caught listening at the door.” Henrietta picked a bell off a side table and rang it. “I imagine Alexander is trying to discover what happened between Lindenhurst and Battencliffe while he was in India.”

“I doubt very much he’ll learn anything,” Cecelia commented. Not as tight-lipped as Lindenhurst was about…well, nearly everything, even when it came to necessary information such as Jeremy’s difficulties.

“Whatever he learns, I can get the details out of Alexander later.” Henrietta smiled. “I’ve learned more than one way to loosen his tongue.”