A Governess Should Never… Wager a Duke (The Governess Chronicles #4.5)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

“A governess is pious, patient and is without prejudice.”

Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

Shawdale Manor. Ambleside, Lake District. December 1817.

“ S o tell me, Miss Webster, why should I employ you as governess?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake…

And rolling her eyes, Charlotte reached across the study desk for another mince pie.

“For so many reasons, Marcus…” She ignored the ascent of ducal eyebrow at her informality. “It’s a mere eleven days till Christmas Eve. You cannot leave your fourteen-year-old ward alone with the servants. My previous employment has just ended. And no one else would be available at such short notice.” She munched the pie – such a luscious crust. “Indeed, I’m your only option.”

A grunt emanated from across the desk. “I suppose,” he began in a low rumble. “I ought to be thankful you’ve brought your references at all.” And he set to perusing them as though they formed a contract with the cloven-hoofed devil himself.

Withdrawing a threadbare handkerchief from her threadbare reticule, Charlotte patted crumbs from her lips. Since her eighteenth year, she had worked as a finishing governess for families within the Lake District and was therefore well aware one should remain patient and demure throughout an interview.

Yet that was rather arduous when the duke conducting said interview was the neighbouring boy she’d played with as a mischievous child, the earnest young man she’d waltzed with as a wistful girl, and the handsome gentleman she now…

Well, at present, Charlotte was uncertain what her feelings were for Marcus Scarcliffe, the Duke of Shawdale.

Nigh eight years past, that earnest young man had left the Lakes and travelled to London for some Town polish and oh, how she had eagerly awaited his homecoming…

But a haughty pinchfist had returned to them in his place. A nobleman who’d appeared to care for naught but the state of his coffers.

Perhaps after the sophistication of the city, he’d considered his rural Westmoreland district neighbours beneath his ducal rank? Or had a broken love affair changed him?

Charlotte had seen him on occasion since his return, and although she treated him the same, his manner towards her had become as distant as the night-time stars.

She inhaled deeply to clear such timeworn musings. “And why are you not staying here in Ambleside with your ward for Christmas?”

That chestnut head of hair leisurely lifted and hazel eyes pierced to her very heart – so familiar and yet…not. As a younger man, a green tint had danced within them – carefree and trusting. Now they remained brandy-brown with the occasional fleck of pure gold – a hint as to where his true passions lay.

“You would not understand, Cha… Miss Webster.” He cast her a patronising smile.

She simpered her own in return.

Pompous presumptuous lackwit.

“But I am a busy man and Christmas Day is like any other day. I am to depart for Carlisle on the Eve of Christmas to discuss a canal construction venture with Lord Crockett.”

“Grief, any more canals and England will sink. And Lord Crockett? Truly?” Charlotte tutted. “He has a reputation amongst his house maids as a debauched buck fitch. They call him Lord Cockbawd.”

He shrugged those broad, finely clad shoulders. “His personal circumstances are no business of mine.”

“There’s no worse time of year to be leaving home either.” The joy of Christmas. The need for family and–

“I know. It might damn well snow.”

That wasn’t what she’d meant and he dratted well knew it.

Her lips thinned, eyes meandering to the study window to note that the crest of Wansfell Pike, the summit which shadowed the town of Ambleside and this manor house, was hidden by a stratum of fog.

With each day of advent, the weather worsened, the nights as icy as this duke’s heart.

When a girl, this neighbouring house had been so full of festive spirit, for although Marcus’ father had died young and during these same winter months, his mother had insisted on celebrating Christmas to the utmost, lighting candles for remembrance and decorating every room with greenery.

Marcus’ gaze returned to her references, so Charlotte returned to the mince pies.

The monies from her work as governess just about kept her own family home from falling around her ears. But the roof leaked above her chamber, the attics were troubled with rampant mould, and her uncle Marmaduke had thrice this week escaped his nurse by climbing out the dilapidated library window to be later found in the duke’s rose garden calling for a woman named Martha.

But more of that later…

“Have you a new school lined up for your ward after Christmas?” For Charlotte knew that Miss Dinah Lovecott had just finished at Miss Fanshawe’s Most Excellent Seminary for Elegant and Educated Young Ladies . Established 1802. Board included. Ninety guineas per annum. Washing extra.

“No.”

“Perhaps you should employ me as a full-time finishing governess then and not just for the Christmas season?”

His lips thinned, high cheek bones so taut one could bounce a sage dumpling off them. “You are…expensive.”

Charlotte spluttered mince pie crumbs. “Your starched cravats for a week must cost more than my wages for a year.” And no, this wasn’t the best manner in which to gain employment but she was fast losing patience.

He straightened said cravat. “I have a certain deportment to project.”

“A starchy one?”

The duke slammed down her references, at last showing some passion. “I am coming to believe Mrs Mossop could look after my ward quite ably over Christmas until I find a new school.”

“Mrs Mossop’s job is to housekeep this vast manor, not be governess also and teach young Dinah etiquette and the reasons why the earth does not simply wobble about the universe.” She cocked her head and huffed. “Surely you can stay home for Christmas and keep your ward company? Canals can wait. There are more important matters than business deals and glossy guineas.”

His brow wrinkled. “Such as?”

“Laughter? Compassion? Joy? Family? The spirit of Christmas?”

Those wrinkles formed crevices of condescension. “Absurd, Cha– Miss Webster. Perhaps you’d be too fanciful a governess for my ward as what do you think life is? Some romantic drivel of a fairy tale.”

Heavens, if anyone knew life was no fairy tale, it was herself. Since her baronet father had died leaving a trail of vowel-waving creditors and a crumbling unentailed house, she had scrimped and saved, worked till her eyes drooped, and had even been forced to try smog-ridden London for employment.

For Charlotte, no fairy-tale prince had ridden to her rescue atop a golden stallion. Or even a donkey.

“No, Marcus, I do not.” She smiled and his eyes hooded. “But there is more to life than ledgers and–” She bit her lip as a thought occurred. It would be bold, perhaps foolish, but… “You used to enjoy a wager, did you not?”

His visage hardened to stone. “Not any longer.”

“A deal then.” She broadened her smile. “If I can persuade you to stay home for Christmas Day, you’ll–”

A snort. “You’ve not a chance.”

Charlotte ignored him. “You’ll employ me as governess until Dinah reaches seventeen years of age. And you will have my roof fixed. And stop pestering me to sell you my home.”

He leaned back, crossed his arms, starched cravat unyielding, and narrowed those hazel eyes. “And when I depart for Carlisle still? What do I receive?”

Charlotte swallowed. There were no other jobs. She had less than a month’s worth of wages for Uncle Marmaduke’s nurse and the roof leaked in her bedchamber – as she might have mentioned before.

But if she succeeded, she’d be living here on this neighbouring estate to her own home and hence be near to her uncle Marmaduke for nigh three years, be able to pay the wages of his nurse for nigh three years.

“If…if I fail, I shall still work for you as governess until a school is found but…unpaid.” Well, at least she’d have a dry bed. “And I’ll…consider selling my house to you.”

“Consider?”

“Consider.”

But had she caught a flash of green in that gaze?

The old Marcus had never been able to resist her wagers – to climb the highest tree, to race to the tinkers, to dance with her at that last Christmas Ball…

“And how do you propose to persuade me to stay?”

He was contemplating it!

“You must accompany me to three Christmastide events of my choosing.” All she had to do was think of them.

“Hmm. Is that worth so much of my precious time away from rigorous ledger inspection?”

Charlotte munched another mince pie. If one had nothing clever to say, it was better to stay quiet and hence enigmatic.

He drummed his fingers on the mahogany desk. “ If I were to agree to such a ludicrous proposal, I’d require you to start as governess on the morrow.” The drumming ceased. “ If you happen to win, I will pay you at month end, but when you don’t…” The drumming commenced anew. “As part of your governess duties, I’ll also require you to eliminate a yet more ludicrous idea that my young ward has got in her noggin to become an…” He nigh choked within the confines of that starched cravat. “…an authoress.”

To be commended, surely?

“I could start tomorrow,” Charlotte merely stated, prodding the mince pie plate back across the desk. “Come along, Marcus, what have you got to lose?”

In order to instil calm and reason, Marcus inhaled deeply but those two eminently ducal and sensible conditions refused to surface, likely due to that scent of bloody heliotrope that filled his nostrils.

Charlotte had forever smelled of sweet heliotrope.

With eyes blind, he stared at her references, his mind coldly calculating. If he agreed to her ludicrous proposal, he’d have a governess for free until he found a new school for Dinah. He’d be at liberty to visit Carlisle and broker that canal deal.

What had he to lose?

She’d never get him to stay for Christmas, short of tying him up.

Which wouldn’t be without its merits but…

From beneath his lashes, he studied his sometime neighbour, Miss Charlotte Webster.

A spinster with now twenty-six years, auburn-haired and slender, she had eyes the colour of mountain fells in spring. Tall for a female, she rose above most local men.

But not himself.

For eight years, he’d quashed any insipid sentiment – for both their sakes – but as soon as she’d perched on the study chair and treated him like a normal man rather than a duke, teased him and licked her lips of mince pie crumbs, all his boyish yearnings had returned – a sensation akin to indigestion after too much venison.

And why was she always so damn content? Broad lips curving. Through no fault of her own, she’d been reduced to a mere governess, with a mad uncle and derelict house, yet she sat there munching pies like a blithe Marie Antoinette while the mob rioted outside.

Mind you, she was correct in that Mrs Mossop lacked the hours to care for Dinah, and even he was not so heartless as to leave his ward utterly alone for Christmastide. A twinge of guilt punched his gut that he’d not put aside the time to find a new school for her, but this canal venture would make him a mint.

His gaze twisted to the wall and met the portrait of his elder cousin Thomas who’d been a couple of years above him at Eton. A carriage tragedy in an autumn storm had taken the lives of Thomas and his wife two years ago, and Marcus wondered what they would now make of his cow-handed guardianship of their daughter.

Ostensibly shuffling papers, he debated Charlotte’s proposed deal.

If he was to agree, should they have a written contract? Signed? Ask his man of affairs to scrutinise for loopholes? Mr Dilber was most adept at that.

A name on her references caught his eye and he glowered. “You worked for Cadwalader?” He’d met the London reprobate on a few occasions, most recently at a boxing club: women swooned over his handsome mug; gentlemen feted his droll deeds.

But not himself.

“Hmm. Solely in an…advisory role.”

His glower became a scowl. “A lavish reference too.”

“Such a charming employer.”

His scowl became a sneer. “Do you provide additional services now, Charlotte?”

The silence was extensive.

One could hear the wind buffeting trees at the end of the upper lake.

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean–”

“Yes. Yes, you did, Your Grace.” She rose and pulled her skirts straight. “And if you would care to review the reference, you will see it was written by Amelia Cadwalader, his new bride. They were most helpful to me whilst I was in London and I count them both as friends.”

Marcus got to his feet also, aware that in Charlotte’s company all his restraint and composure fell like damn dominoes. Emotion began to steer him and that must never happen again. He would refuse her proposal. It was best for all concerned. But first… “My apologies for my errant conjecture.”

She nodded, and it was at that moment he became aware of several matters.

Charlotte had always been slender but her wrists were…too thin.

Her woollen skirts were patched. And re-patched.

Skin pale as milk.

And for all that her lips smiled, the dusky shadows beneath her eyes conveyed utter weariness.

He knew she lacked money but…

“I agree to your deal,” his mouth said without his mind’s approval.

Mrs Mossop could at least feed Charlotte up.

“I…” She nibbled her bottom lip.

He shifted. “Not that you’ll win. Not a hope.” And then abruptly realised those words were taken straight from their childhood, further memories drifting in like dust motes.

When young, they’d wagered over the most nonsensical matters at Christmastide: what weight the plum pudding would be; the hour of the first snowfall; who’d trip over their own feet when they danced together.

He’d state those same arrogant words and she’d always reply…

“We’ll see about that.” And those broad lips grinned. “Shake?” Her bare hand waggled over his desk.

He clasped it – warm, silken and too bloody slender.

“May the best man win,” he murmured, releasing it as though it were molten.

“Three Christmastide events, Marcus. No hiding in your counting house or bank vault, although I doubt there’s much room amongst all the guineas.”

His fists clenched. “If we could avoid the most mawkish seasonal events, I would sleep better at night.”

“You’ll not have time to sleep at night, Your Grace.”

He allowed not a twitch of eyelash, not a tremor of lip, not a quake of groin at such words – innocent or not. For so long, he had successfully purged Charlotte from his mind and body, and he refused to regress. Now he was a man of nigh three decades with his desires firmly in check.

So he bestowed a ducal nod.

“I’d best pack for tomorrow then.” A curtsey. “Your Grace.”

Marcus watched her depart his study, and then frowned as he noticed all the mince pies had gone, but before returning to his ledgers, he wandered to the window.

Wansfell Pike had now been smothered in a mantle of fog and drizzle and he could only hope that snow would not hinder his imminent departure for Carlisle and those canals.

For he never lost a deal. Business or otherwise.