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

Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

“We can seldom excite and interest if we ourselves do not feel a portion.”

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

Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.

A draught eddied the white ribbons and winter ivy that dangled from the Fitzwilliam chandeliers till they resembled windswept branches and drifting snow.

Charlotte endeavoured to remember that she was only at this ball in order to persuade Marcus to stay for Christmas, to remind him of laughter and joy, but she’d become swept up by the festivity, by recollections of the past.

She’d chatted with childhood friends, now with their own children; she’d laughed with bachelors who’d a little more breadth to their midriffs; the past was everywhere.

“Oh, Miss Webster,” Dinah gushed in between gulps of lemonade, impossible blond ringlets spiralling. “This is wondrous. And I’ve made so many friends.” And before she could take another breath, Lucy from the next valley over Wansfell Pike seized Dinah’s hand, and giggling, they skipped off towards the orchestra.

Charlotte smiled and sipped her champagne, glad to see her charge enjoying herself so much.

“She’s too young to attend this ball,” grumped a grump over her shoulder.

Instead of whirling, Charlotte took her time. For the vision of Marcus in evening wear took its toll upon a woman.

A damson tailcoat clad his slender frame, a silver-grey waistcoat his chest. Black breeches snugly fitted and he wore a cravat that was indeed thoroughly starched.

Clean shaven, his handsome aspect was set to a scowl.

“It’s important for Dinah to gain experience at local affairs such as this, Your Grace, so she doesn’t feel daunted at the prospect of her future Season. I was sixteen at my first Christmas Ball. I recall my aunt wouldn’t let me dance.”

“But you did,” he stated low. “I saw you twirling alone on the balcony.”

She swallowed. “I hadn’t realised you’d seen me.” And how pathetic she must have looked. Then, at the following year’s ball, they had danced together thrice and she’d thought his eyes had declared such emotion… Yet it must all have been in her fanciful young head. “I suppose this hasn’t the sophistication of a London Christmas Ball.”

But, oh how beautiful it was.

Silver and white swags of silk curled and flowed around the Pomona-green walls, cosseting the many portraits in its embrace. Holly, rosemary and laurel burst from vases while hothouse roses of white floated in crystal bowls, the many candles setting the ballroom to a glistening paradise. And the final flourish… “Wansfell Pike, I noticed, had a dusting of snow this morning.”

“Bugger,” she thought to hear him mutter, so Charlotte gazed to the dance floor, a riot of shades and gaiety.

Along with the magical décor, there was also a jovial informality to this ball as the Westmorland district gentry and their families all knew one another. She’d spied Fitzwilliam’s young son snaffling rum butter crackers from the refreshments table.

Yet there was no informality to Marcus. He endured at her side with a nigh bored expression, still and taciturn, although…

The stiller he appeared, the more a…tension seemed to resonate from him. It was akin to being stood next to a tuning fork.

Charlotte wondered at its cause and if–

“Miss Webster! What a pleasure! And why have we not seen you here for so long?”

Charlotte’s gloved hand was seized, kissed, and she smiled at their host, Mr Fitzwilliam. A handsome gent, his blue eyes twinkled with merriment. Now a widower of five years, it was rumoured he was on the hunt for a wife.

“Mr Fitzwilliam. A pleasure also. But nowadays I am only a gov–”

“She’s my guest,” Marcus cut in silkily, thrusting forth his hand. “How are you, Fitz?”

“Exultant to see you, Shawdale, it’s been too long. I was just telling my boy about the Christmas you persuaded me to gift my tutor with a frog.”

Charlotte was sure Marcus’ lips had twitched. “A toad, I think you’d find.”

“Well, of the amphibian class. And if you don’t mind, I would be most delighted to whisk your guest off for a waltz.” He proffered an arm. “Miss Webster?”

For all of a moment, she hesitated, wishing Marcus had asked her first. But his face held that expression of ennui once more and, if Dinah was correct, he disliked dancing now, so with the broadest smile she had within her repertoire, she took Mr Fitzwilliam’s arm and wended to the dance floor without a backwards glance.

Balling his fists, Marcus glowered as Charlotte whirled within Fitz’s embrace. They suited one another – forever smiling the both of them. If they popped offspring, the whelps would be born with upturned lips.

But the thought of them indulging in such coital behaviour in order to beget said offspring caused him to grab a glass of champagne from a passing tray and glug it down in one.

Damnation, what was the point to all this?

Why had she brought him here?

To drive him to Bedlam?

Charlotte’s slender body was garbed in a gown of the most exquisite silk – the colour of autumn leaves. He wondered how she’d afforded it as it looked costly. Had some other fellow gifted it to her?

He recalled the last time they’d danced. At this Christmas Ball when hosted at his own estate, some eight years past.

And how he had ached to kiss her.

Plunge his hands through her silken hair and touch her.

Yet she’d had but seventeen years and even though he’d been a young lad full of raging desire, he’d also known she was too young, too innocent.

And then he’d gone to Lond–

“Oh, that was too much fun.” And Charlotte tumbled back into his sphere and being, her leaf-green eyes bright. “And Fitz has such stamina.”

Marcus grunted. “Also had his lips nigh at your ear and his hand on your derriere. A governess must be heedful of her reputation and ascertain ways to mitigate such advances.”

Her smile dropped and he felt an utter dullard.

“Your Grace…” She sniffed. “I have worked in many households of the Ton and am not innocent–”

“What!” he roared, causing a countess to drop her champagne.

“Shush! Not that…” She tutted at him as footmen arrived with brushes and pans. “Not innocent to the ways of fending off gentlemen, I meant. One viscount pinched my derriere so often, I took to wearing a cushion beneath my skirts.”

“What was his name?” he queried casually, fists balled once more. “I’ll break his fingers.”

She pursed her lips. “Bad for one’s references that would be.”

“Oh, Your Grace!” A lady togged in more ruffles and tassels than the ballroom curtains barged forward, clasped her hands together and squealed in delight. “How wonderful to see you! Lady Paggett, you remember me?”

“No.”

“You’ll remember my daughter though. Agatha.” And from behind the ruffles, a girl of approximately seventeen was dragged forth – short and with even more ruffles. “We are off to London this year for her first Season, and I imagine her vast dowry and docile manner will establish her as a diamond of the first water.” She batted her lashes. “And not on the market for long.”

Ah, now Marcus remembered.

Lord Paggett owned land to the west and had hinted the girl’s impressive dowry would also include more than a few acres. She’d be the perfect bride. Money and connection. And he wasn’t getting any younger.

“May I have this dance, Miss Paggett?” he mechanically requested.

The girl simpered, so with a nod to Charlotte, he led Miss Paggett onto the dance floor for a quadrille.

“Are you enjoying the ball?” he asked while they stood awaiting the music to commence.

“Oh, yes, I adore it.”

From the corner of his eye, he noted Charlotte now stood awaiting the same dance one couple down with Sir Edward, a bachelor with a ten thousand a year income.

“And are you looking forward to London?”

“Oh, yes, I adore it.”

“And are you looking forward to Christmas?”

“Oh, yes, I adore it.”

He frowned.

The quadrille commenced and when he briefly crossed paths with his dance partner once more, he felt compelled to ask, “Do you enjoy walking?”

“Oh, yes, I adore it.”

“Where do you adore walking? The hills? Meadows?”

“The drawing room,” she replied. “I adore walking around the drawing room. Outside is so…undomesticated.”

Marcus stared down at her tepid eyes and wondered what the devil he was doing?

And why hadn’t he asked Charlotte to dance yet?

As the couples circled and the music dipped, he heard her low chuckle, mocking his asinine choice of dance partner based on wealth and land.

Charlotte had nothing, no coin or dowry or habitable house, and yet she brimmed with such life.

When they’d first danced at that ball a lifetime ago, she’d been like a flame in his arms, full of vibrancy and repartee, slender body curving with his, so in step with one another.

He stared down to Miss Paggett. She was most pretty, no doubt had hidden talents, and would make someone a perfect wife.

But that someone was not him.

It never was.

The dance came to a welcome end, so after delivering the girl back to her mother, he strode through the crowd, dodging acquaintances and ruffles to make his escape through the French doors and to the terrace.

Bloody freezing.

Deserted.

Lamps had been lit along the wall of the house and frost crystals sparkled off the stone, but the candlelight barely penetrated the night.

Out here was solemn and bitter cold whilst inside all was cheer and genial warmth.

He paced the bleak flagstones.

Agreeing to Charlotte’s deal had been a mistake. He ought to put a stop to the whole matter. After all, he was a duke and so–

“Your Grace?”

And why had she stopped calling him Marcus?

“Miss Webster. I will be departing shortly but will send the carriage back for you and Dinah. Return inside. It’s too bitter out here.”

“But you promised to attend my Christmastide events.”

“And I have attended.”

He could sense her just behind him. Heliotrope. Warmth. Honesty.

“Not for very long. But…how has it made you feel?” she whispered. “Surely it reminds you of the Christmases with your parents, when we were young. The fun and laughter?”

He breathed deep. Gritted his teeth. “Return inside, Miss Webster.”

“I do not understand. Have you not enjoyed it? The dancing and–”

He swivelled.

She was too close. Torrid fire before a backdrop of frosted stone. The only damn warmth in this cold night.

“Oh, yes,” he growled, “it reminds me of all that. And moreover it reminds me…”

A line creased her brow, the lanterns lighting her eyes to stars. “What?”

“You have no wish to know.”

“Yes, I do.” Then she sealed her fate as her gloved hand touched his sleeve. He could see her skin pebbling with the chill, the necklace he’d gifted her so long ago encircling her throat, breath misting with his own – entwined.

“Damn it, Charlotte, this is what it reminds me of.”

And he yanked her into his arms to kiss her.

Kiss her how he’d yearned to all that time ago.

But he was no longer a young lad so instead of some na?ve brush of lips, he ravished.

Searching and urgent, crushing her to his body, kissing with an ardour that devoured him whole.

And despite the cold, Charlotte was anything but.

She was molten, passionate, and all he’d thrown away.

His lips seared to her cheek, earlobe, the scent of heliotrope so sweet while heady desire coursed its way through his veins, hardening loins in a moment, melting all restraint.

His hand grabbed her rump to press her closer – not close enough – and another hand clasped her nape, lips returning to clash and demand. He had to–

Laughter gushed as the French doors opened and glacial reality slapped his cheeks.

He stepped back, breath panting, arms dropping to his sides.

Hell and bloody damnation.

“That is what it reminds me of, Charlotte.” His fists clenched, nails biting into his palms, as he willed his body to calm. “But no one can go back,” he hissed. “So leave the bloody past where it belongs.” And he marched off to the corner of the terrace where steps led to the courtyard and the awaiting coaches.

Charlotte was akin to fire – incandescent, giving and everything he was not. He would only quench her flame with his cold heart.

Fanning herself with a hand, Charlotte watched Marcus stomp off, her skin rampantly hot, mouth tender, body pulsing.

What on earth had just happened?

Not that she’d minded in the least but–

A hushed sprinkle of snow drifted before her and she stared up to the heavens, watched the way the scant flakes began to fall within the realm of the lantern light like diamonds from the darkness.

“He’s right,” she whispered to the night, “the past should stay where it belongs. That cannot change or waver. But the future… That is anyone’s to embrace.”