Her Proper Scoundrel (19 page)

“Another one of your jests?” she asked disdainfully. “And even if it is not, the answer is no. I have decided it would be best for me to leave Midland House.”

His heart lurched at the thought.
 

“I can’t allow you to do that,” he answered swiftly. “What of Philip and Tom?”
What of us?

“Engage another governess,” she said flatly. “Although perhaps you should make it clear other – ah, duties are involved.”

 
The barb embedded itself firmly in his chest, dislodging a sliver of desperation. “I am sincere in my offer of marriage, Lady Woodsby.”

Her eyes widened at his usage of her title. At least she still listened.

“And I am sincere in my response.” She drew herself up with all the grace given her by generations of breeding. Haughtily she continued, “Your misguided attempt at restitution is of no interest to me.”

Christopher didn’t let himself be cowed at the thought of the differences in their birth, so obvious by her current demeanor. Think. He must say something to make her change her mind, to convince her to accept.

“As my wife, you could help me. You claimed you want to make your own way.” He took her hand and clasped it in both of his. “Marry me. Become my partner in shipping. Together let us build the next East India Company.”

Josceline pulled free her hand, not believing the audacity of the man.

So that was it. It was all about his cursed ship and his plan to build a shipping enterprise. Feelings for her had nothing to do with it, making amends had nothing to do with it.

“Let me see if I understand you. You wish me to become your partner in shipping,” she said icily. The idea was too ludicrous for words.

“Yes.” He nodded.

“A shipping enterprise which has no ship.”

He reddened. “I can understand your reticence, but I do have a ship.”

“But you do not really have possession of the ship. Lord Oliver Candel has it.”

“Not for long. I shall gain possession of it,” he replied confidently.

“So say you,” she scoffed. “I may not be an expert in the world of trade and commerce but even I can see the fallacy of becoming a helpmeet in a shipping company which has no ship. No, I have no interest in your enterprise. And no, I shan’t marry you. My answer is final.” She turned on her heel and moved away.

“Josceline, there could be a child.” His calm voice sliced through the air.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

A child.

A consequence she hadn’t considered. The only daughter of the disgraced Duke of Cranston could not possibly bear a bastard child. How much more dishonor could the family take? How would she care for it? The baby would have no future.

However, her being with child was not certain. She could wait for her monthly flux if she wanted to take that chance.

He pounced on her silence. “Any child of mine will not be born a bastard.”

Slowly she turned to face him.

“Who said the child would be a bastard?” she asked coolly. “My father wishes me to marry Mr. Burrows. No one would be the wiser.”

“You do not wish to marry Mr. Burrows,” he drawled, apparently unworried by her words. “If I recall, you said he was old enough to be your grandfather. It would be a shame to waste your youth on a man with one foot in the grave.”

“I would much rather marry Mr. Burrows than you, Mr. Sharrington, for at least he respects me and the institution of marriage.”

Josceline couldn’t believe how easily the untruth slipped from her lips. The only respect Mr. Thomas Burrows had for her was the opportunity she gave him to enter the rarified strata of upper British nobility. Furthermore, her father would receive money, making her little more than an item of barter.

It pained her to admit it, but Christopher’s proposal did interest her.

But not this way, not the way it had unfolded.

“He only respects the entry into the ton that marriage to you will give him. And your father gains, of course,” he shrugged, “as I assume he will end up with quite a nice dowry in his pocket.”

His reply echoed her thoughts perfectly, making her angry that yet again he read her mind.

“And isn’t that what you wish as well?” she spat.

“Yes, I won’t deny it. But I’m giving you the chance to be something, to be more than a pretty frippery on your husband’s arm.” Now he took both of her hands in his, squeezing tightly to make sure she couldn’t pull them free. “All I ask, Josceline, is to give serious consideration to what I am saying. If, after twenty-four hours, you still wish to be on your way, you are free to do so. If nothing else, consider this – let me claim the child – if there is a child - as mine.”

“Is that so important to you, Mr. Sharrington?”

Somber, he nodded. “A child should know his own father.”

She scoured his face with perplexed eyes, surprised at his adamant assertion. What did he know of fatherless children? More to the point, why would he care? He’d never professed to love her so why would he care what happened to her and a child she may or may not be carrying.

The seconds ticked by and still she struggled to control her thoughts.

Finally she tugged her hands free. Twenty four hours. What could it hurt for her to stay another twenty four hours. If nothing else, it gave her more time to plan an alternative course of action if she decided not to accept his proposal.

“Very well. I shall consider it. But you must promise me that if I choose to go, you will relinquish all contact with me and the child, if there is one. You will also pay me my full wage as agreed upon. Or I shall go to the local authorities and inform them of your nefarious midnight activities.”

He reeled back as if she had struck him.

“As you wish,” he grated, nostrils flaring. “If you choose to leave, there shall be no further contact between us. Therefore I should like the return of my handkerchief upon payment of your wage. To ensure that is the case, you understand.”

“It is as I wish. And do not flatter yourself that I wish to keep any item of yours.” She made a show of side stepping past him then fled, seeking the sanctuary of her room to think.

Twenty four hours was not such a very long time to make a decision affecting the rest of her life.

* * *

Another sleepless night and sunrise hadn’t come too soon. Wide-eyed, Josceline lay on her back, watching the rays of light creep across the carved plaster ceiling and trying to ignore her aching body.

Her head ached from fatigue, her heart ached for the decision facing her, her buttocks ached where she had been pressed against the desk and most telling of all, she ached between her legs.
 

 
A decision had not come to her.

Indeed, her thoughts had bounced around her mind so much, she had become dizzy and nauseous with uncertainty.

She sat up. If she didn’t share her doubts, she was sure to go mad. Mrs. Belton would listen. She wouldn’t have to know everything but Josceline could air her thoughts. Perhaps hearing them would help her clarify her choice.

Quickly she threw on her clothing before splashing a bit of cold water on her face from the painted porcelain basin on her dresser. Her skin stung with the chill liquid and it steadied her. After swiping a comb through her hair, she tied it back with a ribbon. It hung loose down her back but at least it would be out of her face. Yanking her shawl from the hook beside her door, she left her room.

The house barely stirred yet she encountered Maggie Mary, whisk broom and bucket of ash in one hand, bucket of kindling in the other, on her early morning rounds to lay the fires.

“Is Mrs. Belton available?” Josceline asked, hoping her voice did not betray her anxiety.

“Good morning, miss.” The maid curtsied. “Yes, miss, she’s in the scullery counting the eggs. Cook says someone’s been stealing them.”

“Thank you.” With barely a nod, Josceline hurried off.

“Lady Josceline!” Mrs. Belton exclaimed when Josceline burst into the scullery. “This is hardly the place for you.”

“May I have a word with you?” Josceline tried, and failed, to keep desperation from her voice.

Mrs. Belton took one look at Josceline’s face and grabbed her arm. “Come into the kitchen, the milk has just been delivered. Fresh from this morning, my dear, and it will give you a little energy to tackle the day.”

She nattered on as she dipped a heavy cracked mug into the bucket of frothy milk, wiping the drips on her apron. “We’ll go to my room so we can chat in private. There’s nothing the servants like better than to overhear the troubles of a member of the household. I suspect what you want to discuss is nobody’s business.” Then she grabbed a scone from the rack cooling on the table, wrapping it in a clean napkin. “Come,” she said, crooking a pudgy finger, leaving Josceline no choice but to follow.

Mrs. Belton’s cozy room immediately put Josceline at ease, with its iron bedstead covered by a pretty pink patchwork quilt, the windows looking into the mews behind the main house, and the little desk placed to catch the daylight. On top of the whitewashed dresser sat a little stone pot filled with pussy willows.

Mrs. Belton pointed to the pink cushioned rocking chair, and obedient, Josceline sat, pushing off with one foot to set the chair in motion.

The housekeeper placed the mug and scone on the shelf beside Josceline then pulled out her desk chair, turning it around before she sat down on it with a satisfying “Ooof.”

“My knees hurt sometimes,” she explained. She pointed to the mug. “Drink. And when you have finished, eat the scone, it’s still warm from the oven.”
 

Josceline did as she was told. The frothy, fresh milk reminded her of being a little girl sitting in the kitchen with the nanny, causing a surge of homesickness that threatened to set off the tears pressing so closely against her eyes. She blinked them away then started on the scone, laying it aside after she choked down a few bites.

Mrs. Belton gave an understanding nod. “Not hungry? At least finish the milk, my dear.”

Patient, she sat while Josceline drained the mug.

“Now tell me what ails you,” she prompted gently.

Josceline clasped and unclasped her hands. All the arguments she had marshaled during the long night fled and her mind was blank.

“He has asked me to marry him,” she blurted at last.

“Mr. Sharrington?” At Josceline’s nod, she continued, “And is that so terrible? They way you look, I thought perhaps the sky had fallen.” The kindly woman chuckled.

“It’s not what I wanted.” Josceline shook her head. “I wanted to make my own way. I wanted to find a man I could love, and who could love me.”

“Make your own way? Hogswaddle,” snorted Mrs. Belton. “As much as I think you are an engaging young lady, your talents are wasted as governess. You are meant to be mistress of your own grand estate.”

“I am?” Josceline stared at the plump woman sitting not two feet away from her. The idea of being mistress of her own domain pleased her but she had written that off long ago - when no one had come forward to offer for her. That was when she had entertained the idea of marrying for love. Like a fairy tale.

“But what of love?” She had to ask, had to know what the housekeeper thought of that notion.

“Love can grow,” mused the housekeeper. “It is like a rose bush at the end of winter. Cut off the dead parts and water it and nurture it with garden scraps and the like.
 
Over time, it will turn from brown, dead branches into something green and beautiful, with handsome flowers full of color and fragrance.”

“A rose bush,” Josceline repeated, confused. Why did Mrs. Belton talk about matters of the garden?

“Lady Josceline, what I am trying to say is, cut off the bad and throw it aside. Nurture the good and see what grows. Look.” Mrs. Belton pointed outside.

Josceline followed her gaze to see Christopher walking from the stable with Philip and Tom gamboling around him like puppies. Life at Midland House was good to them - their cheeks had filled out and their skin had lost its unhealthy pallor. And something unexpected - utter joy shone from their cornflower blue eyes. The two had healed quickly from their ordeal in St. Peter’s.

He had only taken the boys to save his own reputation, she reminded herself, not as a favor to them.

And to save hers as well.
 

Even so, the boys benefited – he treated them as his own.

“I find it odd a grown man can spend so much time with children,” she remarked as Christopher and the boys disappeared from view behind the corner of the stables.

“I suspect he’s lonely and working on his ledgers can only fill so many hours in a day. He’s gone from the confines and hubbub of a ship to an estate house where no one can be his friend because he is the master. He has no family and he has no friends so what is the man to do?”

Christopher lonely? Before she could comment, Mrs. Belton continued.

“But he is too a kind man. He kept all of us on, he did, after the old master died. The house had fallen into disrepair and he’s brought it back to life. It’s a house in need of a mistress and a family.” She fixed Josceline with a piercing stare. “He has asked you to be mistress here.”