Her Proper Scoundrel (5 page)

Josceline turned her head and regarded him closely. There was no hint of mockery in his eyes - the question appeared to be rooted in genuine curiosity.

Manners dictated she must answer. She had forced herself upon the man to find herself a new life therefore it would do well to focus on the future and not dwell on the past. As if in concert with her thoughts, the sun broke through again and now she could see hints of green poking here and there through the stalks of dead grass prattling in the breeze.

“The usual, I suppose.” She spoke briskly. “I am proficient in French and Italian, and have rudimentary knowledge of Greek and Latin. History, of course, and mathematics and geography.”

“What of the finer arts, say music, or dance? I assume you are proficient at those as well?”

She nodded. “And watercolors. I enjoy painting and sketching.” She reddened, realizing she had exposed a personal side of herself he realistically would have no interest in knowing.

“I see.”

He leaned forward to gaze out the window, resting one kid-gloved hand on the sill, effectively ending the conversation.
Aside from the clip clop of shod hooves and the squeak of new leather as he shifted position, silence enveloped the carriage.

She studied him through lowered lashes.

Mr. Christopher Sharrington was older than she had first thought, perhaps in his early-thirties. His earlier good humor had disappeared, replaced by obvious displeasure for his jaw was taut, the dark eye brows lowered to bridge his eyes. She hoped it was not with her for it would make her time with him uncomfortable, to say the least.

Realizing the rudeness of her perusal, Josceline lowered her gaze. However, she couldn’t stop herself from looking at him. Slowly her eyes lifted, drawn to him like iron shavings to a lodestone.

Beneath the self-assured shell, an air of sadness hung about him, almost as if he had lost something precious. A muscle twitched in his cheek and she longed to touch it, to feel it quiver beneath her fingers, to smooth it away. Horrified at the impropriety of the thought, she flexed her hand to stop herself from reaching out.

He must have felt the movement for he looked at her, catching her gaze squarely with his. He said nothing although one side of his mouth lifted slightly.

Blushing, she looked away. He must think her bold.
 

They rode in silence for an hour or so until the carriage turned into a cobblestone drive. Several minutes later, to the sound of accompanying shouts and the pounding of feet, they stopped.

“We’re here. Midland House. I assure you, there is no impropriety with your position here. I have a housekeeper, maids, a butler. In short, Lady Woodsby, we are not alone.”

He skewered her with his gaze, bringing another flush to her face. Drat the man, he had knocked her off kilter.

“I assure you I shall be comfortable with whatever arrangements you have made.” She nodded coolly, tightening her lips, willing the heat in her cheeks to disappear.

The carriage door swung open. With the aid of a footman dressed in livery so new it shone, she stepped out, stopping abruptly when she spied the house.

It was lovely, a rectangle of mellow brick, standing three stories tall. Ivy-covered, its mullioned windows reflected the sun into a thousand shards of light. Two massive stone chimneys flanked the structure, both rising well clear of the slate roof. A central archway on which perched a pair of stone gargoyles sheltered the front entrance. Although not a large estate, Midland House spilled warmth, inviting one to step inside and rest for awhile.

“Charming, is it not?” Christopher’s husky voice carried pride and he squared his shoulders. He didn’t wait for her nod but continued. “I’ll have Mrs. Belton, the housekeeper, show you to your room. We shall talk further when you join me for tea.”

His suddenly brisk tone of voice indicated she had been dismissed. It rankled but she worked here now and must do as he bid whether she liked it or not. It was an idea she must accustom herself to. With stiff back and tight lips, she turned and followed the rotund housekeeper.

Christopher watched Josceline stumble up the stairs behind the always efficient Mrs. Belton. He knew he had stretched protocol to have the woman show Josceline to one of the second floor guestrooms rather than to the empty governess’ quarters on the third floor but he had done it regardless.

She claimed to be the daughter of a duke and deserved to be treated as such. Moreover, she wasn’t here to serve as governess - she was only here long enough for him to retrieve the handkerchief and forestall any accusations she might make towards him.

However, an interesting idea had occurred to him while she had been listing her skills during the carriage ride home. He had no child but perhaps as long as she was here, he could make use of her governess skills.

For himself.

* * *

 
Josceline stood in the doorway of the drawing room for a few seconds. She had been determined to be punctual for afternoon tea and it pleased her to see she was the first to arrive. It would give her time to get her bearings before her conversation with Mr. Sharrington.

A tray with a silver tea service had been placed on a linen covered table in front of
 
one of the room’s two windows. On one side of the table stood a leather arm chair, on the other, a carved oak chair with a tufted seat cushion. Only two cups had been laid out, suggesting there would be only her and her new employer.

She edged her way into the room and looked at the two chairs placed on either side of the table. The arm chair was much too masculine – surely she could see a man’s outline in the body-shaped depression in the leather. She sat down in the oak chair, primly tucking her skirts about her knees before looking around.

As with everything else in the house, the contents of the room were new. All the wood surfaces were gleaming, polished so recently the smell of lemon oil yet hung in the air. Mrs. Belton did her work well, apparently.

Josceline knew the good fortune of having a competent woman to oversee the daily household chores. The untrustworthy Mrs. Smeets was merely the latest of a long parade of housekeepers, for the wage her father offered did not attract the best.

Before she had a chance to examine anything more closely, footsteps pounded down the hall and Mr. Sharrington stepped into the room.

“Prompt, I see,” he said as he crossed the room. He sat down across from her and smiled. “That is a trait unknown to me from the females of my acquaintance.”

Christopher’s voice held a hint of approval and she looked at him suspiciously. He had taken the time to wash his face and tidy his hair. His jacket had been brushed, the nap of the black velvet laid down properly so the sheen was visible. He looked every inch a gentleman.

Looks can be deceiving. Only last night, the man masqueraded as a highwayman.
 

 
“Shall I pour?” She made her voice calm but her hands shook as she picked up the pot. His frank gaze made her uncomfortable. Don’t be silly, she scolded herself, you’ve poured tea a thousand times before.

“Do.” He nodded, waiting until she had finished and had picked up her cup before saying anything more. “I have a suggestion. Perhaps you could be governess to me.”

“Oh no.” Surprised, she put down her cup before she even had a sip. He must be joking. “You are a grown man.”

“Aye.” He inclined his head. “However I intend to take my place in polite society and I have a few rough edges in need of polishing.”

What mad proposition was this? He wanted her to polish his rough edges? It simply wasn’t proper.

“No, I think not.” She shook her head. “No.” She picked up her cup then put it down again. She must make him understand it just wasn’t done.

“May I remind you, you yourself had me engage your services as governess. I do not have a child but I could use instruction in some of the finer arts. Dancing, for one. And perhaps water colors.” Unperturbed at her reaction, he added a spoon of sugar to his cup, stirring the tea so briskly the spoon chattered against the china.

“Dance?” Wide-eyed, she stared at him. The idea was absurd. To teach him would involve touching him. She remembered how her arm had tingled when he had escorted her to his carriage – it just wouldn’t do.

“Cake?” He picked up the plate of cakes and held it out to her. At the shake of her head, he shrugged and took one for himself before putting it down. “And water colors. I’ve always fancied trying my hand. I admire the work of Thomas Girton.”
 

Water colors? Girton? Was he serious? Stunned, she said nothing until she realized her silence implied her compliance. She opened her mouth to voice her protest - she must knock the preposterous notion from his head.

“I shall pay you handsomely for your efforts.” He named a sum, his mien sober.
 

She gasped at the amount. Although the entire idea of instructing him was outlandish, the generous offer tempted her. She did a quick calculation – three months employment with Mr. Sharrington would provide enough to buy her food and lodging while she looked for another position.

Josceline reconsidered. Perhaps the suggestion was not so outlandish after all. Three months was not that long a time. If no one knew of the impropriety of her actions, there should be no harm to her reputation.

“Of course, if what I ask is beyond your capabilities, you could trade me the handkerchief for the price of the fare back to London.” His eyes held a devilish glint. “Plus a little extra for the inconvenience.”

He thought he could intimidate her into running back to London. Her ire rose.

“I will not be bought off or bribed, Mr. Sharrington. I prefer to make my own way.” She lifted her chin. “I accept the challenge.”

“Challenge?” His voice was lazy but his eyes had hardened. “Do you see me as a dull study, Lady Woodsby?”

“Not at all, Mr. Sharrington. However, do not flatter yourself that what you wish to learn shall come easily. A child’s mind is much more malleable than that of an adult. It could require more time than what you are expecting.” She paused to take a sip of cold tea. “I am willing to take on the task for a period of three months but I do have one condition.”

He raised his eye brows. “Now you are giving me conditions?”

“Yes,” she snapped. She held out her left arm and pulled out the bloodied corner of his handkerchief.

Understanding flooded through his eyes. “Of course,” he said, unperturbed. “What is it?”

“That you tell no one of our lessons.”

“I have no one to tell.” He shrugged. “Are we agreed to a term of three months?”

She carefully placed her cup on its saucer. Although the generous offer satisfied her, it wouldn’t do to appear too eager. Her ploy worked for she caught his anxious gaze when she glanced at him.
 

“Yes, Mr. Sharrington, we are. When and where shall we begin?”

“Tomorrow, after breakfast. In the library.” He relaxed visibly against the back of his chair.

She nodded. “Tomorrow morning, Mr. Sharrington.”

A ray of the setting sun shone full onto his face imbuing it with an eerie, reddish hue, giving him a forbidding air.
 

A shiver of apprehension ran down her back. She resolutely pushed it away.

What he requested of her was simple enough although it was blatantly obvious the lessons were only a pretext. He desired to retrieve the handkerchief thereby protecting his name.

The flimsy item was the only hold she had over him and she must guard it closely until she had saved enough money to find another position.

Assuming, that is, she would be able to find another position after being at Midland House with the disconcerting Christopher Sharrington.

Chapter Six

 
The following morning, Josceline took her breakfast alone.
 
Christopher’s plate sat clean and unused, silverware lined up neatly and napkin folded beside it. The skinny, pock-marked maid who came in to fill the servers on the sideboard informed Josceline the master had eaten elsewhere and she was to join him when finished.

His absence rankled in that he did not wish to share his meals with her. Yet she must accustom herself to this – as a governess, she had none of the rights of a family member.

And oddly, his absence also disappointed her. She lingered over her jam-filled scone, half-filled with the wishful notion he would stride into the breakfast room but he did not appear.

As much as she enjoyed the cheerful room, with its yellow walls and crisp white lace drapes, she couldn’t wait for him any longer or she would risk being tardy, a trait she recognized he abhorred as much as she.

She drained her already empty tea cup and patted the stickiness from her mouth with her napkin. There was nothing for it but to make her way to the library and see if he was there.

Two wrong turns later, Josceline found the library. The door stood slightly ajar and with firm knuckles she rapped on it with enough force for it to swing open.

“Come in.”