Chapter 4
Chapter Four
The heavy oak doors of the Welton townhouse clicked shut, sealing out the night and the venom of the Presholms that cloyed her veins. The quiet silence of the grand foyer hit Imogen with a rush. The adrenaline that had carried her across the divide vanished, replaced by a cold, hollow panic.
What have I done? Have I even thought this through? What will become of me? It was one thing when father died to follow Julia into Lord Presholm’s household, but now this?
“I… Your Grace, I cannot do this,” she whispered, her hands shaking so violently she had to tuck them into her sleeves. “This was a mistake. Lady Presholm will… She has ways of making things difficult for others. I should go back and apologize before it is too late, which it most certainly is.”
The Duke did not answer immediately. He placed a firm, grounding hand on her shoulder and guided her toward his study, her body instinctively obeying his touch. The room was warm, smelling of old leather and expensive tobacco. He pointed to a wingback chair by a roaring fire.
“Sit,” he commanded, though the edge reserved for her former employers was gone from his voice. He crossed to a sideboard and poured a small measure of amber liquid into a glass. “Drink this. It’s medicinal.”
Imogen took a hesitant sip, the brandy burning a path down her throat. “I am not a governess, Your Grace. I am a maid. You’ve acted out of anger and indignation, and although your motives are most noble, you will regret this decision by morning.”
“I never regret my actions, Miss Lewis,” Ambrose said as he sat behind his desk, leaning forward into the candlelight. “Are you all right? Truly?”
“I am… shaken,” she admitted, her voice small. “But I am all right. Yes.”
“Has he done that before? Lord Presholm?”
She glanced down and bit her lip.
“Miss Lewis. You can tell me.”
She let out a long breath before looking back at him.
“Lord Presholm… he… he has a wandering eye. And a short memory for boundaries,” she replied tactfully.
“In contrast, the Countess has a long memory and does not hesitate to hold grudges. I have been her personal maid since I was fifteen. It has not been a kind house, but it is a roof.”
“You will have more than a roof here,” the Duke said, his gaze steady and oddly reassuring for a near stranger’s. “You will have a door with a secure lock for your privacy, a respectable wage, and a household that views you as a person, not furniture, nor a tool. My staff are treated with decency.”
Imogen’s shoulders dropped an inch. The warmth of the room and the lack of judgment in his blue eyes were doing more to calm her than the brandy. “But… Pardon me, Your Grace… Why me? Surely there are dozens of qualified women in London who haven’t caused a neighborhood scandal.”
The Duke gave a short, dry laugh. “My last governess fled tonight because the boys greased the stairs and ran off one too many times. You, however, managed to make them apologize. To me. That is a feat I haven’t seen in all my trying.
You have a gift for working with children, Miss Lewis.
Do you have any siblings?” He paused, his eyes looking deeply into hers.
“Tell me, where do you come from? And I would appreciate your honesty.”
This was the dangerous part. She had to consider her next words carefully.
“My father… He was a man of no importance, but of some means,” she lied, the words tasting like mud.
She hated to lie. “He was fond of books and insisted I be tutored. But he fell on tough times during my adolescence… and made bad investments. He passed away shortly after, and I was forced to find honest work or face the streets.”
The Duke nodded, seeming satisfied enough with her answer. “I am sorry about your father. I think he’d be happy if your education is put to use. I will pay you fifty pounds a year, with your own chambers and… let’s say, four days of leave a month?”
“Fifty pounds?” Imogen’s eyes widened. “Your Grace, that is nearly double… No, that is more than double——”
“It is what the position is worth to me,” he interrupted. “I expect you to devote all your energy to bettering the boys. They are… difficult.”
“I will give them everything I have then, Your Grace,” she promised, the idea finally settling in her chest. Then, her voice softened. “May I ask… what happened to their parents? I noticed they mentioned France more than once. Is that of some import?”
’The Duke’s expression darkened, a shutter falling over his handsome features. The shadows in the room seemed to lengthen as he rose to pour himself a glass of brandy.
“Their parents… died in a fire. A year ago, now.”
“Oh. Your Grace, I am so sorry… how terribly awful for such sweet, young lads to know such sadness. I only asked so I might know how to comfort them if they needed it.”
“There is to be no talk of the accident,” he snapped, voice tight. “It serves no purpose. I wish them to look ahead, not behind. To be made into capable men, and sensible ones.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” she murmured, bowing her head and looking aimlessly into the amber liquid.
Silence stretched between them. The fire popped in the grate, but neither moved.
She knew the Duke was staring at her, could feel his eyes tracing the line of her jaw, the curve of her cheeks.
She imagined for a moment that he wasn’t the Duke, and she wasn’t the maid—or the governess.
That they were simply two people caught in a strange, magnetic tug.
Imogen felt a heat that had nothing to do with the hearth.
She couldn’t look away, trapped by the pull of his blue gaze.
The Duke cleared his throat sharply, breaking the spell. He stood and pulled the bell cord.
A moment later, a housekeeper appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “You rang for me, Your Grace?”
“Mrs. Higgins, this is Miss Imogen Lewis. She is the boys’ new governess,” he announced.
The old woman blinked, looking at Imogen’s dusty maid’s uniform. “The new governess, sir? How did you replace the last one so soon… if you don’t mind my asking, Your Grace,” she recovered with a sleepy smile.
“There will be time for questions tomorrow,” the Duke said firmly. “As for tonight, set her up in the rooms adjacent to the nursery. And have one of the footmen go to Presholm House immediately to retrieve her things.”
“Presholm House? I don’t understand… The house next door?”
“Yes. If they give him any trouble, tell Lord and Lady Presholm I am prepared to send my man of business and pursue legal action.”
“Go with her, Miss Lewis,” Ambrose said, his voice softer now. “The boys will expect a lesson in the morning.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured.
As she followed the housekeeper out, she felt his eyes on her back, a warm blanket she wasn’t quite sure what to make of.
She was only a single townhouse away from the Presholms, who had tormented her endlessly, yet the distance felt like a border crossing into a foreign empire.
Her new quarters were a departure from the cramped, drafty closet she had occupied at Presholm House. She took a deep breath as she sat on the bed, the air still and smelling of beeswax and French lavender.
The bed was an island of heavy jacquard fabric, its intricate weave of gold and cream thread feeling rough beneath her fingertips.
On the walls, gilt-framed oil paintings depicted somber landscapes.
Even the ceiling was an unfamiliar landscape of plaster molding, casting jagged, deep shadows that shifted in the moonlight that streamed in through her large windows.
The silence of the room wasn’t peaceful, though it should have been. It was a ringing stillness that pressed against her ears, keeping sleep at bay as her mind struggled to bridge the gap between her old life and what was to come.
She knew there would be no grace period for adjustment.
Dawn came quickly, and along with it would come the twins. Imogen understood already that the boys were forces of nature: brilliant, demanding, and utterly relentless. They would leave her with no choice but to find her footing or be swept away.
Imogen dressed quickly and made her way downstairs, carried in the air like a ghost by the scent of warm food. In all the rush, she did not sup the previous night.
She found the Duke in the breakfast room, a space of soaring windows and polished mahogany that seemed far too large for a single occupant. He didn’t look up from his correspondence as she entered, merely gesturing with a ringed hand toward a sideboard of several silver warming dishes.
“The boys have already eaten,” he said, his voice clipped and dry as the toast he was eating. “They lack the patience for formal mornings. You will find them in the schoolroom. I suggest you fortify yourself. They have been waiting for a new audience since sunrise.”
There was no invitation to sit, no polite inquiry into how she slept or how she was settling. Imogen glanced sidelong at the breakfast spread while her stomach gave an aggravated rumble.
Hmm… I suppose I will just grab whatever is at hand.
She plucked a slice of toast from the holder and promptly chomped on a bit of crust. It took effort to swallow the morsel, but she dared not delay or disturb the Duke by sitting and taking the time to spread marmalade.
Instead, she chewed another bite, then hurried toward the east wing and into the schoolroom.
“We don’t do Latin on Tuesdays,” Arthur declared, standing atop a mahogany chair with his arms crossed. “On Tuesdays, we practice our aim! PEW! PEW! PEW!”
He punctuated this by launching a wadded-up piece of parchment toward the fireplace. It missed, bouncing off a bust of Homer. Philip sat at the table, picking at the fraying hem of his sleeve, watching Imogen with wide, wary eyes, and shaking his head in protest.
“Is that so?” Imogen asked calmly as she breezed into the room and sat primly in a seat near the door.
She didn’t scold him for standing on the furniture. Instead, she picked up a book of fables.
“That is a pity. I had planned to translate the story of the lion and the mouse, but I suppose if we are too busy throwing paper, the lion will simply have to stay trapped in his net. Poor lion…”
“Wait a moment, Miss Lewis,” Arthur paused, one foot hovering in the air. “Does the mouse save the lion?”
“See, that’s the thing. I can’t quite recall,” Imogen said, tilting her head. “The ending is in Latin. Perhaps we could look at it together? After you step down from that chair, of course. A commanding officer should always be on level ground with his troops. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes, Miss Lewis,” Arthur huffed, but he climbed down.
“Now, why don’t you both grab some paper and quills, and we will get to work. I have a feeling this story is going to be riveting!”
By the end of the hour, both boys were huddled over the desk and hanging on her every word as they worked through the Latin text together to learn the fate of the lion and the mouse.
Imogen didn’t demand perfection. Instead, she indulged in their need for curiosity.
When Philip accidentally knocked over an inkwell, he flinched, bracing himself. Imogen simply reached for a blotter.
“Accidents are just opportunities, Philip,” she said gently, guiding his hand to help her soak up the mess. “This time, we learn how to clean ink. Next time, it won’t be so bad.”
“Thank you, Miss Lewis,” he said with a small smile. “That makes sense.”
“I am so very glad, Lord Philip.”
From the shadows of the hallway, Ambrose watched them through the cracked door. He had intended to intervene at the first sign of a tantrum, but he found himself rooted to the spot.
The tantrum never came.
He watched the way the light caught the stray copper curls at Miss Lewis’s nape. He watched her smile, a real, genuine smile when Philip had finally read a sentence correctly.
There was a grace to her movements that tugged at something deep in his chest, far deeper than he’d ever expected.
A dalliance with a lonely widow was one thing, but to be bewitched by a member of his staff was quite another.
He had to be careful.
Realizing he was staring like a schoolboy, even from the shadows, Ambrose turned and retreated down the hall, his heart thudding.
She is an employee. You are a Duke. And you have a duty to your brother’s memory, he scolded himself.
He couldn’t stay in the house. The air felt too thick with her presence.
He had to get out.
An hour later, Ambrose found himself in the dim corner of his gentlemen’s club, White’s. He swirled a glass of dark scotch in his hand.
Across from him, Morgan Sedgewick, the Duke of Kirkhammer, was leaning back in his chair, howling with laughter.
“The stairs? They greased the bloody stairs?” Morgan gasped, wiping a tear from his eye. “By God, your nephews are legends in the making. They will give us a run for our money!”
“It isn’t funny, Morgan.”
“You remember what we did at Eton… to the headmaster’s quarters. I wonder if they ever got the paint off?”
“I’ve gone through five governesses in six months,” Ambrose grumbled, his eyes distant. “This is no time to stroll down memory lane. They need to learn some sense.”
“And this new one? Is she truly the neighbor’s maid?” Morgan’s laughter subsided into a sharp, intrigued grin. “A bold move, even for a rake like you who plays by his own rules. Breaking into a peer’s house to kidnap his staff? It’s practically medieval.”
Ambrose shifted uncomfortably and drained his glass. “She was being mistreated. And she has a way with the boys. They actually… listen to her.”
“A maid with the education of a lady and the patience of a saint,” Morgan mused, swirling his drink.
He leaned in, his playful tone dropping into something else.
“You’ve got that look about you, Ambrose.
The one you get when you’ve found a horse you can’t tame, or a card game you can’t read.
It worries me. Are you certain that you’re all right? ”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growled.
“I’m warning you as a friend,” Morgan said, tapping his fingers on the table. “Mixing business with pleasure is one thing with a widow in Belgravia. But with the woman effectively raising your brother’s children?”
“There is no pleasure involved, Morgan,” he rasped. “She is the boys’ governess, nothing more.”
“I’m calling your bluff. This is a recipe for scandal, one that cannot be easily covered up, even with your title. Do not lose your head over a pretty face.”
“Enough,” Ambrose said as he stared into his glass, the image of her kneeling in the dirt with the boys flashing through his mind. “My priority is the twins. I hired her because I was desperate and she was the best option, nothing more. I am a pragmatist, not a sentimental man.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Morgan said. “And I’m the Archbishop of Canterbury.”