Chapter 3 #2
In the two days his temporary governess had been in residence at Rose Hill, there were changes he could only attribute to her.
Feminine touches. The dank hallways smelled faintly of lemon and linseed oil.
The paneling in the foyer glistened. The scent of biscuits—nutmeg and cinnamon—wafted down the gallery and into the space he’d set up as his workshop.
More sconces were lit on the corridors he traveled.
The drapes were open in rooms once deserted, letting in sunlight and life.
When he noticed Miss Shaw and her charge gathering up their pine branches and sad bits of holly to return to the house, he shoved off the window ledge. “You must go,” he said and propelled Lady Chapman-Holmes across the parlor with a hand at her lower back.
Suddenly, he didn’t want his old life to meet his new.
But the collision was inevitable.
Miss Shaw was opening the door as his majordomo was nowhere in sight, her bonnet a soggy mess hanging half off her head, her hair curling wildly about her face.
She had insanely beautiful hair, so thick pins could scarcely contain it.
A mass of mahogany and auburn, he’d been tempted since the moment they met to tunnel his fingers through.
And her eyes… they were a remarkable shade so light they looked almost gold.
He’d glanced at them twice across his breakfast table to confirm the assessment.
Lastly, and he hated to contemplate the notion with a former lover standing by his side, but his governess had the most delectable body of any chit in England. In Europe. In America. A voluptuous, petite package he longed to unwrap. Almost perfect from the little he’d seen of it.
Curve upon curve upon curve.
While he stood there lost in lusty reflection, Katherine barreled in behind Miss Shaw, her arms full of branches.
“Franny,” she called before she saw him.
Because if the child had seen him first, her joy would have shriveled like the branches in her arms were soon going to.
“We’ll place these greens on every hearth in the house. It’ll look like Christmastide then!”
Franny. He rolled the name across his tongue like a fine Bordeaux.
His governess spun in a circle, her merriment illuminating the foyer like a thousand candles. Happiness this house had not seen in years. Happiness he’d never seen.
Chance knew it was a ridiculous flight of fancy, but part of his heart raced away from him at that moment. A gut punch he felt to his toes. Greedy, he wanted to snatch her joy and light his soul with it .
Eleanor glanced at him, noting his stillness, her lips pursing into a severe pout. He couldn’t stop her before she leaned in and busked his cheek, lingering in a manner that spoke of extreme familiarity.
Franny and Katherine quietened, believing they were intruding.
“My lord,” Franny murmured, her cheeks coloring. Her wisp of a stunning smile dying. Her gaze darted between him and Eleanor. “Come, Kat, let’s go organize our decorations. Excuse us, please.”
Then she was down the gallery and up the stairs, Katherine-who-apparently-preferred-to-be-called Kat’s footfalls tapping against marble as she raced alongside her.
Eleanor turned to him in a fury. “Why is that uncouth title-chaser in your home, Remington? She didn’t even wait for an introduction! Common behavior one expects from a person raised in the Colonies, I suppose.”
He pulled his gaze back from where it had danced along behind Miss Shaw. “We don’t refer to them as the Colonies any longer, Eleanor.”
Lady Chapman-Holmes gathered four centuries of exceptional breeding and stared down her nose at him, a mere viscount, number five.
“As if I wouldn’t know that woman, my lord.
Francine Shaw, daughter of Archibald Shaw, the American investor.
He’s in London to talk railroads and marriage of his only child to the highest title he can purchase.
Rumor is, he’s drawing up agreements with Baron Hillsdale this very minute.
You know Hillsdale’s financial situation is abysmal, his father and brothers wastrels.
She’s been thrust into every event this season that would have her.
” She hummed, a grating sound that made him wish he’d never met her.
Made him wish he could blow out a candle and ask for a different life.
“The Duchess Society sent her. I see. Your friendship with Hildegard Templeton… no, now it’s Streeter. Dear God, she married that smuggler. She’d rather draw up those agreements with a viscount, wouldn’t she? A smart business move on her part. But she is a shrewd woman.”
Chance swallowed hard, stunned to his core.
He’d rarely allowed himself to be played for a fool.
That his childhood friend would do this to him—and Miss Shaw, with her innocent smiles and winsome nature— brought an ache to his heart he hadn’t felt since his father turned his back on him years ago for refusing to give up his plan to manage a business and a viscountcy.
Why would the Duchess Society propel Miss Shaw across his path if it was anything but a trap?
Nevertheless, he realized his situation.
And Miss Shaw’s. And Katherine’s.
So, the lie came easily.
“I know who she is. There wasn’t time to secure a proper governess, and Miss Shaw is a personal friend of Mrs. Streeter’s who has experience with children, which I obviously do not.
It’s only until the new year. Her companion is in residence as well.
Hildy and Tobias are on the way for the holiday.
If you recall, they have a residence not a twenty-minute ride away.
Nothing inappropriate in the event you thought to share this news.
With Miss Shaw’s expected marriage to Hillsdale, an untruth could be damaging.
” Chance crossed to the front door and yanked it open, his patience depleted.
Christ , he was glad her carriage was waiting on the drive.
“It’s for the child, Eleanor. Her happiness as she settles into a new life is of utmost importance to me, believe it or not.
If you make this afternoon anything else”—he bared his teeth, taking his anger out on her—“I’ll consider it a personal affront. Do we understand each other?”
Lady Chapman-Holmes stalked past him, tying her bonnet string with trembling fingers. “I honestly don’t know what I saw in you, Remington. You’re as arrogant and thoughtless as they say.”
“Likewise,” Chance murmured dispassionately and shut the door behind her with a click.
A frigid gust swirled through the foyer, chilling him to the bone. Leaning against the jamb, he knocked his head against the aged oak, betrayal enveloping him like a cloak.
Hildy Streeter and Francine Shaw were like all the rest.
Clawing their way to the top without consideration of who they trampled on the way up.