Czytaj książkę: «The Unrepentant Rake»
The Unrepentant Rake
Barbara Monajem
MILLS & BOON
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England, 1802
Beatrix March chose to be a governess rather than let an overbearing husband rule her. Even though she never intends to marry, it doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy a man’s…company—especially when presented with one as tempting as notorious rake Simon Carling!
Simon doesn’t usually seduce virtuous governesses, but Beatrix is unlike any woman he’s ever encountered. Her luscious curves were made to grace a man’s bed, and he’s never denied himself such satisfaction before.
Flouting society’s tedious conventions, in favor of thrilling chemistry, may force Beatrix and Simon to contemplate the unthinkable—marriage!
Author Note
When Simon Carling showed up on the first page of The Wanton Governess, he was only a secondary character—the annoying brother of the hero, James. But he coaxed, cajoled, and even wheedled (although he will deny that) to get a starring role in his own story. “I’m brilliant, devastatingly attractive, and utterly incorrigible,” he told me. “You know you can’t resist.”
Fine, but if I had to work at it, so did he. I pitted him against a heroine with plans of her own and invoked the aid of a saint as well. This story is the result. Three guesses… Who won?
Dedication
Saint Davnet was an Irish saint who lived in the 6th or 7th century. Very little is known about her, so I took a few liberties. This story is dedicated to her, with apologies.
Contents
Begin Reading
Hampshire, 1802
‘It’s a toe bone,’ Beatrix March said, and went on rummaging through her little leather chest.
Eudora, the eldest of the Ottersby sisters, dropped the silver reliquary onto the bed with a tiny shriek. ‘A bone?’
Beatrix refrained from rolling her eyes, but only because she was Eudora’s governess and had to set an example of ladylike behaviour. ‘A twelve-hundred-year-old toe bone belonging to St. Davnet. It’s a holy reliquary, and it’s been in my family for centuries. Aha!’ She pulled a folded paper pattern from the bottom of the chest and spread it on the coverlet. ‘Here’s the one I was looking for. Beetle wing appliqué is very popular just now. This will make a lovely reticule.’
Eudora made an unenthusiastic sound of agreement. None of the Ottersby girls showed much interest in embroidery, but Eudora was the worst, because all she ever thought about was love. She picked up the little reliquary again, this time with only the tips of her fingers, and shook it. The bone rattled inside.
‘Gently, please!’ Beatrix said. ‘Holy relics should be treated with reverence.’
Eudora’s fingers tightened around the tarnished silver box and chain. ‘Does one pray to it? Is it magic?’
‘According to legend, it bestows family harmony upon the possessor.’ Beatrix repacked several scarves and a paper of pins.
‘Family harmony?’ Eudora pouted. ‘How boring!’
‘Not at all,’ Beatrix said, without expecting her pupil to understand. The Ottersby household was the most unharmonious she’d had the misfortune to work for, but Eudora had never known anything better. ‘Harmony is extremely important. In a family bound together by love, where everyone respects and cares for the others, all have a chance to flourish. In a family full of discord and strife, no one is happy.’ She put out her hand, and Eudora dropped the reliquary into it with a petulant sigh.
Beatrix set the reliquary on a folded shawl, packed the rest of her fabric and silk threads on top, and buckled the lid shut. She pushed the chest under her bed and stood. Pointedly, she said, ‘I hope that when you marry, you will strive for love and harmony with your husband.’
Eudora’s face paled. ‘That will never happen. Mama will make me marry someone rich and horrid, because the only man I will ever love is afraid to talk to me!’
Unfortunately, this was all too likely. Lady Ottersby had grand ambitions for her daughters. Beatrix didn’t believe in allowing relatives to get in the way of living one’s life, which was why she had chosen never to marry. One never knew what men were really like until it was too late (or almost too late, in her own case). Beatrix had escaped marriage by a hair and wouldn’t recommend it to any thinking woman.
Eudora wasn’t given much to thinking, though. Shy Mr. Conk, who was reasonably well-off and lived in a neighbouring village, would make a good husband for her, if only he could be induced to stammer out a proposal.
‘All he needs is a good, sharp nudge,’ Beatrix said.
‘I’ve been trying to nudge him for months,’ Eudora retorted. ‘It will take much, much more than that.’
I should never have mentioned love, Beatrix told herself two days later, when she realized that the reliquary was gone.
After the first shock of loss, she wasn’t entirely surprised. Mr. Conk had dropped by the following day, sat tongue-tied with the ladies for ten minutes at most, and then escaped to the stables with Lord Ottersby to inspect a newly-purchased hunter. That evening, a determined stubbornness had crept into Eudora’s already sullen demeanor, and when Beatrix had greeted her at the breakfast table the next morning, she’d averted her eyes.
The foolish girl thought to bring him up to scratch through magic.
It wouldn’t work, but Beatrix had been the Ottersby girls’ governess for several months—long enough to know that once an idea took possession of Eudora’s mind, nothing would pry it loose. If Beatrix demanded the return of the reliquary, Eudora would simply deny having taken it, after which Beatrix would be dismissed without a character.
And without the reliquary.
She couldn’t return home without it. Not that her uncle would care; men never believed in the reliquary’s power. He certainly wouldn’t risk accusing the daughter of a peer of theft over, as he put it, a trumpery old box which only a superstitious female would consider precious. But her aunt’s reproaches would follow her to her grave and beyond, and worse, the harmony with which their family had been blessed for centuries would be gone forever.
Beatrix would have to keep her mouth shut, find the reliquary, and steal it right back.
A tavern in London, two months later
‘My dear fellow,’ Simon Carling said, ‘I know nothing about courtship. I shan’t be the least use to you.’ He swallowed the rest of his porter. ‘I’d best be going.’
‘Don’t abandon me just yet,’ Delbert Conk said gruffly. ‘You know about women. You know how to talk to them. I don’t.’ He waved to the barmaid, who ignored him. Simon sighed and caught the wench’s eye. He signaled for two more heavy-wets, and with an ecstatic smile she scurried to do his bidding.
‘See?’ Delbert said. ‘You don’t even have to say a word, and they’re ready to fall all over you.’
Simon blew out a long breath. ‘I know how to talk them into bed, Del. Unless you wish to seduce Miss Ottersby first and wed her later, I can’t help you.’ Even then, he doubted he’d be much use. Del wasn’t a bad-looking fellow, but incredibly awkward with the opposite sex.
Del drew himself up. ‘I shouldn’t dream of doing anything so villainous!’ He reddened. ‘No offence meant, old chap, but—’
The barmaid arrived with two brimming tankards. She bent low as she deposited the ale on the table, offering a view of large, creamy breasts. ‘Lovely, sweetheart,’ Simon said with a grin. Del went even redder.
‘None taken,’ Simon said, once the girl had reluctantly left to serve other customers. ‘I freely confess to being a villain when it comes to women, while you’re a saint. Usually, advice goes the other way around.’ Not that Simon wanted advice about marriage. If anything, he needed help avoiding it. Until a few months ago, life had been simple. He’d had little money, no prospects, and few morals, and the matchmaking mamas had avoided him. Then he’d unexpectedly inherited a substantial estate from his godmother and become the Catch of the Season.
‘Just come along to the house party and tell me what to do,’ Del said. ‘The Ottersbys said it was fine to bring you. I’ve known the family since I was a boy. It’ll be fun—a smallish group, enlarged by the usual county folk for some of the evenings, and we can count on excellent food and drink.’
Simon sighed again. Del was a good friend, and he didn’t want to let him down.
‘If I don’t have someone telling me what to do and say,’ Del said, ‘I’ll never get the courage to ask Eudora to marry me.’
‘Why in hell not?’ grumbled Simon. ‘The worst she can do is say no. There’s always another woman down the road.’
‘Not for me,’ Del said. ‘It’s Eudora or no one.’
Simon grimaced, but deep inside, a strange pang assailed him. He hadn’t thought much about marriage until recently. First his solid, responsible brother James had married, and he and his wife were disgustingly happy. Then, Simon had found himself the possessor of a sizeable house in London, which felt empty with only himself and a couple of servants rattling about in it. He would have to fill it up with a family someday.
But not by succumbing to the wiles of the matchmaking mamas. Sooner or later he would find the right woman, make her an offer of marriage, she would accept him, and that would be that. Marriage on his own terms, and no one else’s.
Meanwhile, Del needed him, and he never failed a friend. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll come.’
One week later
Simon Carling prowled the corridors of Ottersby Place, looking for a woman to waylay.
Ideally, he would happen upon a young, comely and virtuous servant who would make plenty of noise whilst repulsing him. Young and comely because kissing her would be enjoyable, and virtuous so she wouldn’t actually succumb to his advances. Not that he was averse to dallying with a pretty servant girl, but he simply wasn’t in the mood.
After two minutes at the Ottersby estate, he’d regretted his kind-hearted, mutton-headed decision to help Delbert Conk. One look at Lady Ottersby and her three simpering daughters, and he would have claimed to be pox-ridden if it weren’t for his promise to advise Del. He meant to leave Hampshire as soon as he’d shoved Del into making his proposal, but in the meantime he needed to protect himself from Lady Ottersby’s matchmaking wiles. Vilifying his own character seemed the most entertaining approach.
A maid bustled around the corner carrying a bucket of coal. Simon advanced upon her with a knowing smile.
A trill of nervous laughter erupted in the corridor outside Eudora Ottersby’s bedchamber. Hastily, Beatrix March shut the jewellery box she’d been searching.
‘Oh, no, sir! Please, sir. I really mustn’t!’ cried a female voice.
Beatrix recognized the masculine murmur that followed this protest. Never in her life had she met a more rampant—and dangerous—flirt than Mr. Simon Carling. Not that she’d actually met him—Lady Ottersby didn’t introduce her guests to the lowly governess—but Beatrix knew of him from when she’d worked for a family in London. He hadn’t noticed her then, but tonight he’d given her a long, assessing look when she’d brought Helena and Louisa Ottersby down to the drawing room—the kind of look that made a woman’s heart beat faster and her blood run hot.
As befitted her position as governess, she’d pretended not to notice, and his amused eye had roamed on. Since then, he’d flirted outrageously with every woman in the drawing room and a couple of the maids besides. He had quite a reputation with the ladies, but evidently he was a far more indiscriminate lecher than she’d supposed. Hopefully, the maid would have the gumption to send Mr. Carling to the rightabout.
She finished going through the jewellery box, but without success. During the last few months, she’d taken advantage of every opportunity to search. She’d gone through the drawers of the dressing table. She’d unpacked and repacked the clothes press. She’d even opened every single book on Eudora’s shelf in case pages had been cut away and the reliquary hidden inside. If St. Davnet wanted her toe bone restored to its rightful owner, she certainly wasn’t making its recovery easy.
A clang in the corridor, followed by an anguished squawk, broke into Beatrix’s thoughts. Muttering under her breath, she picked up the shawl she’d been sent to fetch, stomped to the bedchamber door, and flung it open.
‘Whatever is going on out here?’ she demanded in her best governess voice.
The maid gaped at her, red as a strawberry, hands pressed to her heaving bosom. Coal lay strewn across the passageway.
Mr. Carling retrieved the coal bucket from the floor. ‘Trust a governess to spoil sport,’ he drawled.
You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr. Carling. It may have been sport to you, but to Nellie it would have meant loss of employment and perhaps utter ruin.’
‘Pfft,’ Mr. Carling said rudely. ‘One little kiss doesn’t spell ruin.’ Astonishingly, he set about picking up the scattered lumps of coal. When Nellie hurried to take the bucket, he put up a hand and said, ‘Don’t come too close, girl. I’m a truly dreadful fellow. I might grab you and debauch you.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Just like that.’
Unfortunately, he had such a charming grin that Nellie merely giggled. ‘Not with Miss March here to save me, you wouldn’t.’ The silly girl sounded almost regretful. Nor could Beatrix find it in her heart to blame her. Mr. Carling, from his wavy, deep reddish locks to his shiny black Hessians, was the sort of man to turn any woman’s resistance to mush.
‘Do give me the bucket, sir.’ Footsteps approached, and Nellie whitened, whispering, ‘Please!’
Simon passed her the bucket just as Lady Ottersby rounded the corner. Her gaze flickered from Simon to Beatrix and back again, and then to Nellie. ‘What is the meaning of this?’
‘Dear Lady Ottersby,’ Simon purred. ‘Wherever I turn, there you are again.’
She gave Simon a syrupy smile, which immediately changed into a scowl. ‘What are you doing here, Miss March? What has that clumsy girl done now?’
‘It wasn’t Nellie’s fault,’ Beatrix said. ‘Mr. Carling startled her, and she dropped the coal bucket.’
‘Tut, tut, Miss March,’ Simon said. ‘A governess should always be truthful. Not only did I startle Nellie, I accosted her, poor girl. I simply can’t keep my hands off pretty chambermaids.’ He brushed his sooty fingers, as if he could get rid of the dust of sin as well as coal. ‘Miss March stepped in to save her. I tried to make up for my abominable behaviour by picking up the coal myself, but Nellie wouldn’t let me.’
Lady Ottersby rebuked Nellie and turned her frown on Beatrix. ‘Why are you here? I ordered you to keep an eye on Helena and Louisa.’ She simpered at Simon. ‘They are such innocents, and need a watchful eye upon them at every moment. A girl’s reputation is so fragile nowadays. One indiscretion and she is compromised!’
‘Come now, Lady Ottersby,’ Simon said. ‘With such an unparalleled example as yours to follow, your daughters couldn’t possibly do anything indiscreet. And Miss March is a positive fount of propriety.’
Beatrix suppressed an indignant outburst, which made no sense. As a governess, she was obliged to be extremely proper. She should be thankful to know she was playing her role so very well.
If only propriety wasn’t such an almighty bore!
Simon grinned at Beatrix as if he read her thoughts. ‘I remember Miss March from London, when she worked for Lady Wade.’
Simon remembered her?
‘She protected the daughters of the house from me with her very life, and just now she calmed poor, frightened Nellie and did her best to set me straight.’ He was laughing at her, blast the man. ‘Hopefully, she’ll be someplace else next time I come across a pretty young maid.’
‘Oh, pshaw, Mr. Carling! You do say such things!’ Lady Ottersby cried.
A spasm of irritation crossed Mr. Carling’s face. He rolled his eyes ever so briefly.
Lady Ottersby snapped, ‘Explain yourself, Miss March!’
Beatrix had been gazing in growing astonishment at Mr. Carling, but now composed herself. ‘Miss Eudora asked me to fetch a shawl.’ She tried to sound obedient and submissive, neither of which virtue she could rightly claim.
‘Not that old rag,’ Lady Ottersby said with a contemptuous laugh and an arch glance at Simon. ‘Miss March has no concept of fashion.’
Again, Beatrix stomped on her indignation. She possessed plenty of fashion sense. She’d spent much of her time here playing lady’s maid as well as governess, doing her utmost to prevent the Ottersby girls from looking like dowds.
Judging by the spark in Lady Ottersby’s eye, Beatrix hadn’t suppressed her true feelings well enough. ‘The new Norwich shawl, stupid girl. Hop to it and return to your post, or I shall consider replacing you.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ Beatrix said. This was no idle threat, and a shiver of trepidation ran though her. She couldn’t leave without the reliquary. She had to get it back.
Lady Ottersby jabbed her hand into the crook of Simon’s arm. ‘Mr. Carling, we are about to indulge in some music. You must hear my Eudora play. You shall be rapt, I assure you!’ She hauled him down the passageway.
Appalled, Beatrix watched them go. Mr. Conk had spent most of his time in London for the past few months, dashing Eudora’s hopes, and meanwhile Lady Ottersby’s ambition for her daughters had grown more and more unrealistic. That afternoon, Beatrix had tried to warn Lady Ottersby about Simon’s reputation and been rebuked for gossiping about her betters. Now, after Simon’s frank confession of his lecherous nature, Lady Ottersby still saw him as a prospective suitor for her daughters.
Beatrix considered speaking to Lord Ottersby, but dismissed the idea immediately. When she’d first come to the household, he’d seemed a fond enough father, but she must have been mistaken. Lately, he’d paid no attention to his daughters at all.
Beatrix hesitated outside the door of Eudora’s chamber, her eyes still on Simon. His appearance was faultless: his cravat snowy-white, his coat perfection across his wide shoulders, his buff pantaloons snug on well-formed calves, but underneath…oh, underneath those clothes he was doubtless a fine-looking man as well, and she shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. Inside, then. Inside, he was a Bad Man.
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