The old Marcus had never been able to resist her wagers – to climb the highest tree, to race to the tinkers, to dance with her at that last Christmas Ball…
“And how do you propose to persuade me to stay?”
He was contemplating it!
“You must accompany me to three Christmastide events of my choosing.” All she had to do was think of them.
“Hmm. Is that worth so much of my precious time away from rigorous ledger inspection?”
Charlotte munched another mince pie. If one had nothing clever to say, it was better to stay quiet and hence enigmatic.
He drummed his fingers on the mahogany desk. “IfI were to agree to such a ludicrous proposal, I’d require you to start as governess on the morrow.” The drumming ceased. “Ifyou happen to win, I will pay you at month end, but when you don’t…” The drumming commenced anew. “As part of your governess duties, I’ll also require you to eliminate a yet more ludicrous idea that my young ward has got in her nogginto become an…” He nigh choked within the confines of that starched cravat. “…an authoress.”
To be commended, surely?
“I could start tomorrow,” Charlotte merely stated, prodding the mince pie plate back across the desk. “Come along, Marcus, what have you got to lose?”
IN ORDER TOinstil calm and reason, Marcus inhaled deeply but those two eminently ducal and sensible conditions refused to surface, likely due to that scent of bloody heliotrope that filled his nostrils.
Charlotte had forever smelled of sweet heliotrope.
With eyes blind, he stared at her references, his mind coldly calculating. If he agreed to her ludicrous proposal, he’d have a governess for free until he found a new school for Dinah. He’d be at liberty to visit Carlisle and broker that canal deal.
What had he to lose?
She’d never get him to stay for Christmas, short of tying him up.
Which wouldn’t be without its merits but…
From beneath his lashes, he studied his sometime neighbour, Miss Charlotte Webster.
A spinster with now twenty-six years, auburn-haired and slender, she had eyes the colour of mountain fells in spring. Tall for a female, she rose above most local men.
But not himself.
For eight years, he’d quashed any insipid sentiment – for both their sakes – but as soon as she’d perched on the study chair and treated him like a normal man rather than a duke, teased him and licked her lips of mince pie crumbs, all his boyish yearnings had returned – a sensation akin to indigestion after too much venison.
And why was she always so damn content? Broad lips curving. Through no fault of her own, she’d been reduced to a mere governess, with a mad uncle and derelict house, yet she sat there munching pies like a blithe Marie Antoinette while the mob rioted outside.
Mind you, she was correct in that Mrs Mossop lacked the hours to care for Dinah, and even he was not so heartless as to leave his ward utterly alone for Christmastide. A twinge of guilt punched his gut that he’d not put aside the time to find a new school for her, but this canal venture would make him a mint.
His gaze twisted to the wall and met the portrait of his elder cousin Thomas who’d been a couple of years above him at Eton. A carriage tragedy in an autumn storm had taken the lives of Thomas and his wife two years ago, and Marcus wondered what they would now make of his cow-handed guardianship of their daughter.
Ostensibly shuffling papers, he debated Charlotte’s proposed deal.
Ifhe was to agree, should they have a written contract? Signed? Ask his man of affairs to scrutinise for loopholes? Mr Dilber was most adept at that.
A name on her references caught his eye and he glowered. “You worked for Cadwalader?” He’d met the London reprobate on a few occasions, most recently at a boxing club: women swooned over his handsome mug; gentlemen feted his droll deeds.
But not himself.
“Hmm. Solely in an…advisory role.”
His glower became a scowl. “A lavish reference too.”
“Such a charming employer.”
His scowl became a sneer. “Do you provide additional services now, Charlotte?”
