Temptation Of A Governess. Sarah Mallory

* *

      When Alex drove away from Chantreys the spring day was ending and the clear sky left an unpleasant chill. He had failed in his quest and was in no very amiable temper. As the younger son of an earl, with a sharp mind and excellent physique, he was accustomed to succeeding in everything he attempted. His godfather, an East India merchant, had left him a considerable fortune, which had given Alex the independence to pursue his own interests once he had left Oxford. He had thus arrived in town endowed with excellent connections, good birth and considerable wealth, all the attributes he required to do very much as he pleased. He was not used to failure and it irked him.

      He could easily purchase another property close to London and leave Diana and the children to live at Chantreys. He knew that this would be the most reasonable course of action, but when he thought of Diana Grensham he did not feel reasonable. Her opposition had woken something in him, some dormant spirit that wanted to engage her in battle. He never enjoyed losing and he certainly had no intention of being beaten by a slip of a girl with hair the colour of autumn leaves.

Chapter Two

      Alex was still mulling over his defeat as he drove into town and his mood was not improved by the knowledge that he had promised to attend Almack’s that night. The Dowager Marchioness of Hune had written to tell him she was helping to launch a young friend into the ton and asked for his support. Lady Hune was his great-aunt and one of the few Arrandale relatives who was not pressing him to marry. Also, he was fond of her in a careless sort of way and he had agreed to look in. Well, he would not go back on his word, even if it meant entering the notorious Marriage Mart.

      * * *

      After a solitary dinner he walked the short distance to King Street, where his mission was soon accomplished. Miss Ellen Tatham was a lively beauty so it was no hardship to stand up with her and once he had done his duty he made his escape and rewarded himself with a visit to a discreet little house off Piccadilly, where he could be sure of more congenial company.

      The house was owned by Lady Frances Betsford, a widow and the youngest daughter of an impoverished peer. Despite being an accredited beauty, she had been unable to do better than a mere baronet for a husband. However he had died within twelve months of the ceremony and left his widow with a comfortable competence. She had lived in some style in town for the past five years, moving in all but the highest circles, tolerated by the ladies and sought out by their husbands. Her name had been linked with several prominent society figures in the past and most recently it had been coupled with the new Earl of Davenport.

      Alex had known Frances for years. There had been a brief liaison, when he had first arrived in town, and she was keen now to get him back in her bed. Alex was well aware that her renewed interest in him stemmed from his accession to the peerage. That did not overly concern him, he knew his world and viewed it with a cynical eye. Lady Frances wanted to be a countess and she was not ineligible. Her birth was good, she was beautiful, intelligent and no ingénue who would bore him within weeks. That was a definite advantage, he thought as he walked into her crowded drawing room. He watched her as she leaned over Sir Sydney Dunford’s shoulder to advise him on his discard and realised just how little he cared if she shared her favours with other gentlemen. That, too, he thought, was in her favour. Theirs would be a civilised arrangement with no messy emotions to get in the way.

      A tall, elegant figure clad in Bath coating and stockinette pantaloons broke away from the crowd and greeted Alex with a languid wave.

      ‘Well, Alex, have you fixed the summer party for Chantreys?’

      ‘I’m afraid not, Gervase.’

      ‘Pity,’ replied Mr Wollerton, shaking his head. ‘Lady Frances will be disappointed.’

      ‘That can’t be helped—’ Alex broke off as the lady in question approached, hands held out and a smile on her carmined lips.

      ‘My lord, I had quite given you up.’

      He saluted her fingers.

      ‘I told you I should be late, Frances.’

      She gave a soft laugh and slipped her hand through his arm.

      ‘So you did. Come along and join us. What will you play, Loo? Ombre? Commerce? Or shall we play at piquet, just you and I?’

      He looked down into her beautiful smiling face. After Diana Grensham’s obstinate refusal to agree to his plans, the warm invitation in those cerulean eyes was balm to his battered spirits. What could be better than an hour or two spent in such agreeable company? It would help put the unsatisfactory visit to Chantreys from his mind.

      ‘Piquet,’ he decided.

      Her smile grew. She moved closer and murmured for his ears only, ‘And afterwards?’

      Her full breasts were almost brushing his waistcoat and he could smell her sweet, heady perfume enveloping him. She was voluptuous, desirable and knew how to please a man. The invitation was very tempting, but there was a restlessness in his spirits tonight and he was reluctant to commit himself. He gave an inward shrug. It was very likely that in an hour or so he might feel differently.

      He smiled. ‘Let us begin with piquet and see what happens.’

      * * *

      Alex’s restless mood did not abate and even Lady Frances’s charms could not detain him. Soon after midnight he made his way back to his rented house in Half Moon Street. Piccadilly was busy, as always. Carriages rumbled past him and the flagway was bustling, mostly with gentlemen going to or from some evening entertainment. One or two females were on the streets, gaudily dressed and clearly offering their services to any man with a few coins in his pocket and time to spare. One of the women approached Alex but he waved her away. As she turned and flounced off the flaring light from a flambeau picked out the red glow in her hair. It was garishly unnatural, nothing like Diana Grensham’s glorious autumn tints, that thick auburn hair and her eyes the colour of fresh hazelnuts. A man might gaze upon her for ever without growing tired of the view.

      A frisson of alarm ran through Alex and he gave himself a shake. By heaven, what was wrong with him tonight? Diana Grensham was not his type at all, she was stubborn, opinionated and what had James been thinking of, to give her sole charge of the children’s education?

      The answer of course was that she was not an Arrandale, a family renowned for loose living. James had been the exception, a steady, sober young man who took his responsibilities seriously.

      ‘Confound it, so, too, do I!’ declared Alex furiously as he turned into Half Moon Street. No sooner had he uttered the words aloud than Diana’s reprimand came to mind and he stopped, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. How could he say that when he planned to set the ton by the ears with an extravagant ball to which he would invite all the very worst rakes and reprobates of society?

      Yes, it would be selfish but the spirit of devilry appealed to him and it would show all those top-lofty dowds that he would not be bullied into settling down. He would take a wife when he was ready and not before. He reached his door and trod up the steps, the smile fading as quickly as it had come. That did not solve the problem of the girls, though. He could not hold such a party at Chantreys while they were in residence.

      ‘It would do the children no harm to live elsewhere,’ he muttered, handing his hat and gloves to a sleepy servant and taking the stairs two at a time. ‘In fact, it would be good for them and she should be made to see that.’

      His man jumped up in surprise as Alex burst into the bedchamber.

      ‘My lord, I wasn’t expecting you so early—’

      ‘Never mind that, Lincoln. Do I have any engagements on the morrow?’

      ‘Why, no, my lord, nothing apart from your tailor.’

      ‘Well, he can wait.’ Alex shrugged off his coat and handed it over. ‘As soon as it is light send a message to the stables. I want my curricle at the door by nine tomorrow morning.’