The Governess Game: the unputdownable new Regency romance from the New York Times bestselling author of The Duchess Deal. Tessa Dare
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is not my intent, but we have the whole summer for lessons. Of course, if you wished to begin today, I could—”
Rosamund put her nose back in her book.
Alex was relieved. The truth was, she had no idea where to even start. Being a governess hadn’t sounded so difficult last night—she had an education, after all—but now that she was here, she felt at a loss.
While the girls were occupied, Alex had a look at her surroundings. One side of the space had been designated as a schoolroom. She found it furnished with just as much attention and thought as the nursery. Two child-sized writing desks, an adult-sized table with a wide, flat top, and a bedsheet-sized slate hanging on the wall. On the slate, in careful script, someone had chalked five words:
Letters
Ciphers
Geography
Comportment
Needlework
Alex moved on to a world map affixed to the wall. The continents were peppered with tacks in a seemingly random arrangement. Malta, Finland, Timbuktu, a speck of an island in the Indian Ocean, the Sahara Desert.
Daisy appeared at her elbow. “Those are the places Mr. Reynaud says he’s sending us to boarding school.”
Alex considered the options. “Well, if I were you, I’d take Malta in a heartbeat. It’s quite lovely. Surrounded by azure seas.”
“You’ve been to Malta?”
“I’ve been all sorts of places. My father was a sea captain.” Alex rearranged the tacks, pushing them into common trading ports. “Macao. Lima. Lisbon. Bombay. And I was born near here.” She placed the final tack.
“Where’s that?”
“Read for yourself.”
Daisy flashed a glance over her shoulder, then whispered, “I can’t.”
“Ma-ni-la.” Alex sounded out the syllables for her. “It’s a port in the Philippine Islands.”
Seven years old, and she couldn’t yet read. Oh, dear.
“Say, Daisy. I’m wondering if we have enough pencils and bits of chalk. Would you help me count them out?”
“I—”
“Daisy,” Rosamund interrupted sharply. “I think I hear Millicent coughing.”
As her sister went to nurse her ailing patient, Rosamund fixed Alex with an unflinching—and unmistakable—look. Stay away from my sister.
Alex’s spirits dipped. The challenge before her was already intimidating. She had no teaching experience, the younger of her two charges had not yet learned to read, and her employer would be completely unhelpful.
However, it was plain that the most formidable obstacle in this entire endeavor would come in the shape of a mistrustful, strong-willed, ten-year-old girl.
So. The war of wills began here.
If she didn’t want to leave this house penniless, it was a war Alexandra had to win.
That evening, Chase stood in the doorway of his governess’s bedchamber, waging a fierce battle with temptation.
He’d stopped by her room with the most innocent of motives. He intended to see that she’d settled in, and be assured that the accommodations were to her liking.
What he was doing, however, was admiring her sweet, round little bottom.
It wasn’t as though he’d intended to ogle her. He wasn’t some perverse old man leering through a peephole in the closet. Her door was open, and her back was to him, and she hadn’t taken note of his presence—probably because she was bent over that cursed telescope.
So there it was, presented for his view. The most delightful peach of a backside. More generously rounded than he would have guessed, given her slender figure.
At his sides, his hands instinctively cupped, estimating size and plumpness.
Chase, you despicable bastard.
He shook out his hands and cleared his throat. “Miss Mountbatten?”
Startled, she stood bolt upright and reeled to face him. “Mr. Reynaud.”
“So. Do you like what you see?”
“Do I like what I . . . ?”
Her gaze wandered over him. In his evening attire, he could only imagine he made a markedly different picture than he had on their first meeting. He’d actually bathed and shaved, and gone to the trouble of buttoning his cuffs.
She stammered. “I . . . er . . . that is to say, I should imagine that—”
“The room,” he said. “Does it meet with your satisfaction?”
“Oh, that,” she said with relief. “Yes. Thank you. Very much. I wasn’t expecting something so spacious.”
“Mrs. Greeley usually gives the governesses a chamber next to the nursery, but I told her you required the one with the largest window and a clear view of the sky. I’ll send up a maid to assist you in unpacking your things.”
“I’ve already unpacked them,” she replied, looking self-conscious. “There was only the one trunk.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” He strolled across the room to the window, taking a look at the arrangement of the telescope and window. “There’s space out here for a narrow verandah. I’ll have plans drawn up for a platform and railing this week.”
“That’s too generous of you.”
“Nothing of the sort. It’s entirely self-interest. If you’re satisfied with your accommodations, you’re less likely to leave.” He bent and squinted to peer through the telescope. “Why did you want it? I can’t help but be curious.”
“Well, our agreement is temporary. At the end of the summer, I will need a new occupation.”
“I should think you’d go back to setting clocks.”
She shook her head. “I’m planning a new business venture. Instead of selling the time, I’m going to sell comets.”
“Selling comets?” He laughed a little. “Oh, I must hear this. Pray tell, how do you intend to catch them?”
“The aristocrats are positively mad for comets, but most don’t have the time or interest in doing the work. I’ll search the skies and chart observations, and then I’ll find a patron willing to pay me for the effort.”
“So you’ll find the comet, and this patron claims it as his discovery? That sounds highly unjust.”
“I’m not interested in it for the glory. A woman of my station has to be more practical than that.”
“So you intend to be an astronomical mercenary. I’m impressed.”
She smiled a little. “That makes it sound far too exciting. It’s boring work. A matter of searching the sky, one dark patch at a time, looking for anything smudgy.”
“Smudgy? A proper scientific term, that.”
“I’ll show you an example, if you like.”
She joined him, crowding into the small window alcove, and bent to adjust the telescope—affording him, should he choose to take it, a view directly down the neckline of her frock. Chase pulled his gaze away, but not swiftly enough. That split-second view of two celestially perfect crescents of soft, feminine flesh was going to linger.
In need of distraction,