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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I’m the last soul on earth to teach them proper behavior. But you, Miss Mountbatten? You are just the one for the job.” He gestured at the rooms that opened off the passageway. “You’ll have a bedchamber to yourself, of course. The nursery is this way.”
“Wait—”
“Here we are.” He flung open the door.
Alexandra’s mind refused to make sense of the scene. Two flaxen-haired girls stood on either side of a bed. A beautiful bed. A grand four-poster with a lacy lavender canopy, gold-painted posts, and matching bed hangings tied back with pink cord. The bed would have been any young girl’s dream. Beneath it, however, was a nightmare. The white bed linens were streaked and spattered with crimson.
“You’re too late.” The younger of the two turned to face them, her expression eerily solemn. “She’s dead.”
“Curse it all.” Mr. Reynaud heaved a sigh. “Not again.”
Chase couldn’t believe it.
Twice in one morning. Insupportable.
He put down Miss Mountbatten’s satchel, stalked to the bed, and swiped a finger along the soiled linens. Red currant jelly, by the looks of it.
“It was the bloody flux,” Rosamund said.
Of course it was. Chase set his jaw. “From now on, there will be no jelly. None, do you hear? No conserves, no jam, no preserves of any kind.”
“No jelly?” Daisy asked mournfully. “Whyever not?”
“Because I am not eulogizing another leprosy victim covered in sores that weep marmalade! That’s why not. Oh, and no mushy peas, either. Millicent’s bout of dyspepsia last week ruined the drawing room carpet.”
“But—”
“No arguments.” He leveled a finger at his morbid little wards. “Or I’m going to lock the both of you in this room and feed you nothing but dry crusts.”
“How very gothic,” Rosamund replied.
“I’m afraid I must be going now.” The faintly voiced interruption came from Miss Mountbatten, who’d remained near the doorway.
And who, shortly thereafter, made a stealthy reach for her satchel and vanished through said doorway.
Damn it.
He strode to the map and jabbed a tack into the first empty expanse he saw. “Start packing your things.”
“There aren’t any boarding schools in the Lapland,” Rosamund said.
“I’ll put up the money to start one,” he said on his way to the door. “I hope you like herring.”
Then he ran after his newest—and please, God, not latest to quit—governess.
“Wait.” He took the stairs three at a time, vaulting over the banister so as to catch her on the next landing. “Miss Mountbatten, wait.” With a flailing swipe, he caught her by the arm.
They stood wedged in the stairwell. She was short, and he was tall. The crown of her head met him mid-sternum. Conversation was comically impossible. He released her arm and took two steps downward so he might look her in the eye.
Her gaze nearly knocked him down the stairs. For a woman of small stature, she made a prodigious impact. A delicate snub of a nose, olive skin, and a glossy knot of midnight-black hair. And fathomless dark eyes that pulled on something deep in his chest. He needed a moment to collect himself.
“Millicent is Daisy’s doll. She kills the thing at least once a day, but—” Curse it, he’d left red smudges on her sleeve, and God only knew what substance she presumed it to be. “No, it’s not what you think. It’s only red currant jelly.” He held up his stained index finger. “Here, taste for yourself.”
She blinked at him. “Did you just invite me to lick your finger?”
He wiped his hand on a fold of his shirt. God, he was making a hash of this. If she worried for her virtue, that wouldn’t aid his case. Any sensible young woman would hesitate to accept employment in the house of a scandalous rake—even if the rake’s wards were perfect angels. Chase’s wards were incorrigible, morbid hellions.
In fact, the post offered few advantages, save one.
“I’ll pay you handsomely,” he said. “An astronomical sum.”
“There’s been a mistake. I came to offer my services as a timekeeper. I’m not a governess. I’ve no training, no experience. And governesses are gently bred women, aren’t they? I don’t meet that qualification, either.”
“I don’t care if you’re gently bred, roughly bred, or a loaf of brown bread with butter. You’re educated, you understand propriety, and you’re . . . breathing.”
“I’m certain you’ll find someone else to fill the post.”
“The post has been filled. And vacated. And filled and vacated several times over. Sometimes multiple times in one day.”
You’re not doing your offer any favors, Reynaud.
“But you’re not like the rest of those candidates,” he hastened to say. “You’re different.”
She was different.
Here was a woman who’d just schooled him within an inch of his dignity. She thought him a crude, unintelligent layabout. A paltry excuse for nobility and a waste of good tailoring. Miss Mountbatten—quite wisely—wanted nothing to do with him.
And Chase was positively desperate to keep her near.
The desire rising in him wasn’t physical. Well, it wasn’t entirely physical. She was pretty, and he appreciated a forthright woman who knew what she was about. But mingled with the attraction was something more. A wish to impress her, to be worthy of her approval.
She made him want to be better. And wasn’t that an ideal quality in a governess? He had to keep this woman in his employ.
“It’s only for the summer,” he said. “A year’s wages, for a few months of work.”
“I’m sorry.” She sidestepped him and continued down the stairs.
“Two years’ wages. Three.”
“Mr. Reynaud . . .”
Chase caught her at the door. “It comes down to this. Those girls need you.”
He waited until she looked at him, and then he reached into his arsenal of persuasion.
A hard swallow, indicating a manful struggle with emotion.
An intense, searching gaze.
The husky whisper of a confession.
“Miss Mountbatten.” Hell, why not go for it all? “Alexandra. I need you.”
There. That line worked on every woman.
It didn’t work on her.
“No, you don’t.” A flash of irony crossed her face. “Don’t worry. You’ll forget me soon enough.”
And then she did what Chase yearned to do, often. She flung open the door, fled the house, and didn’t once look back.
Two hours later, Alexandra found herself standing on a Billingsgate dock.
Terrified.
The June morning was soaked with sunshine, but she’d left Mr. Reynaud’s house in a mental fog. Her distraction was such that she’d made two wrong turnings on her well-trod path to London Bridge, and now she had missed the noon coach to Greenwich.
The