A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet) Read online

  Her confusion must have shown on her face, because he added, “I have no craving for it, just disdain.”

  “I see,” she murmured. He had secrets of his own, apparently. “This will probably sting,” she warned him.

  “It will definitely st—ow!”

  “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, rubbing the handkerchief lightly against his wound.

  “I hope they pour the bloody stuff over Marcus,” he muttered.

  “Well, he does look worse than you do,” she remarked.

  He looked up, confused, and then a slow smile spread across his face. “Indeed he does.”

  She moved to the scrapes on his knuckles, murmuring, “I have it on the best authority.”

  He chuckled at that, but she didn’t look up. There was something so intimate about this, bending over his hand, cleaning his wounds. She did not know this man, not really, and yet she was loath to let go of this moment. It wasn’t because it was him, she told herself. It was just that . . . It had been so long . . .

  She was lonely. She knew that. It was no great surprise.

  She motioned to the cut on his shoulder and held out the handkerchief. His face and hands were one thing, but she couldn’t possibly touch his body. “Perhaps you should . . .”

  “Oh, no, don’t let me stop you. I’m quite enjoying your tender ministrations.”

  She gave him a look. “Sarcasm does not become you.”

  “No,” he said with an amused smile. “It never did.” He watched as she slopped more brandy onto the handkerchief. “And anyway, I wasn’t being sarcastic.”

  That was a statement she could not allow herself to examine, so she pressed the wet cloth to his shoulder and said briskly, “This will definitely sting.”

  “Aaaaah-aaaaaaaaah,” he sang out, and she had to laugh. He sounded like a bad opera singer, or one of those jesters at a Punch-and-Judy show.

  “You should do that more often,” he said. “Laugh, I mean.”

  “I know.” But that sounded sad, and she didn’t want to be sad, so she added, “I don’t often get to torture grown men, though.”

  “Really?” he murmured. “I would think you do it all the time.”

  She looked at him.

  “When you walk into a room,” he said softly, “the air changes.”

  Her hand went still, hovering an inch or so above his skin. She looked at his face—she couldn’t help herself—and she saw the desire in his eyes. He wanted her. He wanted her to lean forward and touch her lips to his. It would be so easy; she need only to sway. She could tell herself she hadn’t meant to do it. She’d lost her balance, that was all.

  But she knew better. This wasn’t her moment. And it wasn’t her world. He was an earl, and she was . . . Well, she was who she’d made herself to be, and that was someone who did not consort with earls, especially those with pasts wreathed with scandal.

  A bucketload of attention was about to rain down on him, and Anne wanted to be nowhere near him when that happened.

  “I really do have to leave now,” she told him.

  “To go where?”

  “Home.” And then, because it seemed she ought to say something more, she added, “I’m quite tired. It has been a very long day.”

  “I will escort you,” he told her.

  “That is not necessary.”

  He glanced up at her and pushed back against the wall, wincing as he rose to his feet. “How do you intend to convey yourself?”

  Was this an inquisition? “I will walk.”

  “To Pleinsworth House?”

  “It is not far.”

  He scowled at her. “It is too far for a lady unescorted.”

  “I’m a governess.”

  This seemed to amuse him. “A governess is not a lady?”

  She let out an unconcealed sigh of frustration. “I will be perfectly safe,” she assured him. “It is well lit the entire way back. There will probably be carriages lining the entire route.”

  “And yet that does not ease my mind.”

  Oh, but he was stubborn. “It was an honor to meet you,” she said firmly. “I am sure that your family is most eager to see you again.”

  His hand closed over her wrist. “I cannot allow you to walk home unescorted.”

  Anne’s lips parted. His skin was warm, and now hers was hot where he touched her. Something strange and vaguely familiar bubbled within her, and with a prickle of shock she realized it was excitement.

  “Surely you understand,” he murmured, and she almost gave in. She wanted to; the girl she used to be desperately wanted to, and it had been so long since she’d opened her heart wide enough to let that girl out.

  “You can’t go anywhere looking as you do,” she said. It was true. He looked like he’d escaped from prison. Or possibly hell.

  He shrugged. “The better to go unrecognized.”

  “My lord . . .”

  “Daniel,” he corrected.

  Her eyes widened with shock. “What?”

  “My name is Daniel.”

  “I know. But I’m not going to use it.”

  “Well, that’s a pity. Still, it was worth a try. Come now . . .” He held out his arm, which she did not take. “Shall we be off?”

  “I’m not going with you.”

  He smiled rakishly. Even with one side of his mouth swollen and red, he looked like a devil. “Does that mean you’re staying with me?”

  “You’ve been hit in the head,” she said. “It’s the only explanation.”

  He laughed at that, then avoided it entirely. “Have you a coat?”

  “Yes, but I left it in the rehearsal room. I— Don’t try to change the subject!”

  “Hmmm?”

  “I am leaving,” she stated, holding up a hand. “You are staying.”

  But he blocked her. His arm came out in a stiff, horizontal line, his hand connecting flat with the wall. “I might not have made myself clear,” he said, and in that moment she realized that she had underestimated him. Happy-go-lucky he might be, but that was not all that he was, and right now, he was deadly serious. His voice low and fixed, he said, “There are a few things about which I will not compromise. The safety of a lady is one of them.”

  And that was that. He would not be budged. So with an admonishment that they must remain in the shadows and alleys where they would not be seen, she allowed him to escort her to the servants’ entrance of Pleinsworth House. He kissed her hand, and she tried to pretend she did not love the gesture.

  She might have fooled him. She certainly did not fool herself.

  “I will call upon you tomorrow,” he said, still holding her hand in his.

  “What? No!” Anne yanked her hand back. “You can’t.”

  “Can’t I?”

  “No. I am a governess. I can’t have men calling upon me. I will lose my position.”

  He smiled as if the solution could not be easier. “I will call upon my cousins, then.”

  Was he completely ignorant of proper behavior? Or merely selfish? “I will not be home,” she replied, her voice firm.

  “I’ll call again.”

  “I won’t be home again.”

  “Such truancy. Who will instruct my cousins?”

  “Not me, if you are loitering about. Your aunt will terminate me for sure.”

  “Terminate?” He chuckled. “It sounds so grisly.”

  “It is.” Good heavens, she had to make him understand. It did not matter who he was, or how he made her feel. The excitement of the evening . . . the kiss they’d shared . . . these were fleeting things.

  What mattered was having a roof over her head. And food. Bread and cheese and butter and sugar and all those lovely things she’d had every day of her childhood. She had them now, with the Pleinsworths, along with stability, and position, and self-respect.

  She did not take these things for granted.

  She looked up at Lord Winstead. He was watching her closely, as if he thought he could see into her soul.


  But he did not know her. No one did. And so, wearing formality like a mantle, Anne drew back her hand and curtsied. “Thank you for your escort, my lord. I appreciate your concern for my safety.” She turned her back to him and let herself in through the back gate.

  It took a bit of time to sort things out once she was inside. The Pleinsworths returned only a few minutes after she did, so there were excuses to be made, pen in hand as she explained that she had been about to send a note explaining her departure from the musicale. Harriet could not stop talking about the excitement of the evening—apparently, Lord Chatteris and Lady Honoria had indeed become betrothed, in quite the most thrilling manner possible—and then Elizabeth and Frances came running downstairs, because it wasn’t as if either of them had fallen asleep in the first place.

  It would be two hours before Anne finally let herself into her own room, changed into her nightgown, and crawled into bed. And it would be two hours more before she could even try to fall asleep. All she could do was stare at the ceiling, and think, and wonder, and whisper.

  “Annelise Sophronia Shawcross,” she finally said to herself, “what have you got yourself into?”

  Chapter Three

  The following afternoon, despite the dowager Countess of Winstead’s insistence that she did not wish to let her newly returned son out of her sight, Daniel made his way over to Pleinsworth House. He did not tell his mother where he was going; she would surely have insisted upon accompanying him. Instead, he told her that he had legal matters to attend to, which was true. A gentleman could not return from a three-year trip abroad without having to visit at least one solicitor. But it just so happened that the law office of Streatham and Ponce was only two miles in the opposite direction of Pleinsworth House. A mere trifle, really, and who could say that he wouldn’t suddenly take it upon himself to visit his young cousins? It was an idea that could come to a man as easily in a carriage riding through the city as anywhere else.

  The Pleinsworths’ back entrance, for example.

  Or the entire time he’d walked himself home.

  Or in bed. He’d lain awake half the night thinking of the mysterious Miss Wynter—the curve of her cheek, the scent of her skin. He was bewitched, he freely admitted it, and he told himself that it was because he was so happy to be home. It made perfect sense that he’d find himself enchanted by such a lovely example of English womanhood.

  And so after a grueling two-hour appointment with Messrs. Streatham, Ponce, and Beaufort-Graves (who apparently hadn’t quite managed to get his name on the door yet), Daniel directed his driver to Pleinsworth House. He did want to see his cousins.

  He just wanted to see their governess more.

  His aunt was not at home, but his cousin Sarah was, and she greeted him with a delighted cry and a warm hug. “Why didn’t anyone tell me you’d returned?” she demanded. She drew back, blinking as she got a good look at his face. “And what happened to you?”

  He opened his mouth to reply, but she cut in with “And don’t tell me you were attacked by footpads, because I heard all about Marcus’s blackened eyes last night.”

  “He looks worse than I do,” Daniel confirmed. “And as for why your family did not tell you I was back, they did not know. I did not want my arrival to interrupt the concert.”

  “Very thoughtful of you,” she said wryly.

  He looked down at her with affection. She was the same age as his sister, and growing up, it had often seemed that she’d spent as much time in his household as in her own. “Indeed,” he murmured. “I watched from the rehearsal room. Imagine my surprise to see a stranger at the piano.”

  She put a hand to her heart. “I was ill.”

  “I am relieved to see that you’ve made a speedy recovery from death’s door.”

  “I could barely remain upright yesterday,” she insisted.

  “Really.”

  “Oh, indeed. The vertigo, you know.” She flicked her hand in the air, as if waving away her words. “It’s a terrible burden.”

  “I’m sure people who suffer from it think so.”

  Her lips pressed together for a moment, then she said, “But enough of me. I assume you heard Honoria’s splendid news?”

  He followed her into the drawing room and took a seat. “That she is soon to be Lady Chatteris? Indeed.”

  “Well, I am happy for her, even if you are not,” Sarah said with a sniff. “And don’t say that you are, because your injuries say otherwise.”

  “I’m overjoyed for them both,” he said firmly. “This”—his hand twirled before his face—“was merely a misunderstanding.”

  She gave him a dubious look, but all she said was, “Tea?”

  “I would be delighted.” He stood as she rose to ring for it. “Tell me, are your sisters at home?”

  “Up in the schoolroom. Do you wish to see them?”

  “Of course,” he said immediately. “They will have grown so much in my absence.”

  “They’ll be down soon,” Sarah said, returning to the sofa. “Harriet has spies all over the house. Someone will alert them to your arrival, I’m sure.”

  “Tell me,” he said, sitting back into a casual position, “who was that at the piano last night?”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “In your stead,” he added unnecessarily. “Because you were ill.”

  “That was Miss Wynter,” she replied. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. “She is my sisters’ governess.”

  “How fortuitous that she could play.”

  “A happy accident indeed,” Sarah said. “I had feared the concert would be canceled.”

  “Your cousins would have been so disappointed,” he murmured. “But this . . . what was her name again? Miss Wynter?”

  “Yes.”

  “She knew the piece?”

  Sarah leveled a frank stare in his direction. “Apparently so.”

  He nodded. “I should think the family owes the talented Miss Wynter a rousing round of thanks.”

  “She has certainly earned my mother’s gratitude.”

  “Has she been your sisters’ governess for long?”

  “About a year. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason. Just curiosity.”

  “Funny,” she said slowly, “you’ve never been curious about my sisters before.”

  “That’s certainly not true.” He tried to gauge how affronted he ought to appear at such a comment. “They are my cousins.”

  “You have an abundance of cousins.”

  “All of whom I missed while abroad. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder.”

  “Oh, stop,” Sarah finally said, looking as if she’d like to throw up her hands in disgust. “You are fooling no one.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Daniel murmured, even though he had a feeling his goose was cooked.

  Sarah rolled her eyes. “Do you think you are the first person to notice that our governess is absurdly gorgeous?”

  He was about to think up some dry rejoinder, but he could see that Sarah was about to say, And don’t say you haven’t noticed . . . , so instead he said, quite plainly, “No.”

  Because really, there was no point in saying otherwise. Miss Wynter had the kind of beauty that stopped men in their tracks. It was not a quiet sort of thing, like his sister, or Sarah, for that matter. They were both perfectly lovely, but one didn’t really notice just how much until one got to know them. Miss Wynter, on the other hand . . .

  A man would have to be dead not to notice her. More than dead, if such a thing were possible.

  Sarah sighed, with equal parts exasperation and resignation. “It would be most tiresome if she weren’t so very nice.”

  “Beauty does not have to be accompanied by a bad character.”

  She snorted. “Someone has grown quite philosophical while on the Continent.”

  “Well, you know, those Greeks and Romans. They do rub off on you.”

  Sarah laughed. “Oh, Daniel, do you want to ask me about Miss Wy
nter? Because if you do, just say so.”

  He leaned forward. “Tell me about Miss Wynter.”

  “Well.” Sarah leaned forward. “There’s not much to tell.”

  “I may throttle you,” he said mildly.

  “No, it’s true. I know very little about her. She’s not my governess, after all. I think she might be from somewhere in the north. She came with a reference from a family in Shropshire. And another from the Isle of Man.”

  “The Isle of Man?” he asked in disbelief. He didn’t think he knew anyone who’d even seen the Isle of Man. It was a fiendishly remote spot, hard to get to and with very bad weather. Or so he’d been told.

  “I asked her about it once,” Sarah said with a shrug. “She told me it was quite bleak.”

  “I would imagine.”

  “She does not talk about her family, although I think I heard her mention a sister once.”

  “Does she receive correspondence?”

  Sarah shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of. And if she posts any, she does not do it from here.”

  He looked at her with a bit of surprise.

  “Well, I would have noticed at some point,” she said defensively. “At any rate, I shall not permit you to bother Miss Wynter.”

  “I’m not going to bother her.”

  “Oh, you are. I see it in your eyes.”

  He leaned forward. “You’re quite dramatic for someone who avoids the stage.”

  Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Merely that you are the picture of health.”

  She let out a ladylike snort. “Do you think to blackmail me? I wish you luck with that. No one believes I was ill, anyway.”

  “Even your mother?”

  Sarah drew back.

  Checkmate.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  Daniel paused, the better to draw this out. Sarah’s teeth were clenched just splendidly, and he rather thought that if he waited long enough, steam might emerge from her ears.

  “Daniel . . .” she ground out.

  He tilted his head as if pondering the point. “Aunt Charlotte would be so disappointed to think that her daughter was shirking her musical duties.”