The Wallflower's Wicked Wager (The Wallflower Wins Book 2) Page 3

  “My goodness,” she said gravely. “It is a good thing then that I’m from Cornwall, isn’t it?”

  “I beg your pardon,” the eldest said. “That’s still part of England.”

  “Yes,” piped the littlest one. “You’re English, you’re English. You should turn around and go home. The Scottish don’t like you.”

  “Well,” she said, knowing not to be offended. She had to appeal to them without overpowering them and yet manage firmness. “I completely understand. We’ve had a bit of a barney, haven’t we, over the years? Our countries. The English were in very bad form over the whole Bonnie Prince Charlie issue. I was thinking that myself just now as I arrived here. But you know, if I go, that means that I won’t be able to tell you any of the tales about ship wreckers and smugglers and pirates that take place on the land where I’m from.”

  That seemed to stop the three boys just as she hoped it would.

  They gazed at her with astonishment and she realized that the eldest couldn’t be eight years old, the middle perhaps six, and the youngest possibly four. Mayhap not even that old.

  The youngest walked with the gait of one still getting used to his body. He swung his gaze left to right, looking wide-eyed and wondrous at his older brothers as if they were his heroes.

  “Hmm,” relented the eldest one quite seriously. “If you have such good stories, perhaps we will allow you to stay.”

  “Why, thank you,” she said, touched and glad that she’d passed muster. “Perhaps I shall be a little bit like Scheherazade and the Thousand Tales.”

  “Who?” the middle one said, blinking.

  “Oh, some famous princess,” the eldest one said, “who managed to charm her husband.”

  “I’m not going to be her husband,” shouted the littlest one, his eyes rounding with horror. “Surely she has a husband. She’s old.”

  “Shush,” the middle one said. “She can’t have a husband if she’s come to be our governess. Governesses don’t have husbands. They’re not fit for marrying. That’s what Uncle Gideon says.”

  Uncle Gideon said what? she thought to herself.

  Uncle Gideon had to be an absolute bounder to say such a thing.

  Helena wondered if he was such a marvel then to be passing such judgment upon ladies who were forced into a position of employment.

  Helena cleared her throat. “You say Uncle Gideon isn’t here just now?”

  “No,” the eldest one said, tugging on his tailored green wool coat sleeves. “He is gadding about in Edinburgh. He likes parties.”

  “Of course he does,” she said, trying very hard not to roll her eyes.

  “Don’t all adults like parties?” the middle one asked.

  “No,” she replied honestly. “Not all. I don’t particularly like parties, though I dearly love to dance. Do you love to dance?”

  The little boy shuffled his feet. “I do like to dance. We all like to dance if the music is right for it.”

  “Perhaps we could have dancing parties in the afternoon,” she offered. “Do any of you play the piano?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Of course we don’t play the piano,” the eight year old scoffed. “That’s for girls.”

  “Absurd?” she repeated. “Whatever, shall we tell Herr Beethoven? He isn’t a girl.”

  The eldest boy stared at her, stunned by her quick reply.

  She pursed her lips, then stroked her chin thoughtfully. “Mozart isn’t a girl either,” Helena pointed out delightedly.

  The boys gaped at her with astonishment.

  “True,” said the eldest.

  “Did your Uncle Gideon tell you that?” she asked, thinking that the laird was likely an idiot. It was often the case with men in the aristocracy.

  The middle boy shook his head. “Oh no. Uncle Gideon would never say something like that. He thinks ladies are very capable.”

  That surprised her, for the boy said it so earnestly.

  “Now,” Helena said gently, “might I have your names?”

  “Alistair,” said the eldest with a nod of his dark head.

  “Hamish,” replied the middle with a quick bow.

  “Duncan!” piped the littlest with a flourish and a bob of his head worthy of any fairytale.

  She beamed at them, then stood. “My goodness, I’m very pleased to meet you, and I am Miss Helena Highbury. You may call me Miss Helena, if you like, or Miss Highbury.”

  “Och,” Alistair contemplated, his small brow furrowing. “Miss Highbury sounds dreadfully stuffy. Might we call you Miss Helena then?”

  “Of course you may,” she said, clapping her hands together.

  “You should ask Miss Helena to come in,” said a rather deep and lovely voice from above.

  Helena let her gaze go to the top of the stairs.

  There a woman of indiscernible years but certainly a great deal of character stood. Her iron-gray hair was woven into the most beautiful coils atop her head.

  The lady’s forehead was creased with wrinkles as if to suggest that she had lived a life that had been full of deep thought.

  And her eyes seemed to shine at the sight of the boys and Helena at the bottom of the courtyard.

  “How do you do?” Helena said. “I am to be the new governess.”

  “So I surmise,” the older woman replied, the folds of her perfectly pressed black silk gown swooshing over the stones. She began down the steps slowly, her cane in hand guiding her slightly tentative walk. “I am the boys’ grandmother, Lady Carmondy, the de facto lady of the house. And I am delighted that you have arrived. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Helena immediately realized that she was on critical footing. This was, after all, her employer.

  “Thank you, Lady Carmondy, for the lovely letter that you sent informing me that I would be taking up employment in the Highlands rather than the north of England.” Helena meant every word and tried to imbue her smile with genuine appreciation.

  “We don’t particularly care for that estate,” Lady Carmondy replied, her eyes shining with an emotion that was veiled. “It doesn’t have the best of memories, but we had been living there for the last few months.”

  Lady Carmondy drew in a shaky smile. “The Highlands are our home, and you must be exhausted from the trip. So do come in. The boys will take you in and show you to the great hall. There we shall fortify you with hot brandy and cake.”

  “That sounds absolutely wonderful,” Helena said.

  With that, the three boys took her hands and the youngest clutched the side of her cloak. As one, they guided her up the stairs.

  She followed without a single comment, for she felt as if she had been embraced by them. It was a heartening thing. She knew that some governesses struggled on their first footing, but she seemed to have done all the right things.

  It seemed almost certain that they were going to get on marvelously. The boys seemed lovely and the castle was remarkable. Lady Carmondy was fascinating and kind. A keeper of secrets perhaps?

  Truly, at this moment, it didn’t seem as if anything could go amiss.

  Together they crossed the cavernous foyer of the castle and took the first set of stairs to her left.

  She nearly tripped on the burgundy runner when she spotted the portrait hanging upon the wall.

  The canvas was absolutely massive, larger than most people’s walls. The subject stared at her in such an evocative way that she’d missed her footing!

  “Who is that?” she queried, surprised at the depth of her own voice. Imagine being so stunned by a portrait!

  “Oh,” replied Lady Carmondy with a fond smile. “That is my son.”

  “Yes, that’s Uncle Gideon,” Alistair said, his chest puffed with pride.

  She blinked. That was their Uncle Gideon.

  The one who suggested that governesses were not given to marry.

  Well, he likely didn’t know any such ladies. Not a fellow like that, she thought to herself.

  Gideon MacAlister peered down at her
with arrogant eyes that seemed to dance with a secret amusement.

  Goodness those orbs were a deep blue.

  No. Not just blue. Cerulean.

  In fact, they were so intense she felt certain that the artist must have taken significant and flattering liberties with his visage.

  No person had eyes of such a remarkable hue.

  The jet-black hair about his face was positively preposterous. No man had raven’s wing hair that seemed to dance about their chiseled cheekbones with playful abandon. He wore a dark green coat, but the great plaid of green, gold, and black swathed over his shoulder and pleated about his waist was breathtaking. She’d never seen a man’s limbs before.

  His were quite a sight.

  Once again, she felt certain that the artist had flattered the subject.

  After all, the Scottish laird’s shoulders were broad, as muscled as his legs.

  His jaw was square.

  The feather in his bonnet was jaunty white, and the great silver broach affixed to the plaid on his shoulder winked a tigerish shade of alabaster.

  Laird Gideon MacAlister was everything that a hero ought to be.

  And no doubt he was just as difficult as any good novel’s leading man.

  Much to her embarrassment, she still couldn’t stop staring, even when Duncan gave her cloak a tug.

  “Yes,” Lady Carmondy laughed, her brows arching with amusement. “He is rather good looking, my dear. It likely sounds ludicrous, but it is the curse of the men of this family.”

  “Curse?” she echoed, unable to hide the skepticism from her reply.

  Lady Carmondy nodded her silvery head. “Oh yes. All the men of this family have such looks and it is a curse. Until it is a blessing. Though sometimes the blessing never comes.”

  She frowned. “I see,” Helena murmured, though she did not.

  Helena studied the boys who were to be her charges. Each one was a promising handsome devil.

  “Och,” Lady Carmondy said gently. “Never you fear, we shall teach these young men how to cope with their handsomeness and not be terrible wee Narcissuses. They’ll be proud of themselves but not fools.”

  Helena laughed. Amazed. It was a rather interesting thing to add to her curriculum. But the world was full of men who thought too well of themselves. She was rather glad to hear Lady Carmondy had no wish to raise more of them.

  “I’m sure that we shall,” Helena agreed. “Certainly one can overcome anything,” Helena teased. “Even handsomeness.”

  “To be sure,” their grandmother replied, cocking her head to the side, eyeing Helena with interest. “I do quite like your attitude, young lady. Some of the women who have come to be governesses here. . . They’ve all been rather stern and not able to fit in. You do seem as if you might be different.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” Helena said, her heart pounding.

  Astonished that her employer would say such a thing so quickly, she wondered how many governesses there had been.

  In fact, given the abrupt intensity of her curiosity, she managed, “Do forgive me, but what number am I in the line of succession?”

  The older lady laughed, her eyes sparking at the query. “My dear, you are the sixth in two years’ time.”

  Helena studied her young charges, stunned. But then she realized that Lady Carmondy had described stern women. Likely rigid old trouts who had no idea how to manage three wee rebels.

  She gave the boys a sly grin. “Are you boys really so terrible?”

  “Indeed we are!” cheered Duncan, his freckled cheeks red with pleasure.

  “Absolutely terrible,” Hamish agreed.

  “Dreadful,” added Alistair.

  She let out a dramatic sigh. “Ah, I should expect slugs in my bed then.”

  Duncan gaped at her before Hamish warned playfully, “Indeed you should.”

  Helena tsked. “Surely we’re friends now.”

  “Friends make tricks upon each other,” Alistair said with a shrug.

  Helena nodded, prepared for tests. She had no intention of engaging in a war of power. Oh no. She had other tricks.

  “Indeed they do,” she confirmed, pursing her lips. “But if you put slugs in my bed,” she said, “be wary.” She waggled her brows at them. “You’ll never know what you’ll find in yours.”

  The boys gaped at her in positive astonishment.

  “Grandmama,” Alistair exclaimed happily, “I think you have found a worthy adversary for me.”

  Lady Carmondy nodded sagely. “I would indeed take the young lady at her word. She doesn’t seem to be one who is cowed easily by propriety.”

  Oh dear, that didn’t sound particularly good. Did it?

  But Lady Carmondy did seem to be rather pleased with the interaction.

  “My grandsons are a spirited lot,” Lady Carmondy said. “And they need a spirited young governess, not some dried up old biddy.” Lady Carmondy frowned. “I don’t know why Gideon kept hiring such serious individuals. You are ideal. I’m rather surprised he hired you, given the others.”

  “Oh dear.” Helena worried the inside of her cheek. “Tell me what were the others like?”

  “Boring,” groaned Alistair, quite seriously.

  “Dull,” sneered Hamish.

  Duncan’s small face paled. “Mean.”

  “Mean?” she gasped. “How very terrible for the three of you.”

  “Och, you can only imagine,” lamented Alistair.

  She admired the drama of the oldest child.

  There was something very sincere about him.

  Something deeply emotional and something very protective towards his younger brothers.

  She looked him squarely in the eye and said sincerely, “I promise that I shall not be dull, boring, or mean. I shall be interesting, fair, and kind. How does that sound to the three of you?”

  Alistair narrowed his gaze, studying her carefully. “That sounds acceptable.”

  “It sounds bloody good!” cheered Duncan.

  “Duncan,” Lady Carmondy warned gently.

  “Sorry, Grandma.”

  Hamish grinned. “I think that we should give you a chance,” he said.

  “And I shall give you one and we shall get on like merry friends. I will do my best to take care of you.”

  The three boys looked at her with hope.

  And that, she knew, was the beginning of a very good thing indeed.

  Chapter 3

  Laird Gideon MacAlister had always absolutely loved Edinburgh.

  It was a city of beauty and magnificence.

  Few places could boast such charm or unique character. And he knew. He’d traveled a great deal over the years. The City of Edinburgh held a magic to it that no other place could match, in his opinion.

  The English could have London.

  Edinburgh was the place for poets, scientists, and great souls.

  Even so, for all its beauty, he couldn’t escape the call of the Highlands.

  In the last month, he’d grown rather tired of the literary halls, the ballrooms, the politics, the women, the men mad at him because he’d fascinated said women.

  It was damned difficult.

  Gideon well knew the danger of it.

  Several men in the long line of his family had died of duels or had been skewered by angry husbands.

  In the well over five hundred years of MacAlister men, few had learned how to cope with the passions of their lineage.

  ’Twas was a tragedy, he supposed.

  Husbands’ ire was inevitable.

  Willing wives were a necessity.

  What else could he do? Gideon was not willing to pay for love.

  That seemed to be a most unappealing transaction.

  And he certainly wasn’t about to engage in amours with young ladies who were supposed to be virgins on their wedding night. And if he did not seduce unmarried ladies, that left two kinds of women: widows and wives. Over the years, he’d had several affairs with widows, all pleasing.


  He quite liked them, but unfortunately he’d discovered that, much like debutantes, they did often hope that he might propose marriage.

  That had gotten to be a bit tricky which had left him with married women.

  Gideon tightened his gloved hands on his stallion’s reins and urged the powerful animal up the glen.

  Well, he was done with wives as well. They were far too much trouble.

  He was going to have to become a bloody monk and that seemed the most tiring state of affairs.

  But surely it was better than the last situation that he’d put himself in. He wasn’t even going to think about Marianne MacGregor.

  Quite frankly, Marianne had been in his thoughts far too often. Och, the situation with Marianne had gotten far too out of hand. A pistol, her husband, a window, and a set of drapes which had gotten Gideon all tied up, nearly leaving his leg broken. That had been the proverbial straw upon the camel’s back.

  If he’d stayed another day in the city, it was undoubtable that his name would have been smeared in the papers.

  Devil take it, he was not about to be part of a criminal conversation in the divorce courts.

  Luckily, Marianne’s husband, a man who dearly loved his port, had been somehow convinced that it had all been a great misunderstanding.

  It was fortunate that the fellow was not particularly intelligent.

  Gideon did feel sorry for Marianne in that regard, but nothing could be done. And it wasn’t as if Marianne had loved him.

  She’d loved the baubles he’d given her and the fun they’d had in bed. She’d rarely asked him a single question about his life. Actually, she might not have asked a single one, when he came to think about it. Just if he preferred port or brandy in the middle of the night.

  That was as personal as Marianne had chosen to be. Beyond bed play.

  No, it was best that he went back to his estate.

  A good bit of time by the sea was essential to his future well-being. Life at present was an ongoing, pointless slog when he was away from the Highlands.

  Whenever he returned home, he always had a great deal to do. Action was always best when he felt downcast.