The Wallflower's Wicked Wager (The Wallflower Wins Book 2) Page 6

  “Do lead us in,” she suggested. “I am most eager to enjoy your cook’s rather lovely dinners.”

  He laughed again, something he seemed prone to do. “I should not like to keep you from enjoying it,” he said. “I’m glad to hear you have a good appetite.”

  “One must when looking after your nephews,” she replied, unoffended. She did not care to eat like a bird. Why should she?

  “They do run one off their feet, don’t they?” he agreed as he walked forward, gently guiding her. “They are a wonderful group of boys.”

  “I think so too,” she replied, relieved to be discussing something so safe. “It is a pity you need to be away so often.”

  “It is,” he said, his voice hard.

  From the tightness of his unusually rich voice, she realized she had displeased him, even before they were seated. She’d been so certain that their relationship was going well, but now she knew she was off-foot.

  My goodness, he was an interesting fellow. She had thought that conversation about his nephews would be the safest thing of all, but it appeared to be the most dangerous.

  Should she limit her conversation to the weather?

  It seemed ridiculous, but there it was.

  As he led her through to the small dining room laid out with blue porcelain plates, beautiful shining silver, and crystal goblets, he easily escorted her to her chair and held the chair for her.

  He then took his own seat, and the gentle mirth that had been about him vanished. He began to drink his wine and sip his soup in silence.

  She was quiet and tense for a moment, taking up her own soup spoon and looking at the food before her. She ate quietly, trying to make sense of why their easy banter had vanished so quickly.

  Refusing to be undone by it, she lifted her chin and said, “Very fine weather, don’t you think?”

  His jaw tightened for a moment and then his eyes lit. Those cerulean depths brightened with amusement. “Yes, very fine weather. A most interesting observation.”

  “Well,” she said, “I should like to keep our conversation flowing, for I do not care for the silence of a quiet room.”

  “An only child, then?” he said. “You conversed a great deal with your parents at the table?”

  He wasn’t entirely accurate but nor was he far from the mark. “Well guessed, sir. Well guessed.”

  “You are a mystery, Miss Highbury,” he observed as he took up his wine glass.

  “Is that a bad thing or a good thing?” she asked. She too took up her wine and sipped it, savoring the feel of the cool, cut crystal beneath her fingers.

  “Oh, a bit of a mystery is always a good thing,” he ventured. “Surprising in a governess, but a good thing, nonetheless. For I dearly love to solve a mystery.”

  She shook her head and said boldly, “You shall not solve me, sir, for there is nothing to be found. I am most straightforward.”

  He cocked his head to the side, his perfectly pressed shirt points touching his jaw. “That, Miss Highbury, I doubt very much. Honest,” he said, “but not straightforward.”

  Helena could not draw breath as those cerulean eyes peered at her.

  And the longer he peered, the more she was certain she was in very deep danger indeed.

  Chapter 5

  As soon as he had finished his last spoonful of the delightful vanilla cream and strawberry dessert, he pushed his chair back.

  Without conversation, he escorted Miss Highbury to the drawing room and bowed.

  “Good evening,” he said simply and turned posthaste, completely aware she thought him mad.

  He retreated from the drawing room, and Miss Highbury, in a state of consternation.

  What the devil had happened?

  Why was he so intrigued by her?

  He’d declared that he found her to be a mystery and that he liked mysteries. And it was true, he did indeed like mysteries, and she was indeed a mystery!

  But bloody hell, he could not be intrigued by a mysterious governess. That was not allowed. Damnation. He was not going to be intrigued by the governess of his nephews.

  Such a thing was beyond possibility.

  He could not risk the future of the boys’ happiness by being interested in the bloody governess.

  And he had to be honest with himself, what he felt was not a passing interest. It was not mere intellectual curiosity. There was something about her that drew him to her.

  It was imperative he control it immediately.

  He nearly threw his hands up in frustration.

  Oh, he supposed that storming to his room might be the best thing, but the energy that was suddenly pulsing through him suggested that going to his bedroom and pacing the floor there would be a very poor decision.

  Gideon strode out of the castle, headed out towards the sea loch, and determined that a walk in the moonlight really was the only course for him.

  He’d come to the castle for peace.

  Peace would not exist with Miss Highbury, and that was alarming.

  Why was she so intriguing? So inspiring.

  Most men would simply see that she was plain. He? He saw that she was witty, interesting, and had the most playful way of looking at him. There was something about her that was warm and lovely and ever-so-slightly cheeky.

  Her entire presence was comforting and compelling, and… He threw his hands into the air. He was indeed a fool to be even thinking such things.

  He was used to seductresses who gave him a side-look through half-lidded dark lashes and sashayed their hips as they walked into a side room off a ballroom, hoping that he would follow. Miss Highbury met his eyes with a bold stare, a quirk of her lips, and she proclaimed things easily.

  He liked her for it, and that was it.

  He liked her for being bold and strong and interesting and not at all acting as if he was a handsome fellow.

  She had not swooned.

  She had not batted her lids.

  She had not gone pink cheeked. There had been that one moment by the loch, but that was to be expected.

  No, it was he who was the one who had been astonished by her. It was refreshing and fascinating, and that was not a good thing at all. He did not want to be fascinated.

  Gideon stormed down the loch shore and walked and walked and walked until, at last, he decided that there was only one thing to do.

  He stripped off his clothes and dove into the icy water, enjoying the silver rays of the moon upon the surface.

  The cold water pierced his thinking, which was dangerously close to the idea of slipping Miss Highbury’s pale silk gown from her shoulders, and brought him back to himself.

  Who was he?

  A fool or a man?

  Surely he could pull himself together and be perfectly fine in Miss Highbury’s company.

  He wouldn’t imagine the curve of her breast fitting into his palm.

  No, he bloody wouldn’t.

  Och, the cold water had brought him back to himself.

  He was a formidable fellow and a young lady, a governess, was not going to shake him.

  Certainly not.

  He was made of stronger stuff than that.

  Chapter 6

  It was unquestionable that Gideon MacAlister was avoiding her, and she didn’t mind. She needed him to avoid her. She needed to avoid him because whenever she came into close vicinity with him, she felt that ridiculous electric spark again, as if the room was suddenly catching on fire and there was no air to breathe.

  It was most alarming and most upsetting.

  Surely that occurred to every young lady in his presence? But Helena wondered if he felt that way with every young lady.

  It must be impossible. It was a rather arrogant thing to assume that he also felt what she felt, given her person, but she was fairly certain that he did because of his avoidance.

  Whenever she came into a room, he gave a quick bow and darted out. Whenever they were near each other in the garden, he also gave a quick bow and turned in the opposi
te direction. His behavior was so clear that his nephews had begun to make comment upon it, asking what the devil was wrong with Uncle Gideon.

  She did not know.

  Helena highly doubted that he was allergic to her or that she had done something to offend him because he wasn’t rude or terse to her.

  He simply kept out of her presence.

  She had a terrible yet fascinating suspicion that he found her far too interesting for his own good.

  Perhaps he was a rake and couldn’t avoid the idea of seducing every lady that came into his presence, even the plain ones.

  There, that’s what she needed to think on.

  He seduced every young lady, and she was not special at all. Except he had been rather firm in the idea that he did not seduce just anyone, and she’d liked that about him—that he wasn’t a foolish rake who had to conquer every lady who came into his presence.

  The sound of laughing boys lifted her attention away from Laird MacAlister and the manuscript that she kept trying to write.

  She beamed at the distraction.

  The boys were so happy playing with the ball upon the green field, running back and forth, tackling each other until, at last, Alistair ran towards her.

  “Come on then, aren’t you going to join us?” Alistair all but demanded, though his eyes were full of boyish hope.

  He kicked the ball in her direction, for they had discovered she was quite excellent with her foot. She nodded, eager to join him, even though she could seldom find more than ten minutes strewn together to do a bit of writing.

  It was most frustrating, considering what she had planned upon, that she was going to write a three-volume novel in no time. Still, she found that she enjoyed the boys so much that she could not think of it with trouble too deeply.

  At least, she was away from London and the machinations of her kind aunt and uncle, who were attempting to marry her off.

  Here she had a sort of independence where she didn’t have to worry about such things. So she bounded to her feet and ran along with the three beautiful children, kicking the ball this way and that, laughing as they kicked it towards her.

  She did not have to worry about being full of decorum and doing the things that an unmarried wallflower must. No, she could be wild and full of heart, just like her charges.

  Gideon strode across the garden and watched the three children and Miss Highbury run away with the ball into the next field at the base of the glen.

  They were kicking it most furiously. She was excellent with them.

  It was undeniable, and all the more reason to stay away from her. She was an excellent player with the ball too. She kicked it as if she had been doing so her entire life.

  What a curious person she was. Miss Highbury was not the sort of governess to sit by the sidelines shouting out orders. No, she played with them.

  He’d noticed the way she governed them from the windows, from a distance, sometimes from behind a tree. He was watching her. It was a horrible thing to realize.

  He was not that sort of fellow. He did not generally watch young women.

  No, they watched him, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from her. She was so bloody captivating. So whenever he’d gotten too near her, he’d had to force himself to depart because he knew that the more time he spent with her, the more time he would wish to spend with her. And then what would he do?

  Because he would never be able to have a simple sort of friendship with her. If he could have, he would have had no problem with it at all, but those mischievous lips of hers. . . They kept calling to him.

  He wanted to find out how they felt beneath his, and so he had to avoid her at all possible costs.

  As soon as she and the boys headed down towards the path winding to the loch, the ball in hand, he headed to the tree she’d been sitting under.

  He didn’t know why.

  Perhaps because he simply wished to be in the presence of where she had been, a preposterous thought, but then he noticed the small writing desk that she had left behind.

  It was deplorable, he knew, but he could not stop himself.

  He stared at the cherry wood, contemplated his next action, and then looked up to the castle, wondering if anyone was watching him.

  At last, despite knowing he should not, he knelt down beside it.

  Gently, he touched the quill she had likely held just moments before between her fingers and he felt an odd sort of pleasure at it. Holding something that she had touched.

  Damnation. ’Twas as if he was a boy in his first blush of amour again.

  It was romantic drivel, his actions.

  He was being a fool. This was not the sort of fellow that he was. With a sigh of frustration, he put the quill down, but then he noticed a sheaf of papers sticking just slightly out from the folding desk. He lifted the lid, shocked at his own appalling behavior.

  He was not a sneak, but apparently he was, at least in regards to Miss Highbury.

  He studied the words on the open page, assuming he would find a letter to a friend or home, and he would not be so horrible as to read her correspondence.

  That would be far too low, but then he realized that it was not a letter discussing the events of Scotland or Cornwall at all. It was about a young lady who was desperately trying to break free from the bonds of captivity in the high tower of some castle in Scotland.

  Dear God, it was a work of fiction.

  His eyes scanned the pages and he read quickly.

  And it was quite good.

  He turned and turned and turned each parchment sheet, devouring the words whole. She was a writer. Miss Helena Highbury wrote fiction, and he could not stop reading it.

  It was positively captivating and a bit horrifying. He couldn’t decide if it was horror or romance or some combination thereof. It was very dramatic indeed, worthy of Mrs. Radcliffe certainly.

  Bloody hell, would the young woman escape the clutches of her captor, the insidious Lord Dalton?

  He did not know, but what he did know was that Dalton looked a good deal like him. From raven’s wing hair, to cerulean blue eyes, to chiseled cheeks, a hard square jaw, and a deep accent.

  He was the central character of her story, except he was no villain. He was no man to hold a heroine captive in a tower, yet here he was on the page, the villain of the piece.

  Gideon did not know if he should be offended or delighted that he should take such a central part in her writing. He wondered if she wished to be published. The manuscript certainly should be.

  It was that good.

  It was so much fun, so enjoyable.

  He imagined sitting by the fire, sipping wine, reading it throughout the small hours. Then he got to the last page.

  Devil take it, it wasn’t finished.

  What the blazes was going to happen to the heroine next?

  Was Lady Anthea going to escape or was she going to fall madly in love with her captor?

  This was a disaster.

  How was he going to find out?

  Gideon tucked the sheaf of papers back into the writing desk and wondered what to do next. He couldn’t very well tell her that he’d been reading it and demand to know what happened in subsequent chapters. Could he?

  It would look like the worst sort of invasion of privacy, but what was he to do?

  He wanted to know what occurred and then another thought struck him.

  What the devil was she doing being a governess? She was a talented writer who was clearly capable of writing tales worthy of any published novelist.

  Miss Helena Highbury deserved to be an author and, much to his sudden amazement, he knew he wished to encourage her.

  As an employer, that was the last thing he should wish to do. But if she had such talent and such capability, who was he to stand in her way?

  The world should be allowed to read her stories. They were so, well, full of life and vigor, even if he was depicted as the villain.

  Gideon sat for a moment on his heels.

>   How could he assist her?

  How long had she been writing this novel?

  He wagered weeks, at the very least.

  What time did she have to work? None.

  There he could help her, couldn’t he?

  Surely he could find a way to motivate her to finish it?

  A wager. What if he made a wager with her?

  Was there something stopping her from finishing? Was it simply time? Or something else. He would have to find out, no matter the cost.

  Chapter 7

  Helena rushed into the castle, hair wild about her face, her cheeks windburned, full of general joy.

  The boys were upstairs having a bath with their nursery maid which gave her a little time off.

  A long walk contemplating her next plot point had invigorated her. Most important, she had found her manuscript beneath the tree where she’d left it.

  She adjusted the writing desk as she rushed up the stairs. But just as she turned to head towards the back stairs, she stopped short. Her skirts swung about her legs as she took in the imposing figure before her.

  Laird MacAlister stood in the hallway looking dark and far too mysterious for his own good.

  “Come,” he said before turning and heading down the hall to his office.

  She hesitated.

  There was such an authoritarian note to his voice that she was quite surprised. He sounded a good deal more like the hero of her novel than her own generally pleasant employer who avoided her at every opportunity.

  Now, he was seeking her out, commanding her to come with him.

  She swallowed and did as she was told, smoothing her errant locks back from her face.

  “Is there something amiss, Laird MacAlister?” she asked as she entered his domain.

  “Indeed there is,” he said.

  Her stomach plummeted towards her booted toes.

  Had he found out that she was not at all a simple governess? Had he discovered that she was the daughter of someone from London, who had prospects, who was not completely disadvantaged, and that she had deceived him?

  Dear god, had he learned she had never been a governess before?