The Wallflower's Wicked Wager (The Wallflower Wins Book 2) Page 9

  Gideon stopped and knelt down by his nephew. “No, Duncan, I don’t. She’s not a sort of young lady that I should marry.”

  “Why not?” Duncan protested, his eyes narrowing with loyalty to the lady he clearly loved so well. “She’s a good person.”

  “Yes, she is,” Gideon agreed. “But that doesn’t mean that I should marry her.”

  “You like her, and she likes you. You should,” Duncan insisted.

  “Does she indeed?” he asked gently.

  “Oh yes,” Duncan said, his pale blue eyes lighting up. “I can tell that too. She looks at you when she thinks you’re not looking, and you look at her when you think she’s not looking, and you both have the funniest expressions upon your face. I think you are both in love.”

  Gideon wanted to laugh, but he could not.

  In love?

  He’d never been in love with anyone. The idea was absolutely patently ridiculous. Wasn’t it?

  What was that sort of love anyway?

  He’d been very careful to eschew it. His family had a terrible tendency of losing people at very early ages.

  His father had died of a heart condition in his early forties, his sister had died in an accident with her husband, and, well, he didn’t fancy the idea of marrying someone and then leaving them, especially if they had children.

  But he knew that he was going to have to.

  It was his duty, after all.

  Would Miss Highbury suit?

  “Duncan,” he said, “you’re a very interesting fellow. Now, I think you should find some worms so that we can do some proper fishing.”

  “If you say so, Uncle,” Duncan replied with a dramatic sigh. “But I really do think that you should wed Miss Highbury. She’ll make you very happy. She’s made the rest of us very happy.”

  Gideon nodded at that. He couldn’t deny it. The boys were positively thriving under her care, and that was also why he had said this morning that he hoped that she would not leave.

  And he meant it.

  It was a risk he was taking, ensuring that she become a writer, supporting her in it. Because if she became an independent writer, she might decide to abandon them all.

  Really, the wisest course of action would be for him to order her to stop writing altogether.

  But he could not do such a thing any more than he could order a bird to never fly again.

  It was what she was truly meant to do. But it seemed also that she was meant to be a part of his family, for the boys loved her in a way… Oh dear god, he had said it, hadn’t he?

  They loved her.

  They did.

  They looked at her as if she was some sort of mythical being come to bring happiness to their lives, like an angel or a fairy.

  Had she?

  Had the universe brought her into their lives so that they could all find some sort of relief from the general melancholy that had been a part of their existence for the years since his sister had died?

  Perhaps. But he shook the thought away. He would not give it credence right now. They barely knew each other, after all.

  And Duncan, well, he was just a young boy who fancied… Well, Duncan was a wise young soul. There was no arguing that.

  But he was not about to go offering Miss Highbury his hand in marriage. True, she was a good person. She was kind, and she was intelligent. Oh botheration!

  Now he was thinking of asking her down to the kirk to wed. It was a most strange state of affairs, given his usual interactions with ladies.

  Marrying the governess indeed! It was the plot of a novel.

  Surely a rake like he was meant to simply seduce her, not to marry her. But then again, he was not that sort of rake. He never had been, and he never would be.

  But he could not escape the fact that he longed to possess her, and her mischievous eyes and lips, with every fiber of his being.

  There was no denying it.

  Dear God. Could he marry the governess? Wouldn’t his mother be horrified? Wouldn’t all of society be horrified?

  Would she even say yes? It was hard to imagine.

  And would they be able to make each other happy? He doubted it very much.

  He’d never really given much thought to making his wife happy in marriage. He assumed it would be a business affair of some sort. And yet his parents had been happy. His mother was full of sorrow almost every day, and he knew it was because she missed his father so very much.

  He would not wish to do something like that to Helena. No. A marriage was meant to be a business arrangement, or otherwise everyone would become hurt. And he had no desire to hurt Helena. Or himself.

  Chapter 11

  Goodness gracious, if he thought that she was going to be able to write after a kiss like that, Laird MacAlister was positively mad.

  Helena paced back and forth in her room, staring at her writing desk as if it was the enemy.

  How on earth was she going to focus without thinking about his lips upon hers?

  The feel of him? My goodness! She’d never felt anything like it in her entire life. It had made her want to give way entirely to him. But she knew that was a fool’s errand.

  If she did, her life would be in shambles. She could not risk ruination. She was not in the financial position to do so.

  And she feared that if she allowed him to ruin her, his demeanor might alter towards her entirely. Did not history and all society warn of such things?

  No, she could not risk it, even if he did not seem to be such a nefarious fellow.

  Helena looked at her hand, then gently touched her lips, recalling the feel of him upon her. The taste of mint upon his tongue. It had been the most glorious moment of her life, and oh how she wished for more.

  She could scarce fathom that he had mentioned the word patron.

  Her aunt and uncle would never agree to such a thing.

  They would insist, even if there were no proposals imminent, she marry and run a household.

  If she married a man who did not approve of her writing, she would never have time to write.

  But here Laird MacAlister was assuring her that he would ensure that she could write. Then he had proved such a wish by sending her up to her room to write.

  It was a remarkable thing.

  Recalling that moment, she realized she must not miss the opportunity that she’d been given. Drawing herself up, she turned to her desk, then took up her place in her chair.

  She stared at the blank page—a new one, of course—and wrote the word Chapter.

  Her heart brimming with hope, she began to tell the next stage of the story, whereupon the hero and the heroine began to understand each other, to see the good parts and to love each other.

  Her heart swelled as she wrote about the way he enjoyed her turn of phrase, and the way she played the piano with such fervor, and her wild hair, as he fell rapturously under her spell.

  Yes, it was going to go very well indeed for these two characters. It had all seemed most confusing at the beginning, but now she could see exactly how it was supposed to go, and she was positively thrilled.

  She also thrilled at the fact that MacAlister wished her to write so much.

  Perhaps this evening she would read him a few chapters and see what he thought of the adventures of her hero and heroine.

  She longed to hear what other people thought, and she so seldom got to share her work with anyone. Could she share it with him? Perhaps she would.

  Chapter 12

  “Was it a good day?” Helena asked as she tucked Duncan into his bed.

  “Oh yes,” Duncan exclaimed as he snuggled down into the perfectly pressed snowy sheets. “Most marvelous. Was yours very good?”

  “I had a lovely day,” she confessed, stroking a lock of his dark hair back from his lovely face. “Thank you. I spent it writing my stories, you know.”

  “Will you read them to us at some point?” asked Alistair, propping himself up on his elbow on his bed.

  She eyed her eldest c
harge. “They are perhaps meant for adults, but I shall write some special stories for you. How would that be?”

  Hamish nodded, his beautiful eyes brightening at the idea. “Yes, please.”

  “Then I will,” she said. Gazing at the three boys, her heart filled with love. How had it happened in such a short time? She cared so deeply about their futures and their happiness.

  She loved them.

  “Now, you must all have sweet dreams.”

  The last vestiges of sunlight were fading away on this summer’s night. And the boys were quiet in their beds as she bid them, “Goodnight, my dears.”

  She strode to the door and said, as she always did, “I shall see you in the morning. If you do need anything, your nurse is in the other room. And, of course, if it is an emergency, you may come and find me. But only if it’s an emergency.” Along with the reminder, she wagged her finger at them playfully.

  If she did not, they would all pop into her bed at various times of the night.

  And besides, tonight she would be writing.

  “Goodnight, Miss Helena,” they all said.

  She blew them a kiss and, with that, she gently closed the door behind her.

  For a moment, she stood in the hall.

  Helena pressed her hand to her middle and drew in a deep breath. It had been such a remarkable day. Usually she spent the entire day with them, but instead she had written the whole day and now she had bid them goodnight.

  It seemed so strange to be essentially given a holiday from her usual daily routine for the last several weeks, but she had used it and used it well.

  She had written several chapters.

  Her fingers ached, her shoulders were tense, but her mind was filled with satisfaction.

  She quickly walked down the hall, ready to head back to her room and begin another chapter, but then she realized that she was hungry.

  She had forgotten to eat.

  Suddenly, she heard footsteps down the hall.

  “I’ve arranged a tray for you,” Laird MacAlister announced from the shadows.

  “You have?” she asked, surprised. No one had ever done such a thing for her before.

  “Indeed I have.” He gave her a knowing smile. “Surely you’re hungry? I’ve heard you’ve not eaten a single thing this very day.”

  “It’s true,” she confessed, rubbing her tired right hand. “I got completely swept up in my writing and forgot to request anything.”

  “Forgetting to eat is all well and good in a novel,” he said, “but not in real life. In real life, people need sustenance to write, don’t they?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” she agreed, laughing.

  “Come along,” he urged, gesturing for her to head down the hall before him. “I’ve arranged for the tray in the library. And then when you’re done, you may do as you wish. Of course, you can stay and converse with me or you may return to writing.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “Are you going to try to seduce me?”

  “Of course I am,” he said cheerfully.

  Once again, she laughed at that. For, once again, she couldn’t quite believe him.

  The kiss had been remarkable, but the idea of him, the notoriously handsome Gideon MacAlister, actively seducing her just seemed so terribly silly and unbelievable. But she followed him happily down the stairs, still amazed to find another adult and a laird at that, who was so eagerly supporting her dreams.

  She didn’t truly understand how she could go from London with her own family, her dear aunt and uncle who gave no credit at all to her hopes, to a man she barely knew at all who seemed determined to make certain that her dreams came true.

  It was very strange, but she appreciated him for it. How could she not?

  As soon as they entered the cavernous library, which proved his love of books, she placed her hands behind her back and happily walked among the many leather-bound volumes that were stacked carefully upon row after row of shelves.

  “How long do you think your family has been collecting books?” she asked.

  “Long before the printing press,” he said easily. “Our family has always put a great deal of importance into the written word. Perhaps the fostering of a writer’s ambition is simply in my blood,” he said. He paused, then added, “If possible, I think my family would have encouraged the monks to write the Book of Kells.”

  She grinned. “How wonderful. My aunt and uncle? They don’t put any particular store in writing. I think they appreciate a good novel every now and then, but beyond that, I don’t think it’s really in their interest.”

  “Your aunt and uncle?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she replied.

  He studied her quietly then asked, “Not your mother and father?”

  “They died when I was rather young,” she said, “which is why I think I feel a particular affinity to your nephews.”

  “I see. I’m terribly sorry,” he replied without the challenging and uncomfortable sympathy that most people gave.

  “My parent’s death changed my life, of course, but my aunt and uncle are dear, kind people.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I should hate to think of you as entirely alone in this world.”

  “Oh, I am not entirely alone as some are,” she corrected quickly. “I’m actually quite lucky.”

  “But they could not allow you to stay at home and write?”

  “They don’t approve of my writing,” she said, looking away.

  “I beg your pardon,” he asked, as he uncorked the decanter of wine and poured her out a glass of deep ruby red liquid.

  “They don’t approve,” she repeated, hating to admit it but it shouldn’t have surprised him. There were few truly acceptable positions for a lady.

  “How could they possibly not approve?” He shook his head. “Your work—”

  “Young ladies don’t write,” she cut in quickly. “At least not for income. They only do it for pleasure.”

  “And you wish to do it for income?” he prompted as he handed her the glass of wine.

  “Oh yes, I wish to be published,” she breathed as she took the glass. Their fingers met for a single instant and she could scarce think before she forced herself to add, “There’s no question in it.”

  His fingers trailed away slowly, and he asked, “Would you read to me what you wrote today?”

  She searched his face for any sign that he was merely humoring her. She found none. “You truly wish me to?”

  “Helena, you vastly underestimate how dearly I wish to know what happens next.”

  She laughed. How could she not? “Your enthusiasm surprises me.”

  He took up his own wine glass and contemplated her over it as he sipped. “Once other people read your books,” he began, “you’ll be astonished by how well they are received, I think. You will have more admirers than you could have ever dreamed.”

  “It never occurred to me that I should have admirers,” she said, hardly able to fathom such a thing.

  “Your books will be the talk of the town,” he said with unwavering confidence.

  She arched a skeptical brow, even if she felt a leap of hope and excitement at his words. “You, sir, seem to have a very rosy outlook on my future.”

  “So should you, except I’m not entirely certain how you shall be a governess and a writer at once.” His face grew serious, the playfulness of the moment fading away. “I hate to say such a thing, for I would loathe to lose you. The boys adore you. Will you leave us once you become a famous writer or will you stay as we discussed?”

  With false bravado, he waggled his brows as if he was teasing her. Yet she noted the serious tone to his voice.

  “That is a very difficult question,” she replied before she took a fortifying drink of the rich wine. “For I dearly care for the boys. It is a difficult question, I think, for all governesses. They must come to love their charges in some way or another, but then they are only professionals and not actually family.”

/>   “That’s true,” he replied honestly, “but you seem to have formed a unique and special bond with them. Young Duncan thinks the world of you.”

  “I think the world of him,” she responded, unable to hide how special she found the children. The boys lit her heart with joy every day, from the moment they woke to the moment they slept, even when they were driving her absolutely mad. Often one of them was running about hiding chocolates here and there or plotting pranks against each other. They also looked out for each other in the most touching ways, exchanging hugs every morning and night.

  “I don’t know what the answer is,” she admitted. “Perhaps I will be able to do both.”

  “Perhaps,” he allowed, “or perhaps we shall think of something else.”

  “Oh,” she said, feeling strangely nervous discussing her future. “Like the cottage on your estate. I quite liked that idea. I could be a friend of the boys forever then.” She grinned, a picture forming in her head. “I’ll be an old lady telling their children stories.”

  Instead of the amused look she’d expected, Laird MacAlister did not smile, but rather he said seriously, “Duncan had a different idea.”

  “Did he?” she queried, then took another sip of wine.

  “Yes.”

  “And what was that?” she asked, adoring the small boy for thinking of her.

  Laird MacAlister set his wine glass down. “He thinks I should marry you.”

  “Should what?” she gasped, the wine glass nearly slipping from her fingers in her astonishment.

  Undaunted, he affirmed, “He thinks I should marry you.”

  “You told him the idea is absurd, of course?” she rushed, even as her own heart did the most treacherous dance at the idea.

  How foolish could she be!

  “Of course,” he said, “but Duncan doesn’t seem to see it that way. He sees it very simply, like one of your stories. The prince and the princess meet in a ballroom, clap eyes upon each other, fall in love, and all is done.”

  “Ah,” she replied, nodding, determined to calm her own riotous heart. “But we have not clapped eyes upon each other and fallen in love, now have we?”