Lessons In Loving (12 page)

He knew very well that he hadn't been in the company of a pretty woman for far too long. Often, he'd caught himself watching Kate, perhaps as she cleared the dinner table, or wrote on the blackboard. Then, last night. He'd been smacked between the eyeballs when he stopped by her cottage to take her to the ball. It was truly astonishing the way a woman's looks, her body, transformed when she wore pretty clothes. At the ball, she'd glowed. The others at the table had liked her too.

‘You could save yourself from bleeding for that English lass, Tom,' Harry Chambers had joked while the men had the table to themselves. ‘Looks as if you might have found some good wife material already.' He'd laughed. ‘Kate's pretty darned adorable, isn't she, Tom? And brains too. I could tell by her conversation.'

‘It's not whether she's pretty or adorable, Harry. Or intelligent,' Tom had said, ordering himself to return to the dream which had invaded his heart and soul when he met Laetitia. ‘She's here for one reason only. To help me improve my courting game, remember?'

So why had he given in to that stupid male impulse to kiss his governess as he put her to bed? Luckily she'd been asleep at the time. She'd never know it had happened. But why, why, why had he done it? It had happened without him making any conscious decision. What was that word? Spontaneous. His way of saying, ‘Get well soon'. His way of thanking her for her company. Nothing more.

The poor little thing had suffered. He'd seen her ankle in the light of the carriage lamp as he lifted her from the landau. It was already purple and swollen. And the accident was mostly his fault. He'd pushed her to wear his mother's shoes. She'd told him the heels were too high for her, then fallen silent. Perhaps she didn't want to be seen acting like a spoilt child. She'd simply decided to put up with the pain and hope for the best.

Over the next few days he'd make allowances for her suffering. But he reminded himself of the reason she was here. To coach him to court and win the hand of the beautiful Laetitia Barrington-Smythe. He loved Laetitia, didn't he? She was his future. She would give him sons—sons with noble British blood. And those sons would keep Kenilworth on the path that destiny had ordained. Distractions from that future, set in stone back in his mother's days, must never be allowed.

He walked to his room, peeled off his clothes, ready to fall into bed. But his mind buzzed. He knew he would not sleep. The first light from the morning sun winked at him through a window. It would be utterly impossible to drift off to dreamland. Not with those memories of warm, up-close dancing with Kate still churning in his brain. Not with that sudden awareness of her beauty invading his mind. How to release the head of steam hissing inside him? Those moments with Kate, as they'd floated arm in arm to the slow romantic music, had woken his raw male instincts. There was no way he could sleep now.

Something drew him to the music room. If he sat at the piano for a while, he might soothe, distract, this rampant male energy. Naked, he flicked a finger through the messy pile of music on the floor. A Beethoven piece slid out. As he set it on the music stand, he remembered his mother playing it. Damn! Even now, near twenty years after his mother's death, he could never sit at the piano without her ghost hovering over him, lecturing him about her love of the classics. For half his young life with her, they'd sat side by side on this very stool as she taught him to play.

‘You have a real talent for music, Tommy,' she'd told him a thousand times. ‘Perhaps you inherited it from me. That talent is special. Nourish it. Care for it.' After that, she'd give him what he privately came to call The Lecture of The Day. She'd covered everything, from the importance of changing his socks daily, to being sure to teach his children to play the piano. Today, the lecture would be about the absolute necessity of courting a high-born Englishwoman who didn't yet appreciate Tom's true talents.

‘I'm going to have another try at wooing Laetitia, Mother,' he murmured. ‘You needn't remind me again. You know I love Laetitia. Now I'm learning to speak properly, reckon I'll talk her round sooner or later.' He bashed out a thundering, angry arpeggio, and felt a little better. But he needed more. Much more. The mischievous thoughts jiggling in his brain must be blown away.

***

Kate woke as the sun peeked through the blinds in her bedroom. Her ankle hurt badly. The relief from the injection had well and truly worn off. She must limp to the Big House and hope Tom was awake. She needed the painkiller pills he'd said he kept for emergencies. She still wore her ball gown, minus the shoes. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she bathed, slipped into her workaday dress and a pair of comfy shoes. In the hall cupboard she found a broom. It would serve as a crutch until she arranged something better.

As she made her awkward way to the Big House, she imagined she heard a piano playing. No, that wasn't her imagination. It was real—a splendid piece of Beethoven. On an earlier exploration of the rambling mansion, she'd found the music room. Besides a piano and a harp, she'd noticed a strange machine—a polished brass trumpet projecting from a wooden box with a handle attached to its side. Later, Tom had told her it was a gramophone—a new-fangled invention that could copy music as it was played, then play it again when someone wound the handle.

Why would Tom be playing the gramophone at this time of the morning? As she neared the house, she heard the music swell, fade, then swell again. She stepped inside. Music flowed through the house. She followed the sound down the hall and into the music room. There at the piano, arms flying as he pounded the keyboard, sat Tom, shirtless. The moment he saw her, he stopped. He smiled—a smile that spoke more than words. Then, as she took in his smile, she noticed something shocking. He was naked. She watched as his smile sagged. His wide eyes told her he'd just registered his nakedness, and that she'd spotted it. As he sat with his mouth hanging half-open in horror, she spoke.

‘My apologies, maestro.' She cleared her throat. ‘I didn't know we had a famous concert pianist in residence. You're wonderful. Please don't stop.'

‘I woke you.' Concern flashed across Tom's face.

‘Indeed you didn't, Tom. But I should like to take one of those pills of yours, if I may. For pain. Remember?'

‘Oh. Yes. Your ankle. How does it …?' He stood, groped for something to hide his nudity, grabbed a cushion, the only cover within reach. ‘Er, they're in my bathroom. Excuse me.' He walked away backwards, keeping the cushion between them.

Kate dropped her improvised walking stick and flopped onto a sofa in a fit of giggles. Soon he returned, wearing trousers and shirt, carrying a bottle of pills and a glass of water. She looked away from him to read the instructions, then swallowed two pills.

‘Keep the bottle. You'll need more,' he said.

Whatever he wore, he always looked a slab of raw manliness—a veritable Adonis. And a few hours before, that Adonis had kissed her.

‘Thank you, Prince Charming,' she said with a giggle. ‘But why this piano playing? At the crack of dawn, no less.'

‘I'll confess. My mother. It's all her fault.'

‘I can guess. She taught you to play. Taught you to love music.'

‘Yes.'

‘But you have such talent. I'd never have guessed you played the classics. And so brilliantly.'

‘Blame my mother.'

‘But why at the crack of dawn?'

‘Er…'

‘Very well. Let me guess some more. The ball, the music, the old-time atmosphere, reminded you of your mother. And you couldn't resist the temptation. Crack of dawn notwithstanding?'

‘Yes.'

‘Do you know something, Tom?'

‘What?'

‘You're gifted. I know because my mother's a piano music devotee. She began dragging me to concerts when I was a babe in arms. I suppose she wanted me to catch the bug. It never happened. I love to listen, but I grew to be about as musical as a crow squawking on a barbed wire fence. I never progressed from that. But you—'

‘Yes?'

‘Forgive me, Tom. But you're sounding somewhat monosyllabic.' She waited as he deciphered her words. ‘Could it be that you need breakfast, a cup of tea? And please don't get into the habit of saying “yes” all the time. It won't impress Laetitia.'

‘Ye—thank you, Kate. I'd be delighted to join you for a refreshing cup of tea.'

‘I'll make breakfast,' Kate volunteered. ‘I can manage scrambled eggs. They're the absolute pinnacle of my repertoire.'

‘No, Kate. Not with your ankle and all that. But let's go to the kitchen. You can cheer me on from the sidelines.'

‘Very well,' Kate murmured. Before she could resist, he scooped her into his arms as if she were a ball of cottonwool, then whisked her to the kitchen. Too bad that their closeness ended so quickly, Kate thought. Within ten minutes, he'd revived the fire in the wood stove, had the kettle simmering and the scrambled eggs ready to serve.

They ate in friendly silence. The pills had swept Kate's pain away. Cheerful again, she watched Tom eat, wondering how the morning would progress.

‘I've been thinking.' Tom spoke at last.

‘Indeed? You have lots to think about. I understand that.'

‘You're coming with me.'

‘I'm what?'

‘Coming with me. To Sydney. When I go to meet Laetitia.'

CHAPTER 9

Kate reeled. ‘Taking me to Sydney?' She groped for words. ‘Excuse me, Tom. You're visiting Sydney to court the woman you love. I'd be as useful as a third leg. I'd absolutely be in the way. What would Laetitia think?'

‘A moment ago, my dear governess, you told me to stop saying “yes”,' Tom said his voice no-nonsense, practical. “Stop being monosyllabic”, you said. I've learned that's exactly the kind of thing that upsets Laetitia. But I don't know when I'm doing it.' He looked hard at Kate. ‘I need you, Kate. You'll be my protector, my governess. You'll keep an eye on things. Coach me when I need it.'

‘But as I said, what will Laetitia think?'

‘The gentry are used to it. They could hardly live without a servant or two at their beck and call. A manager of business, a wardrobe mistress, a butler. Indeed, having you around will give me a little, what word should I use? I mean a bit of a leg-up, but I can hardly say that, can I?'

‘Cachet?'

‘Good. Having you on call will give a bloke a bit of cachet. How does that sound?'

‘Well, seven out of ten. And I shouldn't say “bloke” in front of Laetitia if I were you.'

‘What should I say? Chap?'

‘Perhaps you could say “me”. It's a fine English pronoun, remember.'

‘Thank you, Miss Governess. You've proved my point. How can I trust myself to say the right word if you're not there keeping an eye on me?'

‘It sounds rather bizarre. Taking your governess with you when you go courting.'

‘Don't misunderstand me,' Tom said. ‘There'll be times when I'll need a little privacy.'

Kate winced at the thought. She juggled with the happy prospect of journeying to Sydney with Tom versus the pain of watching him court Laetitia. The idea of Tom being alone with the woman whose picture now stood on his bedside table wrenched at her fragile heart. For one last time, she let herself revisit his kiss. She absolutely must never do that again. It made the pain of his plans to marry so much worse for her. She hoped he'd keep the comings and goings of his courtship to himself. She didn't need to know the details. When a man built like Tom courted a blonde English beauty, there'd likely be scenes that polite women would shrink from imagining.

‘But I want to have you close by, accessible, twenty-four hours of the day, just in case.'

‘Your wish is my command, oh Master.'

As Kate considered Tom's plan, she saw there might be a grain of sense in it. She must ignore the vicious little worm of jealousy now gnawing at her soul. And dedicate herself, heart and mind, to forgetting The Kiss. For now, struggle as she might, she couldn't erase the memory. The handsome piece of manhood who sat opposite, making businesslike plans to court another woman, had kissed her a mere few hours before. The kiss had been sooo—Stop it! This second! she snapped to herself.

‘What do you think of Sydney?' Tom asked, evidently changing the subject.

‘Well, I suppose I like it. I've lived there all my life.' Contemplating the visit might distract Kate from the pain now smouldering inside her. ‘But I'd feel guilty. Taking a holiday at your expense.'

‘Do not fret, Governess.' Tom grinned. ‘You'll earn your keep.' Kate sat back in her chair, still wrestling with the pros and cons.

‘Where else might we visit?' Tom murmured. ‘Besides Sydney?'

‘Oh, the Blue Mountains, perhaps.'

‘Oh, yes. I believe there are several famous tourist attractions there, Kate. Have you heard of The Three Sisters?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Come, Kate. Surely you know by now that a well-brung-up gel shouldn't say “yeah”?'

Kate laughed. ‘Touché! You're a fast learner, Tom. Before we leave, you'll be teaching
me
.'

‘Yes, Miss Governess. And when will you be ready to leave?'

‘Well, whenever my master requires me. You, sir?'

‘Perhaps early April. Before we leave we shall find a pleasant place in Sydney to rent for the duration of the Barrington-Smythes' visit. Then we must settle in, and make it ready for our guests. Assuming your ankle is healed by then.'

‘I'm sure it will be. But that's barely two weeks away.'

‘Yes.'

‘You won't be ready.' Kate gulped. ‘We haven't scratched the surface of grammar yet. And as for literature …'

‘You can give me lessons on our days off in Sydney.'