Fifteen minutes later, Anne was in the same spot she’d found herself in fifteen minutes earlier, when she’d dashed down the hall and hurled herself through the first unlocked door she’d come across. Her luck being what it was (dreadful) she had ended up in some sort of dark and windowless storage room. A brief, blind exploration revealed a cello, three clarinets, and possibly a trombone.
There was something fitting in this. She had come to the room where the Smythe-Smith musical instruments came to die. And she was stuck here, at least until the insanity in the hallway was over. She had no idea what was going on out there, except that there was a great deal of shrieking involved, rather a lot of grunting, and quite a few noises that sounded sickeningly like fist on flesh.
She could find no place to sit save the floor, so she plopped down on the cold, uncarpeted wood, leaned up against a bare patch of wall near the door, and prepared to wait out the brawl. Whatever was going on, Anne wanted no part of it, but more importantly, she wanted to be nowhere near it when they were discovered. Which they surely would be, given the racket they were making.
Men. They were idiots, the lot of them.
Although there seemed to be a woman out there as well—she’d be the one doing the shrieking. Anne thought she heard the name Daniel, and then possibly Marcus, who she realized had to be the Earl of Chatteris, whom she’d met earlier in the evening. He was quite besotted with Lady Honoria . . .
Come to think of it, that did sound a bit like Lady Honoria shrieking.
Anne shook her head. This was not her business. No one would fault her for staying out of the way. No one.
Someone slammed into the wall right behind her, jolting her a good two inches across the floor. She groaned and let her face fall into her hands. She was never going to get out of here. They’d find her dried-up and lifeless body years later, flung over a tuba, two flutes making the sign of the cross.
She shook her head. She had to stop reading Harriet’s melodramas before bedtime. Her young charge fancied herself a writer, and her stories were growing more gruesome by the day.
Finally the pounding in the corridor stopped, and the men slid down to the floor (she felt this; right through the wall). One of them was directly behind her; they would have been back to back had it not been for the wall between them. She could hear them breathing hard, then talking as men did, in sentences short and terse. She didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but she could hardly help it, stuck as she was.
And that was when she figured it out.
The man who’d kissed her—he was Lady Honoria’s older brother, the Earl of Winstead! She’d seen his portrait before; she ought to have recognized him. Or maybe not. The painting had got the basics right—his coffee brown hair and finely shaped mouth—but it did not capture him truly. He was quite handsome, there was no denying that, but no paint or brushstroke could convey the easy, elegant confidence of a man who knew his place in the world and found it quite satisfactory.
Oh, heavens, she was in deep now. She’d kissed the infamous Daniel Smythe-Smith. Anne knew all about him, everyone did. He’d dueled several years earlier and had been chased out of the country by his opponent’s father. But they’d reached some sort of truce, apparently. Lady Pleinsworth had mentioned that the earl would be finally coming home, and Harriet had filled Anne in on all the gossip.
Harriet was quite helpful that way.
But if Lady Pleinsworth found out what had happened that evening . . . Well, that would be the end of Anne’s governessing, for the Pleinsworth girls or anyone. Anne had had a hard enough time getting this position; no one would hire her if it got out she’d consorted with an earl. Anxious mamas generally did not hire governesses of questionable moral rectitude.
And it wasn’t her fault. This time, it absolutely wasn’t.
She sighed. It had gone quiet in the hall. Had they finally departed? She’d heard footsteps, but it was difficult to tell how many sets of feet had been included. She waited a few more minutes, and then, once she was certain there would be nothing but silence to greet her, she turned the doorknob and carefully stepped out into the hall.
“There you are,” he said. For the second time that evening.
She must have jumped a foot. Not because Lord Winstead had surprised her, although he had done. Rather, she was astonished that he’d remained in the hall for so long in such complete silence. Truly, she hadn’t heard a thing.
But that wasn’t what made her jaw drop.
“You look awful,” she said before she could stop herself. He was alone, sitting on the floor with his long legs stretched out across the hall. Anne hadn’t thought a person could look so unsteady while sitting down, but she was quite certain that the earl would have fallen over if he hadn’t been propped up against the wall.
He lifted one hand in a floppy salute. “Marcus looks worse.”
She took in his eye, which was turning purple at the perimeter, and his shirt, which was stained with blood from heaven knew where. Or whom. “I’m not certain how that can be possible.”
Lord Winstead let out a breath. “He was kissing my sister.”
Anne waited for more, but he clearly considered this to be explanation enough. “Ehrm . . .” she stalled, because there was no etiquette book with instruction for a night like this. In the end, she decided her best bet would be to inquire about the conclusion of the altercation, rather than whatever had occurred to cause it. “Is it all worked out, then?”
His chin dipped in a magnanimous tilt. “Congratulations will be in order very soon.”
“Oh. Well. That is very nice.” She smiled, then nodded, then clasped her hands together in front of her in an attempt to keep herself still. This was all terribly awkward. What was one supposed to do with an injured earl? Who’d just returned from three years in exile? And had rather a naughty reputation before he’d been run out of the country.
Not to mention the whole kissing business a few minutes earlier.
“Do you know my sister?” he asked, sounding terribly tired. “Oh, of course you do. You were playing with her.”
“Your sister is Lady Honoria?” It did seem prudent to verify.
He nodded. “I am Winstead.”
“Yes, of course. I had been informed of your pending return.” She stretched out another awkward smile, but it did little to set her at ease. “Lady Honoria is most amiable and kind. I am very happy for her.”
“She’s a terrible musician.”
“She was the best violinist on the stage,” Anne said with complete honesty.
He laughed loudly at that. “You would do well as a diplomat, Miss . . .” He paused, waited, then pointed out, “You never did tell me your name.”
She hesitated, because she always hesitated when so questioned, but then she reminded herself that he was the Earl of Winstead and thus the nephew of her employer. She had nothing to fear from him. At least not if no one saw them together. “I am Miss Wynter,” she said. “Governess to your cousins.”
“Which ones? The Pleinsworths?”
She nodded.
He looked her straight in the eye. “Oh, you poor, poor thing.”
“Stop! They’re lovely!” she protested. She adored her three charges. Harriet, Elizabeth, and Frances might be more high-spirited than most young girls, but they had good, kind hearts. And they always meant well.
His eyebrows rose. “Lovely, yes. Well-behaved, not as much.”
There was some truth to that, and Anne could not suppress a tiny smile. “I’m certain they have matured greatly since you were last in their company,” she said primly.
He gave her a dubious look, then asked, “How did you come to be playing the piano?”
“Lady Sarah took ill.”
“Ah.” There was a world of meaning in that “ah.” “Do convey my wishes for a speedy recovery.”
Anne was quite sure that Lady Sarah had begun to feel better the moment her mother had excused her from the concert, but she merely nodded and said that she would be sure to do so. Even though she wouldn’t. There was no way she was telling anyone she’d run into the Earl of Winstead.
“Does your family know that you have returned?” she asked. She regarded him a bit more closely. He really did look quite like his sister. She wondered if he had the same remarkable eyes—a vividly pale blue, almost lavender. It was impossible to tell for sure in the dim light of the hallway. Not to mention that one of his eyes was rapidly swelling shut. “Other than Lady Honoria, of course,” she added.
“Not yet.” He glanced toward the public area of the house and grimaced. “Much as I adore every last soul in that audience for bringing themselves to attend the concert, I’d rather not make such a public homecoming.” He looked down at his disheveled state. “Especially not like this.”
“Of course not,” she said quickly. She couldn’t even begin to imagine the commotion were he to walk in on the post-musicale reception bruised and bloodied.
He let out a little groan as he shifted position on the floor, then muttered something beneath his breath that Anne was fairly certain she was not meant to hear. “I should go,” she blurted out. “I’m terribly sorry, and . . . ehrm . . .”
She told herself to move, she really did. Every last corner of her brain was screaming at her to come to her senses and get out of there before someone came along, but all she could think was—he’d been defending his sister.
How could she abandon a man who did that?
“Let me help you,” she said, against all better judgment.
He smiled weakly. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
She crouched down to get a better look at his injuries. She’d treated her share of cuts and scrapes, but never anything like this. “Where are you hurt?” she asked. She cleared her throat. “Other than the obvious spots.”
“Obvious?”
“Well . . .” She pointed gingerly toward his eye. “You’ve a bit of a bruise there. And there . . .” she added, motioning to the left side of his jaw before moving on to his shoulder, which was visible through his ripped and bloodied shirt. “ . . . and over there.”
“Marcus looks worse,” Lord Winstead said.
“Yes,” Anne replied, biting back a smile. “You’d mentioned.”
“It’s an important detail.” He gave her a loopy grin, then winced and brought his hand to his cheek.
“Your teeth?” she asked worriedly.
“They all seem to be in place,” he mumbled. He opened his mouth, as if testing the hinge mechanism, then closed it with a groan. “I think.”
“Is there someone I can get for you?” she asked.
His brows rose. “You wish for someone to know you’ve been here alone with me?”
“Oh. Of course not. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
He smiled again, that dry half grin that made her feel rather squirmy on the inside. “I have that effect on women.”
Any number of retorts sprang to mind, but Anne bit them all back. “I could help you to your feet,” she suggested.
He cocked his head to the side. “Or you could sit and talk to me.”
She stared at him.
Again, that half smile. “It was just an idea,” he said.
An ill-advised idea, she thought immediately. She had just kissed him, for heaven’s sake. She should not be anywhere near him, certainly not beside him on the floor, where it would be so easy to turn to him, and tip her face toward his . . .
“Perhaps I could find some water,” she blurted out, her words spewing forth so quickly she almost had to cough. “Have you a handkerchief? You will want to clean your face, I should think.”
He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wrinkled square of cloth. “The finest Italian linen,” he quipped in a tired voice. He frowned. “Or at least it once was.”
“I’m sure it will be perfect,” she said, taking it from him and folding it to her liking. She reached out and dabbed it against his cheek. “Does this hurt?”
He shook his head.
“I wish I had some water. The blood has already dried.” She frowned. “Have you any brandy? In a flask, perhaps?” Gentlemen often carried flasks. Her father had. He had rarely left home without it.
But Lord Winstead said, “I don’t drink spirits.”
Something about his tone startled her, and she looked up. His eyes were on hers, and she caught her breath. She hadn’t realized how close she’d leaned in.
Her lips parted. And she wanted . . .
Too much. She had always wanted too much.
She pulled back, unsettled by how easily she’d swayed toward him. He was a man who smiled easily, and often. It didn’t take more than a few minutes in his company to know this. Which was why the sharp and serious edge to his voice had transfixed her.
“But you can probably find some down the hall,” he said suddenly, and the strange, captivating spell was broken. “The third door on the right. It used to be my father’s study.”
“At the back of the house?” It seemed an unlikely place.
“There are two entrances. The other side opens onto the main hall. There shouldn’t be anyone there, but you’ll want to be careful when you go in.”
Anne rose to her feet and followed his directions to the study. Moonlight filtered through the window, and she easily found a decanter. She brought the whole thing back with her, carefully shutting the door behind her.
“On the shelf by the window?” Lord Winstead murmured.
“Yes.”
He smiled a bit. “Some things never change.”
Anne pulled out the stopper and put the handkerchief over the vessel’s opening, sloshing a healthy dose of brandy onto the cloth. The scent of it was instant and permeating. “Does that bother you?” she asked with sudden concern. “The smell?” In her last position—right before she’d come to work for the Pleinsworths—her young charge’s uncle had drunk too much and then stopped. It had been monstrously difficult to be near him. His temper was even worse without the alcohol, and if he so much as smelled a hint of it, he nearly went mad.
Anne had had to leave. For that and other reasons.
But Lord Winstead just shook his head. “It’s not that I can’t drink spirits. I choose not to.”
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?”