The Wanton Governess. Barbara Monajem

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СКАЧАТЬ itself to terror. She had to run. She had to flee.

      No! She had to do something.

      “James, wait!” That was Sally. “Please, just let me—”

      “Too late for that,” came Simon’s drawl, and meanwhile the footsteps pounded down the passage.

      “James wasn’t supposed to be home yet,” his mother moaned.

      Think, think! There must be some way to avert disaster. Not to Pompeia herself—that was impossible—but to Sally, to whom the vouchers for Almack’s meant so much. But there wasn’t time, because it would mean convincing Sir James to talk to her privately before exposing the deception. It would mean making him want to. Inexorably, the footsteps approached the drawing-room doorway.

      I know how to make a man want to, said the Wanton Within.

      Not that! Pompeia’s rational mind screamed. Not now! But after a second’s furious pause, she realized that for once the wanton might be right. She got her feet moving and went straight for the door.

      Too late.

      He came into the room like a thunderstorm. It was James indeed, older, broader and even more beautiful than four years ago, from his dark, wavy hair and grey eyes to his well-worn leathers. The Wanton Within applauded, but mostly, Pompeia cringed. She closed her eyes, desperate to compose herself. A babble of voices roiled around her, but she was poised only for his, for the fatal words exposing her as a fraud, commanding her to leave.

      Open your eyes, said the Wanton. Look at him.

      She did. He stared back, the anger slowly draining from his features, surprise taking its place.

      That’s a good start, the Wanton said. Now, let your eyes do the talking. But Pompeia had done that once before to Sir James—accompanied by words that permitted no misunderstanding—and received a stinging refusal.

      That was then; this is now, the Wanton insisted. Smile, for pity’s sake!

      Pompeia felt her lips tremble into a travesty of a welcome.

      Sir James’s mouth quirked the tiniest bit in response. “Pompeia,” he said.

      She forced her tongue into motion. “J-James.”

      “Unbelievable.” Slowly, he shook his head. “Oh, Pompeia.”

      “Pompeia? Who’s that?” demanded the dowager, glowering at each of the frozen conspirators in turn and fixing again on James. “Why do you stare at Mary like that? What’s going on?”

      James’s brows drew together. He glanced at his grandmother. “Her name is Pompeia.” His eyes rested on her again, warmly approving. No, wickedly so.

      This was astonishingly different from the last time they’d met, when the chill in those eyes had made even the Wanton cower. No, particularly the Wanton, who had gone into hiding for quite a while after that.

      What had happened to change things?

      Ah. James did know about Pompeia’s disgrace, just as she’d assumed. And, in the way of all men, he anticipated that she would willingly be just as disgraceful with him.

      Yes! Do let’s! Just this once! the Wanton pleaded.

      “Mary?” The dowager’s voice startled Pompeia from the tumble of her thoughts. “Is this so?”

      “Mary is my second name,” she blurted. “I always use it when employed as a governess, because Pompeia sounds so…”

      “Decadent.” Simon lounged in the doorway.

      James shot him a scowl, and when he faced Pompeia again, the corners of his mouth curled in the beginnings of a grin. “It’s a delightful name and suits you perfectly, but you’d better stop brandishing that knitting needle, my dear, or I shan’t dare to come any closer.”

      But come closer he did, and plucked the needle from her white-knuckled grip. She hadn’t even noticed she was holding it. He squeezed her hand and passed the needle to his mother. Pompeia realized she had dropped the half-knitted stocking onto the carpet. Several loops had slipped off one of the other needles. “Oh, dear,” she said foolishly. “I’d better pick up those stitches before we lose them for good.”

      Sally, beside Simon in the doorway, gave a hysterical little laugh.

      “Throw that abominable excuse for a stocking into the fire,” the dowager said, but her eyes were narrowed upon James. “It is a delightful surprise to see you so soon, James. Mary or Pompeia, whatever you wish to call her, has told us all about your whirlwind romance. Now we should like to hear it from the knight errant’s point of view.”

      Unbelievable was the only word for it. Fairy tales weren’t supposed to come true.

      James sobered himself. The tension racketing through the room, and the despair on Pompeia’s lovely face, told him this was no fairy tale. What had happened to that fresh, sensual girl in the four years since he’d seen her last?

      He certainly hadn’t changed. One look, and he was smitten with the same wild urges that had gripped him years ago. He would do anything for this woman.

      Had done, actually, but he’d been a young fool then, brimming with heroic notions and principles of behaviour which, quite rightly under ordinary circumstances, didn’t include debauching a virgin. In Pompeia’s case, that had proved to be a mistake.

      He wanted her as much as ever, but he was older now, too old to rush in regardless of the consequences. He needed to find out what had happened in the intervening years and why she was here in his house. Yet even as he cautioned himself, he knew one thing for certain: if fate was indeed offering him a second chance with Pompeia Grant, he was damned well going to take it.

      “You shall hear all about it,” he told his grandmother, “once I’ve bathed and changed. And now, if you’ll excuse us, Pompeia and I need a few moments alone.”

      In the passageway, Pompeia tried to tug her hand from his. She whispered, “I’m so sorry, Sir James.”

      “Not here.” He pulled her toward the staircase, adding in a low, terse voice, “We need to speak privately, and my brother’s man is in my bedchamber. Where have they put you?”

      “In the blue guest room,” Pompeia said, “next door to your grandmother.” He released her, and she gathered her skirts and preceded him up the stairs in mingled relief and shame.

      He’s watching our derriere, the Wanton said.

      Pompeia slapped it down, banishing her gratitude for its earlier assistance. Sir James didn’t look the least bit charmed anymore. It was typically kind of him, she thought, to deal with her perfidy in private. She’d forgotten that aspect of his character, remembering only his white-faced rejection of her in the past.

      How could she have agreed to pretend to be his wife?

      He ushered her into the blue bedchamber and closed the door behind them. She hovered uncertainly in the middle of the room, clasping her hands tightly before her. This was no different from an irate employer, she told herself. She had held her head СКАЧАТЬ