Page 36 of Too Wanton to Wed
“That depends.” His gaze was uncharacteristically merry. “Do you play at cards, Miss Smythe?”
She offered a sly smile. “Iwinat cards.”
The corners of Mr. Roper’s eyes crinkled, and the faintest hint of a dimple peeked betwixt the pink scars marring one side of his face. He offered his arm. “That almost sounds like a challenge.”
“Almost?” Her sense of unreality seemed to double as she placed her fingers on the manservant’s sleeve. “Then I shall strive to choose my words more carefully.”
“If you have half as much talent as you do confidence, then perhaps my efforts are better served convincing you to be my partner, rather than my opponent.”
She glanced up at him. “Partner against whom?”
“Cook and Mrs. Tumsen. For years, the three of us have whiled away the occasional rainy evening taking turns at piquet and vingt-et-un.”
“And you’re invitingmeto join you?”
“We are begging,” he corrected with a hesitant smile. “I would have asked sooner, but we are a close group and wished to wait until we were certain you intended to stay. You cannot fathom our paroxysms of delight at finally having a fourth.”
Until tonight, Violet would not have been able to imagine Mr. Roper experiencing delight over much of anything, much less have paroxysms. But it was her own fault for not giving it a single thought. He was right to worry she might leave. She had never stayed put anywhere, and for good reason. Eventually, everything turned sour and escape became the only choice.
As much as she loved the abbey, she’d known from the first it was only temporary. No matter what, she needed to go to London, to face her charges, to clear her name. She would not be staying. But even if she could have confessed the truth, she wouldn’t do so. Mr. Roper’s invitation to join a group offriendsthrilled her more than he would ever know.
He led her down a series of tunnels to an outbuilding she had not previously visited. Candlelight glowed from beneath closed doors and spilled directly into the passageway from chambers left invitingly ajar.
This was the servants’ quarters, she realized belatedly. She’d presumed all the inhabitants of the abbey to be as isolated and solitary as the Waldegraves and herself, but what basis had she for that assumption? The abbey was enormous, and the staff must sleepsomewherewhen they were not cooking meals or cleaning chambers or trimming hedgerows or washing linens. Her status as governess elevated her just enough to be relegated to the empty wasteland between guest and servant. No doubt her sumptuous bedchamber stranded in the abbey center had been meant to entice her to stay, but its very solitude had done her no favors.
Laughter spilled from one of the adjoining chambers. Mr. Roper pushed open the door and ushered her inside.
Mrs. Tumsen and the ruddy-whiskered Cook lounged behind a large wooden table laden with playing cards, tortoise-shell markers, mother-of-pearl counting fish, gilt-edged teacups, and a silver flask.
Violet stared. The value of the carelessly strewn whist markers alone likely surpassed Mrs. Tumsen’s monthly wages. There was nothing to keep such riches—or the servants themselves—from walking right out the door, never to be seen again. Nothing except their own staunch loyalty. Unlike Mr. Waldegrave and his daughter, the staff was not permanently quarantined within this luxurious prison. They stayed day after day, year after year, because they wished to. Because they cared for him and for each other.
Still chuckling over something Mrs. Tumsen had said, Cook lumbered to his feet and held a meaty hand out to Violet. “Roper, you silver-tongued devil. You managed it, after all.”
“Miss Smythe!” Mrs. Tumsen sprang unsteadily to her feet. “I so hoped you would come. Sit, sit! Have some tea. Or rather, have a teacupwith a bit o’ Cook’s whiskey to take the edge off.”
Laughing, Violet declined the whiskey and allowed Mr. Roper to seat her at the table. In short order, the chips were distributed, the deck shuffled and dealt, and the noise level at least double its previous pitch. By the time the flask was empty, and the majority of the whist points stacked in Mr. Roper’s and her favor, she was startled to catch sight of the clock’s hands marking half-midnight.
“Have we really been playing for four hours?” she asked in surprise. Her eyelids were drooping, and her cheeks ached from laughing.
“We’vebeen playing,” Mr. Roper corrected drolly. “These two have paid more attention to their teacups than their trump cards. As much as I enjoyed having a partner with a head for the game, next time we’ll have to oppose each other if we’re to have any competition at all.”
She jerked upright. “Next time?”
Alarmed, Cook jabbed his empty flask in her direction. “You will return, will you not? At least once a week, you’ll find us right here in this very room. We’d love for you to join us.”
Violet’s insides warmed. “I would be honored.”
Chapter 15
Aweek later, Alistair still could not scrub the passionate embrace with his daughter’s governess from his mind.
At first, their occasional interactions took place in awkward silence. He, from embarrassment over his shameful behavior. She, for perhaps the same reason, although in her case it was in no way deserved. She was a woman, and he a man. She was a servant, and he the employer. She was a miracle-worker, and he a monster who had taken advantage of the moment. She had meant to comfort. He had wanted more.
He shoved his chair back from his desk with a sigh. Whathewanted was not to be had. Until Lillian was cured and his family restored, he had no right to even think about his own selfish desires, much less indulge them. And avoiding the innocent Miss Smythe was hardly beneficial. He knew what living in Waldegrave Abbey was like. By increasing her solitude, he likely had also been increasing her misery.
He pushed to his feet. He had lost his wife, and very nearly his daughter, and if he was not careful, he would soon lose the new governess as well. Perhaps, even now, she was planning to leave. Agitated, he threaded his fingers through his hair.
It had been over a month, had it not? She had surpassed the terms of their verbal arrangement. He had tried to make her stay here as comfortable as possible—and, certainly, he had not pressed his attentions on her anew—but what advantage could Waldegrave Abbey possibly offer over the thousand better situations available to a young woman? Particularly when he could hardly deny her a heartfelt recommendation, should any future employer ask for references. He doubted she could say the same. The barest moment in her company, and he was drowning in the memory of their stolen kisses, lost anew in the curve of her eyelashes or the curl of a chestnut tendril against her throat. He was abhorrent.
