Octavius and the Perfect Governess: Pryor Cousins #1 Page 12

  She lost the ability to think, to speak, to move. Blood rushed in her ears and thrummed in her veins.

  “Father says she wasn’t a heroine. He says she was a fool. And he says her husband was a fool, too, and that he shouldn’t have put the land aside. He says he wouldn’t have put land aside even if Mother had crawled it.”

  Pip jerked her attention back to Edie, appalled.

  “But she didn’t crawl,” Fanny said. “We asked.”

  “You asked your father?” Pip said, astonished. She’d thought the girls too afraid of the baron to ask questions of him.

  “We asked Archie, and he said Mother wanted to leave a dole for the poor and that she would have crawled if she’d been able to, but she couldn’t even get out of bed, and when Archie said he’d crawl for her, Father hit him.”

  Shocked silence met this statement.

  “How . . . illuminating,” Mr. Pryor said. For once, there was no humor in his voice. “Who exactly is Archie?”

  “Our brother,” Edie said. “But he’s only half our brother, because we have different mothers. He’s very old. Nearly twenty!”

  “Is he now?” Mr. Pryor said. “And how old was he when your father hit him?”

  “Father’s hit him lots of times,” Edie said.

  “Yes, but this particular time—”

  “Ten,” Newingham, said in a constricted voice. “Archibald would have been ten.”

  “He’ll be a baron one day,” Fanny piped up. “And a bishop, too!”

  Mr. Pryor looked down at her. “Will he?”

  “Yes. He’s studying to take his orders. He’s going to be a curate first, and then a vicar, and then a bishop!”

  “When he’s a bishop Father won’t hit him anymore,” Edie said. “Will he, Uncle Robert?”

  “No,” Newingham said, in that same constricted voice. He didn’t look happy. In fact, he looked like a man who’d just been confronted by an extremely unpalatable truth.

  “One would hope your father wouldn’t hit a bishop,” Mr. Pryor agreed. “Where is your brother now?”

  “Oxford,” Fanny said. “He’s very clever! He reads lots of books. Father doesn’t like it. He says only namby-pambies read so many books, and then he hits him, so Archie doesn’t come home much anymore.”

  “I see.” Mr. Pryor looked as if he was clenching his jaw beneath his smile.

  “What’s a namby-pamby, Mr. Pryor?”

  “A namby-pamby is a very clever sort of fellow,” Mr. Pryor said. “The very cleverest of fellows.”

  Lord Octavius made a quiet sound under his breath. Pip glanced at him. His lips were pressed tightly together.

  Newingham’s lips were pressed tightly together, too. He looked out across the sheep-down, then gave a little nod and turned back and said, “I’m going to set aside twenty-three acres in Amelia’s name.”

  Edie inhaled sharply. Her eyes grew big. “You are? Truly?”

  “Yes,” Newingham said.

  Fanny clapped her hands and gave a little skip of delight.

  “Do you want us to crawl it?” Edie asked, very seriously.

  Newingham laughed, and reached out and tweaked the brim of her bonnet. “No, I won’t require you to crawl it, but you may walk it with me if you wish. And your brother, too.”

  “I want to walk it!” Edie and Fanny both said at the same time. Fanny clapped her hands again and gave another skip of delight. Excitement shone in her eyes and flushed her cheeks.

  “Then we shall all walk it together,” Newingham promised. “Let’s practice.”

  They headed back across the sheep-down. The viscount took huge, comically long strides, and the girls laughed and ran to keep up.

  Pip followed more slowly. Her gaze was on the viscount, but her thoughts were still caught up in the scene Edie had painted: Amelia Rumpole on her deathbed, the baron hitting his ten-year-old son.

  “Well,” Mr. Pryor said. “That was . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Rumpole is a despicable person and an appalling father,” Lord Octavius said flatly.

  “No argument there,” his cousin said.

  Pip didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. She was too horrified by the thought of a ten-year-old boy wanting to do something charitable for his dying stepmother—and being hit for it.

  It appalled her. It enraged her. She wanted to storm down to Rumpole Hall and hit the baron himself.

  “I wish I’d been there,” Lord Octavius said. “I’d have punched the bastard. I’m tempted to do it now.”

  Pip glanced at him, startled by how closely his sentiments mirrored her own. It was as if he’d spoken her own thoughts aloud.

  Lord Octavius caught her look and his expression changed abruptly. His cheeks went pink. “I beg your pardon, Miss Toogood. I spoke without thinking. My language—”

  “Please don’t apologize,” Pip said. “The baron is exactly what you said. It wouldn’t distress me in the slightest if you hit him.”

  Lord Octavius blinked at her, his mouth half open in surprise.

  Mr. Pryor laughed. “Bravo, Miss Toogood.”

  Lord Octavius didn’t say anything, but he did close his mouth. And then he smiled at her. It wasn’t one of those charming, too-attractive grins; it was a small, wry smile, a smile that made her feel an odd sense of connection with him, as if they knew each other’s innermost thoughts.

  Lord Octavius’s smile slowly faded, but he didn’t stop looking at her, and even though he was no longer smiling, the sense of connection between them grew stronger. Pip’s heart began to beat faster. She found it difficult to breathe.

  “Hurry up!” a distant voice cried.

  The moment of connection was broken. Pip felt a little lightheaded, as if her lungs needed air. She looked away, and found that the viscount and the girls had halted and were looking back at them.

  She inhaled a shaky breath and set off across the sheep-down towards them, and somehow, as she walked, she fell into step with Lord Octavius. It wasn’t something she did on purpose, it happened quite naturally, and even though he wasn’t smiling at her or even looking at her, that odd sense of connection grew up around them again, the feeling that she and Lord Octavius were attuned to each other, not on a conscious level, but on an instinctive level, the sort of level that made people think the same thoughts at the same time and walk in step with one another.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The men dined with them again and afterwards they played card games. The disconcerting sense of connection that Pip had felt on the sheep-down persisted, sometimes strongly, sometimes barely noticeable, but always there. It was as if a thread had been tied between herself and Lord Octavius, invisible to the eye and yet there, a persistent tug on her awareness, so that even when she wasn’t looking at him she knew exactly where he was and what he was doing.

  She wondered whether he felt it, too.

  The girls went to bed, and it was time for Pip’s lesson in defensive techniques. The four of them went to the schoolroom. The men pushed the desks back, took off their tailcoats, rolled up their shirt sleeves, and took turns pretending to attack her.

  Pip practiced jabbing their eyes and kicking their knees and punching their noses, and while she jabbed and kicked and punched, the sense of connection between herself and Lord Octavius transformed into something different. Something physical. Every time they touched, her skin tingled. When she tapped his nose with her fist, it felt as if her hand had caught a fever. When he grabbed one of her wrists, his fingerprints burned so hotly she expected to see red marks bloom there.

  It didn’t happen when Newingham and Mr. Pryor touched her.

  They practiced for an hour. The movements came much more naturally. Pip didn’t have to concentrate so hard, which was good, because her awareness of Lord Octavius was distracting. She pretended to hammer Mr. Pryor’s nose and then scream in his ear, but her eyes strayed towards the marquis’s son leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. She mimed elbowing Newingham in the
throat and gouging his eyes out with her thumbs, but her gaze strayed again and she thought how attractive Lord Octavius was when he stood like that, his shirt sleeves rolled up to show muscular forearms.

  She wondered whether Newingham and Mr. Pryor would leave them alone tonight.

  She wondered whether Lord Octavius would kiss her, if they did.

  She wondered whether she would kiss him back.

  She didn’t wonder whether she should kiss him back. The answer to that was obvious.

  Mr. Pryor seized her by both wrists. “Got you,” he said, with a mock snarl.

  Pip pretended to bite his hand, stamp on his knee, and kick him in the groin—and then she wondered whether the next time Lord Octavius kissed her he’d ask her to marry him.

  That was what he’d meant when he’d said his intentions were honorable, wasn’t it? Marriage?

  “I’m crippled for life!” Mr. Pryor exclaimed dramatically, and tottered away to slump in a chair.

  Pip’s gaze skipped to Lord Octavius again, leaning against the wall, laughing at his cousin.

  Did she want to marry him?

  It was a simple question that required a simple answer—yes or no—and yet it wasn’t simple at all. It was complicated and confusing.

  Did she want to marry Lord Octavius Pryor? Did she know him well enough to make that decision?

  Newingham stepped away from the wall, flexed his hands, and came at her, grinning.

  Think about this very carefully, Philippa Mary, Pip cautioned herself, and then mimed punching the viscount.

  Tonight, she wanted Lord Octavius. She wanted his company and his smiles, his conversation, his laughter—and yes, his kisses. But would she want those things in five years’ time? Ten years’ time? Would she want them forever? Because that’s what marriage was: two people together forever.

  Newingham snatched her wrist. Pip didn’t try to break that hold; instead she clubbed his nose with her free hand.

  Newingham didn’t release her wrist. He pulled her towards him and growled at her.

  “Bite him!” Lord Octavius said.

  Pip pretended to do just that, then she scratched the viscount’s eyes with her free hand.

  “You’re getting good at that,” Newingham said, and released her.

  “Thank you,” Pip said, but her gaze skipped to Lord Octavius again. It was his praise she wanted. No, if she were honest she didn’t just want his praise, she wanted everything he could give her—his attention, his jokes and his teasing, his quiet confidences, his hopes and his dreams.

  But wanting Lord Octavius wasn’t the same as loving him, and even if she were in love him, which she wasn’t quite yet, that wouldn’t necessarily mean that she should marry him. In fact, it would probably be better for them both if she didn’t.

  Newingham came at her again. This time he grabbed both her wrists.

  Pip pretended to headbutt him.

  Newingham released her instantly. “By Jove,” he said approvingly. “You’ve become a dashed Amazon, Miss Toogood.”

  “Thank you,” Pip said again. One of her hairpins had come loose. She anchored it firmly back in place and glanced at Lord Octavius.

  When he proposed—if he proposed—she needed to make a sensible choice. A mature and considered decision. The best choice not just for herself but for them both.

  She and Lord Octavius might walk in step without meaning to and they might occasionally think the same thing, but the truth of it was that they had very little in common. He would do better to marry someone whose background matched his own and she would do better to marry a clergyman.

  Pip felt a pang of loss at that thought, because although she didn’t love Lord Octavius yet, she almost loved him. A few more hours in his company and it would undoubtedly happen. He’d grin that too-attractive grin and she’d fall in love with him.

  Newingham advanced on her again. Pip made a fist and punched.

  “No,” Lord Octavius said. He pushed off the wall and came across the room. “Not like that.”

  “Like what?” Pip said. It had been an accurate punch. It would have struck the viscount’s nose if she hadn’t pulled back at the final instant.

  “Look at your fist.”

  Pip did, and discovered that she’d tucked her thumb inside her fingers. She hastily rectified this error.

  Lord Octavius shook his head and tutted reprovingly. “After everything we’ve taught you, Miss Toogood. It really is too bad of you.” He frowned at her, but his eyes were laughing—and that was when it happened.

  Pip’s heart plummeted over a metaphorical cliff and it was done. The irrevocable fall. Love.

  It swept through her in a wash of heat and an inability to breathe. She was in love with Lord Octavius. Not because of a too-attractive grin, but because of a frown and a pun and a pair of laughing brown eyes.

  The sense of connection flared between them, blazingly strong. Lord Octavius’s frown faded. The gleam of laughter in his eyes changed into something else. Something primal and intense. Dimly, Pip heard Mr. Pryor clear his throat and say, “Well, I think that’s enough for tonight, don’t you, Bunny?”

  “Er, yes,” Newingham said.

  Lord Octavius said nothing. He simply stared at her with that strange, fierce intentness.

  Mr. Pryor nudged him. “Otto, old chap, you’re standing right where this desk goes.”

  Lord Octavius blinked and took a step back. “Uh, the desks, of course.” Color rose in his cheeks. He turned and crossed to where the chairs stood against the wall.

  With the furniture back in place, Pip had no reason to stay. She ought to bid the men good-night and leave; instead, she waited while they rolled down their shirt sleeves and donned their tailcoats because she knew that when Mr. Pryor and Newingham left, Lord Octavius would stay.

  And he would kiss her.

  And this time, she’d kiss him back.

  Pip pretended to arrange the books on her desk. Her fingers were trembling and her cheeks were hot. Her heart felt as if it was beating faster than it had ever beaten in her life.

  Someone knocked on the schoolroom door.

  Pip’s heartbeat went from gallop to standstill in an instant. She froze where she stood. Had Lord Rumpole come in search of his guests?

  But it wasn’t Lord Rumpole, it was a housemaid. “Miss Toogood? Are you ready?”

  “Ready for what?” Mr. Pryor asked.

  Ready to undo Pip’s stays, but that was something Pip couldn’t tell them, so instead she said, “Oh, is it so late? I beg your pardon, Jenny.” She cast a brief glance at the men, not letting her gaze become snared by Lord Octavius. “Gentlemen, I must bid you good night.”

  All three men hesitated, and then Lord Octavius nodded and said, “Good night, Miss Toogood,” and headed for the door.

  “ Good night,” Mr. Pryor said. He sent Pip a faint grimace, as if to say, Sorry.

  “Good night,” Newingham said, too, and then, “That was, um, a useful discussion about, um, the girls’ curriculum. Thank you, Miss Toogood.” He gave an awkward nod and followed his friends out the door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Octavius halted when he reached the stairs. Dex halted, too. So did Newingham.

  “Close call,” Newingham said.

  “Unfortunate,” Dex said.

  Octavius just grunted.

  Together they descended the stairs. Frustration growled in Octavius’s chest. Damn it, he and Miss Toogood had been so close to a moment alone. Perhaps close to the moment.

  “Billiards?” Newingham said. “Or bed?”

  “Bed,” Octavius said, directing a meaningful glance at Dex.

  “Bed for me, too,” Dex said.

  Newingham sighed. “You really are a pair of old fograms.” He shook his head at them, bade them good-night, and headed down the corridor to his bedchamber.

  They watched him out of sight, then Dex nudged Octavius none too gently in the ribs. “You owe him more than a team of horses.”
/>   “I know.”

  “You owe me, too.”

  “I’ll knit you a coin purse.”

  Dex snorted, and then paused. “Actually, I do need a new coin purse. Thank you, Otto. I would love you to knit one for me. And I’ll watch while you do it.”

  Octavius elbowed him in the ribs, none too gently.

  Dex winced, and rubbed his side. “I take it you want to go hunting?”

  “I do.”

  Octavius’s manservant was waiting for him in his bedchamber. Octavius sent him away with a “Shan’t need you tonight, Staig,” and locked the door after him. Then he stripped, changed shape, and dressed in the maid’s clothing. Dex was correct: Octavius did owe him for his help. Not a team of horses, and not a coin purse, but definitely something.

  He left Dex lounging in the armchair and headed downstairs, but Rumpole wasn’t in the dining room or the library or even the billiard room.

  “Damn it,” Octavius said. The sound of a female voice coming out of his mouth was so disconcerting that he actually twitched.

  He made another pass of the ground floor, but Rumpole still wasn’t anywhere.

  “Damn it,” Octavius muttered again.

  He lingered on the main staircase for ten minutes, hoping Rumpole’s valet would accost him, but no one came.

  “Damn.” He let out a frustrated huff of breath, trudged up the stairs, and headed for his bedchamber. Before he reached it, a door opened. Dex’s valet looked out. “You, girl, empty this,” he said, and thrust something at Octavius.

  Octavius took the object instinctively—and discovered it was a chamber pot.

  “Be quick about it,” the valet said, and stepped back into Dex’s room and shut the door.

  Octavius stood in the corridor, frozen with horror.

  He was holding someone else’s chamber pot.

  Someone else’s full chamber pot.

  He risked a glance beneath the lid. There was only piss inside, thank God.

  He walked two doors further down, to his own room, gingerly holding the chamber pot at arms’ length. Very carefully, he opened the door. Dex was sprawled in the armchair by the fire, looking bored. He glanced up at Octavius’s entrance. His eyebrows lifted. “What are you doing with a chamber pot?”