It was disconcerting to hear a little girl talk about such things, and he doubted they were even supposed to understand the concept of mistresses. But then, what did he know about little girls?

Nothing, he answered his own question. All the more reason for her to go to school when the year was over. It was for the best. If she were not so gifted, he would ship her to relatives as he had originally intended, but her musical ability should be nurtured. Her talent warranted a music conservatory in Germany or Italy.

I've read all about you.

Isabel's words stirred something inside him, a sense of disquiet at what she must have read. He was the man that he was. He hardly needed to apologize for it, and he ruthlessly shoved any sense of disquiet aside.

His plan was all for the best. During the coming year, Isabel would have Grace to look after her, he would have Grace with him, and Grace would gain for herself a secure future. Dylan finished off the brandy, telling himself it was the perfect solution for all of them.

Chapter Five.

When Grace arrived at Dylan Moore's home the following day, she did not have any idea what to expect, but knowing what she did about the owner of the house, she concluded that nothing about her new situation could surprise her. In that, she was mistaken.

"Are you my father's mistress?"

The abrupt question rang down to the foyer from overhead, interrupting the butler's introduction of Grace to the group of servants gathered around her. All were silent as Grace tilted back her head to look up at the child leaning over the wrought-iron stair rail above her. No introduction was needed here.

Isabel had the same dark eyes as her father, the same willful jaw line, and, obviously, the same ability to speak in a forthright fashion when necessary. She stood on her tiptoes, her braids hanging down, the painted blue-and-white sky of the dome behind her head a sharp contrast to her black hair.

Grace was not a woman easily shocked, but such a question from a little girl was rather shocking. She lowered her gaze to the impa.s.sive face of the butler, Osgoode. She cast a look around her at the various members of the household. No one said a word. The perfect servants who knew their place, all of them were now behaving as if they were part of the wallpaper. She did not know if they had formed the same opinion of her as Isabel, but Grace knew she would have to dispel such notions by her behavior, not her words.

"Osgoode?" She looked at the butler, then at the small valise near her feet.

He took the hint at once and signaled for a footman to take her valise upstairs. The younger man obeyed, and the butler returned his attention to her. "The master wishes to see you this afternoon at four o'clock," he told her with a bow. He left the foyer, with the rotund little housekeeper, Mrs. Ellis, right behind him. The maids and remaining footmen also dispersed, leaving Grace alone with her new pupil.

She looked back up at the child hanging over the rail. "I am Mrs. Cheval," she said. "You must be Miss Isabel Moore." She paused, then added, "But perhaps I am mistaken. I was told by her father that Isabel was a young lady, and young ladies do not ask indiscreet questions."

The child straightened away from the rail and started down the stairs. "The only questions that aren't indiscreet are about the weather, the roads, or people's health." At the bottom of the stairs, she added, "It's the indiscreet questions that help you find out things."

There was enough truth in the child's words that Grace felt a smile tug at her mouth.

Isabel came to a halt in front of her, tilting her head back. "Are you going to give me an answer?"

"I certainly am not. People of good breeding do not answer such questions as that."

"My father answered it. He said you're not, but I'm not sure I believe him."

"Don't you believe your father when he tells you things?"

Isabel shrugged. "Adults lie," she answered in a matter-of-fact way that was oddly pathetic. "I have to find out if my father is the sort to tell lies." She paused, and her eyes narrowed in an almost accusing stare. "You might tell lies, too."

Grace did not know what to make of the child's statements and questions, but as she looked into Isabel's face, she realized one thing. Despite the cynicism of her words and her worldly-wise manner, this little girl was very apprehensive about her new governess. "I don't tell lies."

"We'll see," Isabel answered with skepticism. "If you are his mistress, I'll find out soon enough."

"This is not an appropriate topic for discussion, and I believe you know that already. Also, a matter of that sort is your father's own business."

Something hard crossed Isabel's face, something that should not have been on the face of a little girl. "You're wrong!" she cried out with such vehemence that Grace was startled. "It's my business, too. I'm not letting this sort of thing happen anymore."

So that was it. Mistresses coming and going. Grace felt a wave of compa.s.sion for the child, who had a rake for a father, no mother at all, and clearly no upbringing. Looking directly into her eyes, Grace said, "It will not happen because of me."

"Humph," was the child's only reply, making short shrift of Grace's a.s.surances.

Changing the girl's opinion would take time, and she made no further attempt to change it now. "I should like to see the nursery," she said. "Will you show it to me, please?"

Isabel's jaw set and she crossed her arms. "You might as well know I don't want a governess."

"Want one or no," Grace answered cheerfully, "you have one."

The child turned away and started for the stairs. "If that's really so, it won't be for long. You won't stick it. They never do."

Grace only intended to stick it for one year. "They?" she echoed as she and Isabel started up the stairs. "How many governesses have you had?"

Isabel paused, and Grace stopped beside her. The child counted silently on her fingers, then looked up at her and smiled. It was a wicked smile, just like that of the man who had sired her. "You're the thirteenth. Lucky you."

Heavens, Grace thought, the acorn and the oak. What have I gotten myself into?

Sleep was a precious and unpredictable commodity for Dylan. Achieving it usually required a bit of a.s.sistance. Last night, even though he had gone two days without any rest and downed nearly a bottle of brandy, he had been unable to quiet his mind enough to lay his head down. Even by sunrise, he had not been able to sleep without the help of a pipe of hashish and a few sips of laudanum.

When he awoke, Dylan paid the price for all that help. For some idiotic reason, Phelps decided to open the draperies, and the clatter of rings sliding across a wooden rod woke him. He opened his eyes, and the bright sunlight sent shafts of pain through his skull like needles. Today just had to be one of the rare days when England had bright, brilliant sunshine.

Dylan turned onto his stomach with a groan. "Christ, man, what are you doing?" he mumbled as he covered the side of his face with a pillow. "Shut those d.a.m.ned things."

"Good day, sir," his valet greeted him with the irritating cheerfulness of those who knew nothing of overindulgence or its consequences. "Would you care for breakfast?"

Breakfast? Dylan's tongue felt glued to the top of his mouth, his body felt drier than the desert, and the thought of food made him want to retch. "No," he said through clenched teeth. "If I catch even a whiff of kippers in this room, I shall make you a footman and hire myself a new valet. Now let me have my rest."

"My apologies, sir, but it is now quarter past three, and you do have that appointment at four o'clock. I a.s.sumed you would wish to bathe and shave beforehand, so I have had a bath drawn. It is waiting for you."

Dylan didn't care about bathing, shaving, appointments, or much else at this moment. All he wanted was to return to sleep, the only quiet refuge he had. He buried himself deeper into the bed linens and struggled to fall back to sleep, but it was too late. Already, his companion was there to torture him, humming along like a faulty tuning fork that never quite hit perfect pitch. He groaned again and reached for a second pillow, pressing it against his ear, but his attempt to shut out the whine was useless.

"Shall I tell Mrs. Cheval you wish to postpone the appointment?"

He knew no one by that name. Besides, in his present condition, even a woman wasn't enough to stir him. "Who?"

"Isabel's governess. I believe you told Osgoode last evening that she would be arriving this morning and that you wished to meet with her at four o'clock to discuss her duties."

So Cheval was her surname, he thought groggily. It had never occurred to him she might be married. That bed in her flat was only big enough for one. Even if she was married, she had lived alone. She had to be a widow, or perhaps she had separated from her husband. No matter her current situation, she was a woman of experience. His favorite kind.

Half-asleep, Dylan focused his sleep-drugged senses on her, and that made him smile. Grace. Her name suited her. His fist tightened around a handful of feather pillow as he imagined her slender body in his arms, felt again the plump, perfect shape of her small breast beneath his palm. The whine in his brain receded as arousal took its place, as he remembered the soft, immediate yielding of her mouth and the welcoming eagerness of her kiss. He had not expected to awaken such desire in her so suddenly the other night, but the surprise had been a sweet one indeed.

No other man had touched her in a long time. He was certain of that, and he hungered to remedy it. If she were here beside him now, he would find all the secret places that gave her the greatest pleasure, exploiting them until she couldn't bear it, until he entered her and the only sounds he could hear were the frantic cries of her climax.

"I could tell her you are ill," Phelps's dignified voice called out from the dressing room, ruining the most luscious, erotic fantasy Dylan had ever had. He forced down his erection and vowed that soon, it wouldn't be a fantasy.

After a few minutes, he pushed aside the pillows and the counterpane and got out of bed. The moment he did, he felt his head exploding, and he pressed his hands to the sides of his skull.

Phelps entered from the dressing room just in time to see his grimace of pain. "Perhaps a dish of tea?" the valet suggested. "With mint. It does help when you drink it, sir."

Tea was the last thing he needed. "Phelps, I hate tea," he mumbled, rubbing his palms over his face. "You have worked for me for thirteen years. You know how much I hate tea."

"A chamomile tisane then? Or coffee?"

A chamomile tisane sounded worse than tea. Coffee, at least, sounded... tolerable. "Yes, have coffee sent up. I'll take it in the bath. And send a maid to tell Mrs. Cheval I shall meet with her in the music room." Naked, he walked across to the dressing room and into the chamber beyond it, where a huge copper tub had been filled with steaming water.

After a bath, a shave, and coffee, Dylan felt considerably better. The clock struck four as he walked to the music room, where Grace was waiting for him. He paused in the wide doorway to watch her.

She was standing behind his piano and had not noticed his arrival. She was looking at the scribbled sheet music on the stand. As he watched, she played several notes in succession. Bits and pieces of herself caught on paper. He wondered what she would think of that if he told her.

This was the first time he had seen her in daylight, and the sun did no disservice to her skin, for it looked as soft and luminous now as it had the night before. The sunshine caught all the gold and caramel glints in the braided crown of her hair, a simple fashion, with none of the absurd adornments now in vogue. No feathers and ribbons sticking out, none of the frizzy curls made by hot tongs, and none of those stupid sticks with fruit on them. Though the absence of such decoration was probably due to her dest.i.tution, he was glad of it, for her hair needed no adornments. If it were down, it would be like liquid gold in his hands-thick, heavy, shining.

Dylan's imaginings of an hour ago came back to taunt him, and they were much harder to set aside when she was standing right before his eyes. He entered the room.

She caught the movement and looked up. Her eyes were an even more clear, translucent green than he had thought, a color enhanced by the deep maroon shade of her dress, one of two he had seen hanging in her flat. It was threadbare and a bit loose on her slender frame, emphasizing just how close to the bone she had been living.

"Not accomplished with piano, you told me last night," he said as he closed the doors behind him. "Yet you do play."

"I'm sorry," she said, and drew her hand back from the piano. "I am aware that a composer's instrument is sacred territory. I did not mean to invade it."

"Do not make yourself uneasy, for I am not so temperamental as that." He moved to stand beside her. "If you wish to play, there is sheet music in the cabinet."

He gestured to the mahogany map cabinet directly behind them, where he kept published sheet music, but she shook her head. "I meant what I said, and I would not torture you with my attempts at piano. I always preferred the violin."

"You must keep your violin here in the music room, so that you may practice when you have the opportunity. Perhaps we might play together."

The idea did not meet with her enthusiasm. "I believe you wished to meet with me to discuss the matter for which I was hired," she reminded him, sounding just as a nursery governess should- prim, brisk, and efficient, prompting him to an immediate desire to tear down that demeanor.

"So I did." Dylan sat down at the bench and gestured for her to do the same. As she obeyed, he added, "What sort of play do governesses engage in?"

She gave him a look of reproof. "I thought you wished to talk about Isabel."

"Of course," he said in pretended surprise, still watching her as he began to press the piano keys before him in idle fashion. "What else would we be discussing? Do you not intend to have playtime in your curriculum?"

"For her, yes." A blush flared in her cheeks as he laughed, and she looked away.

"I am glad to hear it," he said. "Play is important."

"Your daughter seems a very intelligent girl."

"Too clever by half," he agreed and continued to press keys at random. He closed his eyes and focused all his senses on the woman beside him, waiting, hoping to hear something, some hint of music.

He could feel her presence so close to him; it was almost as if they were touching. His eyes closed, he turned his head slightly toward her and caught the scent of something. He inhaled deeply, savoring the light, delicate fragrance of pear oil. It reminded him of Devonshire and home.

"Isabel is quite talented at the piano," she said. "Did you teach her?"

"No." Dylan didn't remember that scent on her skin in her room last night, nor had she been wearing it the night before in the alley. He opened his eyes and cast her a sideways glance from beneath his lashes as he played, moving his hand two octaves up the scale with deliberate intent. "I like your perfume," he said, his forearm only an inch or two from her breast as he toyed with piano keys. "Why do you not wear it all the time?"

Her serious profile did not change at the compliment. "It is soap, not perfume."

"My estate mills pear soap. So does my brother's."

"Yes. The maid who brought it so I could refresh myself mentioned that." She would not allow herself to be fl.u.s.tered by his closeness or the intimacy of the subject, it seemed. "Mr. Moore," she said, without looking at him, "if you do not wish to talk about your daughter, I shall leave you to your music."

She started to rise from the bench, and he spoke to stop her. "If you move, Grace," he said pleasantly, "I shall fire you."

She sank back down beside him. "That is blackmail."

"Blackmail is a rather harsh way of putting it," he answered, looking over at her, smiling as he continued to play. "I prefer to call it leverage."

"Please do not-" She broke off, bit her lip, and turned her head away from him. After a moment, she said, "I would prefer not to discuss intimate subjects such as my toilette with you."

G.o.d, he loved the sound of her voice. Even when she tried to sound disapproving, she really could not manage it. He wondered if she knew that. Her voice was soothing, melodic, like listening to a woodland stream. Closing his eyes as he played, he said, "Very well. We shall discuss whatever subject you would prefer."

"The nursery is empty," she said, "and Isabel has informed me that her room is on the second floor. A little girl should sleep in the nursery. Would it be acceptable for me to move Isabel up there? Her nanny would sleep there as well, of course."

"Move her if you like, but she doesn't have a nanny. You'll need to hire one."

"Very well. May I also purchase suitable furnishings for the nursery?"

"Such as?"

He listened as she reeled off a list of all the things a child's nursery required-furniture, book shelves, a tea table, slates, primers, books, games, puzzles, maps, and as she spoke, the noise in his head began to fade. He stopped playing and merely listened to her talk.

"Isabel has very little in the way of clothes," Grace went on. "She has but two day dresses, and a third reserved for Sunday. I should like to take her to a dressmaker. Would that be acceptable?"

"By all means. Have Osgoode arrange accounts for Isabel at the proper modistes and purchase for her whatever she needs. And furnish the nursery any way you please. See Osgoode for a list of shops in Bond Street where I have accounts. As for sleeping arrangements, I hope you like your own room?"

"It's lovely."

"Is there anything you need? If so, you only need ask Osgoode or Mrs. Ellis."

"Thank you." Once again she diverted the topic from herself. "I wish to determine a course of study for Isabel, but to do that, I need to know what her education has been up until now."

"I do not know. I suppose you could ask her."

"I did."

Given his own experience thus far, it was not hard to guess the outcome of Grace's conversations with his daughter. "And?"

"She did not want to talk about what she had already been taught, but she did not hesitate to tell me what she wishes to do from now on. She does not want to learn mathematics, and she quite rebelled at collecting b.u.t.terflies or learning German. As for other feminine accomplishments, let us say she was not enthusiastic. She wants to play piano and compose. That is all."

"Has she played for you?"