Marquesses at the Masquerade(103)
Miss Fletcher shot him a wink and dropped his hand. “They’ll try hard for about five minutes, but cakes and ices have never been known to settle children down.”
Nor did winks settle down grown men. Tyne placed the order and took Sylvie’s hand as they crossed the street to the grassy, shaded square, a groom carrying their treats. Miss Fletcher chose the spot under the maples for their blanket, and Tyne allowed himself one moment to wish that the children might have been gamboling away the afternoon with some obliging cousins out in Kent, while Tyne…
Gamboled away the afternoon with Miss Fletcher in a secluded meadow far, far from the Mayfair gossips. In little more than a week, he had to choose whether to keep his assignation with Freya, and the lonely, bored part of him that could be intrigued with a single kiss was inclined to do that.
The part of him that had daughters to raise, parliamentary bills to put forth, and a lovely governess underfoot wasn’t inclined to pursue a fairy tale when the genuine article was already sharing his household.
The ices were consumed, and the children resumed bickering until Miss Fletcher suggested they entertain themselves with the ball she’d thought to bring along.
“Amanda will soon be too dignified to kick a ball about in the park,” Miss Fletcher said. “She should enjoy playing with her sister while she still can.”
“When the family removes to Tyne Hall this summer, we’ll get up some cricket games with the cousins,” Tyne said. “My sisters all play, and the best pitcher of the lot is my brother Detrick’s oldest girl.”
Another pair of girls joined in the game of kickball—Lord Amery’s oldest and some cohort of hers with a deadly accurate left foot. Much yelling and argument about rules ensued, as it should when children played out of doors.
“When you remove to Tyne Hall, I ought to seek another post,” Miss Fletcher said. “The girls are moving on from their mother’s death, and you should find them a governess whom they won’t associate as closely with their grief.”
What the hell? Tyne had been lounging about on the blanket, propped on one elbow.
He sat up. “Your logic eludes me. The time of grief was more than two years ago, when their mother went to her eternal reward. Your tenure with the girls has been a period of improving spirits, better sleep, and a happier papa. Why should I now tear the children away from somebody who has brought them such boons?”
Miss Fletcher’s gaze remained on the girls, who were trying to kick the ball straight at a dignified old maple, and—with the exception of the left-footed terror—mostly failing to hit their target.
“Are you a happier papa?” Miss Fletcher asked. “If you are happy enough to consider courting another marchioness, that’s reason enough for me to seek a different post. I have overstepped with your children, because I knew they were without a mother’s love. Your new wife will fill that role, and the children’s loyalties would be torn if I stayed on.”
“Good God, now you have me married to some woman I’ve never even courted. Have you been reading too many fairy tales, Miss Fletcher?”
“Perhaps—or not enough of them. Promise me you’ll think on this, my lord. I can assist with the choice of a successor governess, if that’s not getting above my station. There’s no hurry, but you should give the notion some consideration.”
Tyne considered the notion for two entire seconds and found it dreadful. “You have it all wrong, Miss Fletcher. One doesn’t pike off as soon as the bonds of affection have been secured. I know not what experience put that ridiculous idea in your head, but you will only hurt the children if you leave us now. Amanda is facing the hardest years of a young lady’s life, Sylvie will need a steady anchor as her sister makes her bow, and I won’t have my daughters cast aside because your courage has failed you.”
She untied her bonnet ribbons and would have retied them, except Tyne plucked her millinery from her grasp. Whatever losses had inspired her into a life in service were doubtless to blame for this harebrained plan to leave. She honored somebody’s memory by remaining within earshot of grief, much as Tyne kept Josephine’s portrait in the formal parlor.
“If we’re to have a proper argument, madam, at least do me the courtesy of looking me in the eye while you threaten desertion.”
“You need heirs,” Miss Fletcher retorted, snatching the bonnet back. “Male heirs of your body. You’re a marquess, need I remind you.”
“If you think I can forget for one instant that I bear the responsibility for an old and respected title, you have been doing too many sums. Need I remind you that I have seven nephews thriving in my brothers’ nurseries, which are heirs enough to secure any succession?”
Though sons would be lovely. Noisy, boisterous, little fellows who rode like hellions, tracked mud into the house, and drove their parents barmy.
“Where’s Sylvie?” Miss Fletcher asked, scrambling to her feet. “I don’t see Sylvie.”
“She’s deserted us,” Tyne said, rising. “Gone off without giving notice.”
“Badger me some other time, my lord. I don’t see her anywhere.” A thread of panic laced Miss Fletcher’s voice. “I’m her governess and I’ve lost her in the middle of London. This is awful.”
The panic was contagious, for Tyne had never before misplaced a daughter. “She can’t have gone far,” he said, invoking a calm he did not feel. “We’ll find her. Steady on, Miss Fletcher. Let’s talk to the other girls.”