The Governess Game (Girl Meets Duke #2)(19)

There, now. You’re fine, you ninny.

She wasn’t lost at sea. She was in the Reynaud residence. And she was a governess.

An underqualified, ill-prepared, and thus far unsuccessful governess, but a governess nonetheless.

When she swallowed, her tongue rasped against the roof of her mouth. She was also a thirsty governess.

By now, Alex’s eyes had adjusted to the dark. She went to the washstand and lifted the ewer. It was light in her grip, no sound of sloshing. Empty. Drat. Tomorrow she’d be certain to set a cup of water aside before she retired, but that wouldn’t help her now. She supposed she might ring for a maid, but she hated to bother the staff. She squinted at her compact traveling clock on the washstand. Already five in the morning. She could wait another hour until sunrise, couldn’t she?

Her parched throat objected. No, she couldn’t wait. To most people, the sensation of thirst was an inconvenience. But then, most people didn’t know the minute-by-minute torture of going without water for days at a stretch.

Alex slid her feet into a pair of worn slippers and made her way out of the bedchamber, through the corridor, and down the stairs with silent footsteps. Being small-statured had a few benefits, and stealth was one of them.

In the kitchen, she found the kettle on the stove. It still held some cooled water. She gulped down one cupful, then a second, and yet another still.

Once her thirst was slaked, she turned to make her way back upstairs.

Thump. Thump.

She eyed the closed door to Mr. Reynaud’s private retreat.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The dull rhythmic sound ceased, and then started anew, and despite her misgivings, Alex put her ear to the door.

Now the thumping sounded more like banging. Something hitting the wall, again and again. Not just banging, but intermittent grunting.

She shouldn’t be listening to this, but she couldn’t pry her ear from the door. The sense of sordid fascination was irresistible.

All went quiet once again. She pressed her ear tightly to the door and held her breath, eliminating the distracting sound of her own inhalation. Then:

Bang-bang-bang.

Crash.

And a deep, harsh sound that was part growl, part barbaric shout.

She clapped a hand to her mouth. She was so absorbed by the struggle not to laugh, she didn’t notice the heavy footfalls until they were just on the other side of the door. The door latch turned.

No time for escape.

The door swung open.

She jumped back, clapping both hands over her eyes. “I didn’t see anything.”



“I swear it,” she said. “I didn’t see anything at all.”

Chase stared at his governess. She stood there with a finger-blindfold clamped over her eyes, dressed in a simple shift. Shadows skimmed contours of the form beneath it. “I should think snooping is beneath you, Miss Mountbatten.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, still covering her eyes. “I’m so sorry. I only came down for a drink of water, I promise.”

“Pressing one’s ear to a door would seem an ineffective way to quench thirst.”

Her shoulders wilted. “I didn’t mean to intrude. And I didn’t see anything, hand to my heart. I’ll be going to my chamber straightaway.” She covered both eyes with one hand and groped comically with the other. “Turn me around, if you would?”

“Are we playing blindman’s buff?”

“No.” Her throat flushed red. “Turn me the other direction. Toward the door. Point me back the way I came, and I’ll go up to bed.”

Chase went to the basin and worked the pump handle. The scene was so absurd, he’d nearly forgotten the throbbing pain in his hand. “I can’t send you to bed yet. I’m in need of your assistance.”

She swallowed audibly. “Assistance?”

“I can’t deal with this one-handed.”

She reeled a step in retreat, colliding with a shelf of copper butter molds, setting them a-rattle. Even though she’d backed herself into a corner, she still wouldn’t lower her hands from her eyes. “Can’t your . . . your guest provide you some relief?”

His guest?

“I don’t have a guest.”

A single finger peeled away from her face. He caught a glimpse of dark eyelashes through the gap.

“I thought you were entertaining a visitor,” she said.

He looked at the door to his retreat, then back to her. “Why would you think that?”

“I heard . . .” She swallowed and whispered faintly, “. . . banging. And groaning.”

Good God.

He chuckled. “If you hoped to hear something salacious, I’ll have to disappoint you. I was hanging paneling. On the wall. With a hammer and nails. And I seem to have sliced my thumb. Hence the groaning.”

“Oh.” She lowered her hands and gave a nervous laugh. “Thank heavens. What a relief. I mean, I’m not relieved about your wound, of course. I’m sorry about that. I’m just glad you’re not—”

“Bare to my skin and covered in well-earned sweat?”

“Erm . . . yes.”

He gritted his teeth. He would have loved to draw out the amusement, but his thumb wouldn’t be ignored any longer. “The cook keeps a bit of plaster up there.” He jutted his chin toward a high shelf atop the cupboard. “If you’d kindly fetch it for me.”