The Governess Game (Girl Meets Duke #2)(30)

Her tongue shyly caressed his. Each light, teasing pass was a gift. Her first tastes of passion, and she shared them with him. Freely. Sweetly.

In her arms, he could almost dream he deserved it.

No one’s a lost cause.

He’d never wanted to believe anything more. But she didn’t know—couldn’t begin to understand—how far he’d strayed from the path of respectability.

Chase was so lost, he’d fallen straight off the map.

He broke the kiss and rose up on one elbow, needing to see her. She stared up at him with dark, glassy eyes. Her lips were plump and reddened from his kisses.

“By God, you’re lovely.”

Her skin warmed with a bashful glow. If she’d been lovely a moment ago, she was radiant now.

And he was in very deep trouble.

The moment was precipitously ruined by the sounds of two girls crashing up the stairs. He and Alexandra were barely able to scramble to their feet and straighten their clothing before Rosamund and Daisy barreled into the room. Each girl had a slice of cake in one hand and a jam-stuffed roll in the other.

“Boo.” Daisy used her sleeve to wipe jam from her mouth. “You escaped.”

“We’ll practice our knots and do better next time,” Rosamund told her sister.

“There will be no next time,” Chase said sternly. “No more piracy.” He waved expansively at the piratical decor. “In fact, tomorrow I am going to take all—”

“He’s going to take all of us on an outing,” Alexandra interjected.

“An outing?” Rosamund sounded incredulous.

Chase was incredulous, too.

“I thought we weren’t allowed outings,” Rosamund said.

“You are absolutely correct,” Chase replied. “And that is why I’m—”

“He’s making an exception tomorrow,” she interrupted.

Oh, now really. This was an act of shameless betrayal.

Daisy cheered as she bounced on the bed. “Where are we going?”

Chase stood tall. “I am not t—”

“Mr. Reynaud’s not telling.” His treasonous governess spoke over him once more. “He said it’s meant to be a surprise. Isn’t it wonderful?”

Chase glared at her.

She smiled back.

He left the room on an exasperated curse.

Very well. If they wanted an outing, he would give them one. And it would be highly educational.



“The Tower of London,” Alexandra mused aloud. “A bold choice. So much rich history. We can view the crown jewels.”

“Jewels are not on the schedule. I have a specific history lesson in mind.”

They proceeded directly to Beauchamp Tower, where Chase—she couldn’t think of him as Mr. Reynaud any longer—marched them up a spiraling stone staircase.

They emerged onto a floor shaped rather like a flower. A round space in the middle, with small alcoves sprouting from the center, like petals.

Daisy popped in and out of each alcove, skipping in circles. “What is this place?”

“It’s a prison,” Rosamund answered. “This middle here was for the gaolers, and those little bits you’re dancing around were cells.”

“How do you know?” Daisy replied.

“Because this is the Tower of London, ninny. If you don’t believe me, ask the prisoners who left their marks.” Rosamund pointed at letters carved into the wall. “See, here.” She traced another mark, a bit higher. “And here.”

“Everywhere,” Daisy said, turning in place.

Hand-etched graffiti crammed every bit of stone that a man could conceivably reach. Sometimes, merely initials or a date. In other places, elaborate crosses had been chiseled in bas-relief. Bible verses stretched for yards across the walls.

“Why would they do that?” Daisy asked. “It’s terribly naughty.”

“They were criminals,” Rosamund said. “They didn’t care about right behavior.”

“People want to leave a mark on the world,” Alex said. “It’s human nature. Some are remembered by their accomplishments, or their virtues. Others live on through their children.” She trailed her fingers over Daisy’s back as she strolled by. “And if he has none of those to leave behind, a man carves his name into the wall. We all want to be remembered.”

“Oh, they were remembered—as criminals.” Chase stood in the center of the room. “Do you know who ended up in a prison like this one, girls? Murderers. Traitors.”

“And pirates,” Rosamund finished dryly, having caught on to her guardian’s lesson.

“Yes. And pirates. A few hundred years ago, you’d have been brought in through the river entrance, dragged up to one of these cells, and left to rot for a year or five. Only straw for your bed. Crusts and weak soup, no meat. You’d have been crammed in with other unwashed prisoners. Covered in filth, lice, rats, disease.”

“Disease!” Daisy cheered. “Which ones?”

“Very, very boring ones,” he said. “And don’t cheer. It was misery. Now if all that wasn’t bad enough, once you were convicted in court?” He drew a finger across his neck in a throat-slicing gesture.

“Beheading,” Daisy said, awed.