The Complete Regency Bestsellers And One Winters Collection. Rebecca Winters
sound. Stars appear so close together in the sky, they’re sometimes mistaken for one object. My favorite smudge, however, isn’t a nebula or cluster. It’s Messier’s number 40. A double star. Perhaps even a binary star.”
“Oh, truly.” And with that, he was back to the earlobe.
She bent to peer through the eyepiece. “A binary star is created when two stars are drawn together. Once they come near enough, neither one can resist the other’s pull. They’re stuck together forever, destined to spend eternity revolving about each other, like . . . like dancers in a waltz, I suppose.” She scribbled a note in her notebook. “The fascinating thing is, a binary star’s center of gravity isn’t in one star or the other. It’s in the empty space between them.”
He was silent for a while. “I’ll be damned. You were right when you scolded me for letting this instrument go to waste.”
“I’m glad you see its value now.”
“Absolutely. To think, I could have been using it to seduce women all along.” To her chastening look, he replied, “Come now. All that waltzing star business? It’s deuced romantic.”
“I would never have marked you as a romantic.”
“I suppose it’s all that glory-of-the-universe talk. Makes a man feel rather small and insignificant. And that makes a man want to grab the nearest woman and prove himself to be otherwise.”
Their gazes met, and they both became keenly aware of the obvious.
She was the nearest woman.
He was not—absolutely not—going to pursue his governess. Yes, he was a rake. But for a gentleman, chasing after the house staff wasn’t rakish behavior. It was repulsive.
“The girls,” he blurted out, breaking the tension. “How was your first day?”
“Challenging.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Can you tell me something about their interests, or their schooling? Anything at all?”
“They’ve had little proper schooling, but are somehow far too clever despite it. Their interests are mischief, disease, petty thievery, and plotting crimes against the house staff.”
She laughed a little. “You speak as though they’re hardened criminals.”
“They’re well on the way to it. But now you’re here to take them in hand. I have every faith in you, Miss Mountbatten.” He patted her shoulder gamely. “I’ve seen your natural talent as a disciplinarian.”
She cringed. “Yes, about that . . .”
“If you’re intending to apologize, don’t. I richly deserved all your censure, and then some. I wish I could say you’ve already seen me at my worst, but that’s nowhere near the case. However, I do wish to say one thing.”
“Yes?”
She gave him her full attention—and she had an intimidating amount of attention to give. Only natural, he supposed. Here was a woman willing to stare into dark emptiness night after night, on the hope that someday some tiny speck might shine back. As she gazed at him, Chase found himself wishing he could reward her observation.
Only darkness here, darling. Don’t waste your time.
“If my reputation worries you,” he said, as much for his own benefit as hers, “it needn’t. Seducing you would never even cross my mind.”
She nodded. “Thank you for your assurances, Mr. Reynaud. I appreciate them very much indeed.”
Seducing you would never even cross my mind.
What a perfectly timed reminder. Really, the man had a way of withering Alexandra’s pride to a dried-up husk. One moment, he was listening to her babble away about comets, hanging on her words, and complimenting her earlobe, and the next, he left her with a few parting words to remind her that she was a fool.
Embroidery wasn’t her favorite hobby, but Alex planned to stitch those words on a sampler and hang it above her bed:
Seducing you would never even cross my mind.
—Mr. Charles Reynaud, 1817
She no longer wondered at his popularity with women. Devilish charm simply radiated from him, like one of nature’s essential forces. Gravity, magnetism, electricity . . . Chase Reynaud’s masculine appeal.
His every lopsided grin or low, teasing word sent a frisson of excitement rushing along her skin. That alone wouldn’t be a problem. But then her brain caught up all those sensations, rolled them into a ball, and set it on a shelf. As if that quivering mass of feminine reaction was something that deserved to take up space. As if it needed a name.
Well, Alexandra would label it, right this moment.
I-D-I-O-C-Y.
She heard the creak of a door down at street level, and she gave in to the temptation to peer over her windowsill. There he stood, waiting on the pavement in that immaculately tailored black topcoat. He gave his cuffs a smart tug and ran a hand through his tawny brown hair. A pair of matched bays pulled a fashionable blue-lacquered phaeton around from the mews, and the groom handed him the reins.
Off he went to spend his evening enjoying the company of others. And here Alex was left mooning over him like a fool.
She readied herself for bed and put out the candle. And then she lay awake far too long listening for the sounds of a returning phaeton, or the creak of a door. Not that it was any of her concern what time he returned home, or whether he returned at all.
She must have fallen asleep at some point, because she woke to the sensation of someone poking her in the arm.
Repeatedly.
She opened her eyes halfway. “Rosamund? Is that you?”
“She’s dead.”
Now Alex was awake. She sat bolt upright in bed. “Dead?”
“Millicent. The consumption took her overnight.”
The doll. She meant the doll.
“You gave me a fright.” Alex pressed a hand to her chest. Perhaps her heart would stop racing in a day or two.
“The funeral is prepared. We’ll be waiting on you in the nursery.”
Funeral?
Rosamund was gone before Alex could inquire further. She rose from bed and hastily dressed. Given her disorientation in a new room and the abrupt way she’d been roused from sleep, she didn’t do a very good job of it. After two attempts, she decided she could live with misaligned buttons for the moment, and three passes of the hairbrush would have to be enough. Clenching a few hairpins in her teeth, she made her way into the corridor, winding her hair into a knot as she went.
Alex hoped the standard of attire at this funeral wasn’t overly formal. She’d just jabbed the second pin into her haphazard chignon when she entered the nursery. Millicent lay in the center of the bed, staring up blankly from the swaddling of her shroud. The girls stood on either side. Daisy wore a scrap of black lace netting draped over her head as a veil.
Alex struggled, mightily, not to burst out laughing. If for no other reason than that doing so would launch the remaining hairpins in her mouth like missiles.
She completed her upsweep, composed herself, and approached the bed. To Rosamund, she whispered, “What happens now?”
“We’re waiting on—”
A male voice breezed into the room. “Such