THE BOHEMIAN

Chapter 1

London 1875

Ryder Stanton, sixth Earl of Felton, bent and hissed in the governess’ ear, “That is my ward, madam?”

   Amelia Norwood’s eyes darted from the earl to her charge then back. “Yes, my Lord.”

   Steel eyes speared her. “You’re serious?”

   Her voice shrank to a whisper. “Very.”

 The one they spoke of was perched cross-legged on a chaise longue, skirts hiked over her knees, displaying an expanse of long legs.

   “Calla is, ah, free-spirited.”

   “Free-spirited? I call it undisciplined, even wanton—definitely wanton.” His eyes went to an Irish wolfhound at the girl’s feet, then to a black cat draped about her neck. “I thought she’d be much younger.”

   Amelia smoothed her skirt with agitated fingers and pressed a brown curl into the snood at her nape. She stole a glance at his face. It was rigid with censure, reinforced by a tic on his lean tanned cheek.    “She is a minor, my Lord.”

   “I know that, but I thought she’d be suitably schooled.” Then he snorted. “Why aren’t I surprised, with a father like mine, discipline is a curse word.”

   A statuesque blond moved to his side, her pretty face pinched. “This is not amusing, my Lord.”

   “I agree, Miss Langford, but the situation is hardly of my doing.” He flexed broad shoulders, glaring at his ward bent over her drawing.

   The tip of Calla’s tongue peeped out from full lips as she concentrated on her sketch. Her slender fingers, holding a charcoal stick, moved surely across the paper. She unfolded one long leg and lifted it. Her silk gown slid down, revealing a thigh as she turned her foot left then right. Balanced precariously, she hooked a chair with her toes and dragged it closer. Inching forward on her backside, she tried to rest her foot on the chair back.

   Miss Langford gasped, and the earl’s eyebrows shot up.

   Amelia’s heart plummeted. She cleared her throat. “Calla, dear, have you forgotten we’re expecting the earl today?”

   Calla spun her head to face them. Her backside slid off the couch. She squeaked and flailed wildly, launching the sketchbook and charcoal towards the earl.

   The cat alighted nimbly as though accustomed to such occurrences. The hound moved swiftly from where she would doubtless land.

   The earl caught the charcoal deftly.

   Miss Langford gasped at the display of unmentionables, very skimpy drawers.

   Calla landed on the floor with her foot still hooked on the chair, and her head hit the tiles with a resounding whack. She lay still, skirt rucked up around her waist, looking like a felled pheasant. “Damn!” she muttered.

   “Calla!” Amelia’s face burned. Her eyes alighted on the sketch book as it landed with a dull thump and skidded along the floor coming to a rest at the earl’s booted feet. “Oh my.” She wondered what the odds were of reaching the sketchbook and closing it before they saw it.

   Strong, tanned fingers grasped the book.

   The earl’s lady moaned as her ice-blue eyes settled on the drawings.

   He cleared his throat. “Miss Marshall seems to be, ah, gifted.” He handed the pad to Amelia, his face bland.

   “Y—yes, she is.” Keeping her eyes downcast, she took the book, clutching it with whitening knuckles. “She was tutored in art since the age of, ah, seven” Hands trembling, Amelia closed the book on sketches of two pert breasts, a hand and a smear of charcoal where the foot would have been, all Calla’s body parts.

   The earl coughed lightly and did the gentlemanly thing. In four strides, he was beside her. He bent, offering his hand.

   “I’m quite able, thank you.” She lay on her back, looking up at him. “I simply need a moment to clear my head.” She lifted her head gingerly and rubbed the back. “Ouch, it hurts.”

   “I’m sure it does. Are you all right?”

   “Of course I’m not!” She squirmed, extricating her foot.

   Amelia was quite faint. There was her pupil with legs spread out, wearing, not proper bloomers, but short, newfangled lacy things that she’d designed. Amelia spoke louder than she intended. “My Lord, perhaps we could adjourn to the drawing room whilst Miss Marshall gathers her wits.”

   One of the earl’s dark eyebrows lifted. “Leaving your charge here, like that?”

“Exactly like that.” She sailed from the conservancy wrapped in her shredded dignity.

   Rubbing his cheek, the earl cast one more glance at the sprawled girl. A tousled mass of long black curls framed her face. Her skin was startlingly white, but the thing that captured him were sapphire eyes fringed with decadent black lashes. Pulling free from the captivating image, he touched Miss Langford’s arm. “Would you like to stroll about the garden whilst I deal with this, my dear?”

   Her eyebrows drew together. “The butler may show me to my bedchamber. I feel quite put out.”

   “As you wish.” He bowed, jerking his head at the butler. “You heard the lady, Victor.”

   Victor stood to attention, but a tic of humor tugged at his lips. “I shall direct m’lady to her suite immediately.”

   The earl spun and followed the governess to the drawing room. He walked across Persian rugs scattered on the wooden floor and stood at the window, hands behind his military-rigid back, tapping his boots with the cane. It was bad enough curtailing his military career to undertake the duties of his title and manage the wealth that accompanied it, but the girl too? He was hardly prepared for her. His thoughts touched on his put out betrothed. I’ll have to deal with that later.

   “My lord, would you like tea, coffee, or something stronger?”

   He turned on his heel and stalked to where the governess sat. “Coffee is fine, thank you.” Hitching his trousers, meticulously maintaining the crease, he sat and set the cane down. He accepted the cup of coffee with a slight shake of his head as she offered him cream and sugar.

   “I fear my charge made a bad first impression.”

   “Yes.”

   Amelia’s color rose and she looked at him with desperate appeal in her gentle gray eyes. “She is young a—and unpolished.”

   “I noticed the lack of refinement.”

   “I’m sure she can be molded and will in time fit the roll of a lady, and not embarrass you over much, or—or at all, I’m sure.” Amelia dropped her gaze to the cup in her hand.

   He lifted one eyebrow. “How much time do you think that will take?”

   Her cup rattled dangerously on muslin-clad knees. “I—I’m not sure, my Lord.” She glanced up. “Your father loved her spirited ways, but perhaps he gave her too much latitude. There was talk of her going to Lady Sandering’s finishing school in Bath, but he was loath to part with her. He said finishing schools made girls prissy. Th—they were quite inseparable. She didn’t want to leave him either. They did go to Paris on holiday, a—and Italy and Venice—”

   “You’re rambling, madam.” The earl scowled. “I’m certain my father gave her too much freedom, bearing in mind he was inclined towards unconstrained behavior.” He drained the cup of hot coffee in the manner of a man accustomed to completing insignificant things quickly, like coffee drinking. He returned the cup and saucer to the tray. Ignoring wafer-thin sandwiches, he picked up his cane and rose to pace the room or, more precisely, march up and down. Hands clasped behind his back, he swished the cane like a pendulum, indicating his chagrin. “I suppose she has no family, which is why she’s here.”

   “Yes, my Lord. There’s also the matter of her inheritance. It needs to be managed and you’re now the executor.” She cleared her throat. “Also, undesirable suitors may need to be dissuaded. She’s marginally protected by her father’s will, which is in the safe-box behind your portrait in the study. The money remains in her name, even if she marries, but who knows what foolish things a girl in love might do.”

   “I shall examine it another time.” Swinging to face the governess, he ran his fingers through short, groomed hair then, realizing his error, smoothed it. “Mrs. Norwood, I’m a bachelor and unaccustomed to governing females, much less a capricious one. Soldiers are what I’m familiar with. Though, I have no doubt I’ll manage to control her, with your help.” He fixed her with a commanding eye. “I will have your assistance, won’t I?”

   “Her education is finished as far as my tutoring is concerned. I have another post with younger children in Wales.”

   “Out of the question, I’ll double your salary, treble it. The girl needs a chaperone. Besides, I have no idea what young women require.”

   She clasped her hands tightly in her lap. “Very well, my Lord. I’m extremely fond of Calla, ah, Miss Marshal, and I’m happy to remain.” She smiled slightly. “Especially in view of your generous offer.”

  “How the hell did this girl deal in society without discipline?”

  Amelia frowned and straightened. “She’s a wonderful girl. An overly strong hand would destroy her.”

   “Nonsense, discipline makes for character. She must attend finishing school and prepare for her season, then I’ll ensure she’s suitably married.”

   “She won’t agree to finishing school and is not partial to having a season. She has several young men that express affection for her, but she’s never shown interest in them.”

   His cane stabbed the floor with a resounding whack. “This is not a democracy, Mrs. Norwood. I do not need her consent to send her to finishing school or have her season. Nor do I need her agreement on my choice of husband for her.” He waved a hand then thrust it firmly behind his back, as though it erred and moved independently. “She will therefore attend finishing school and have a season. Naturally, I’ll interview these gentlemen you speak of to assess their value and intent.”

   They both turned to a commotion at the door.

   “How dare you! I will not be married off or told—”

   The wolfhound darted in front of Calla to chase the cat clawing its way up her gown.

   She stumbled. “Ouch—silly mutt, mad puss—damn, your claws hurt!” She plucked at the cat on her shoulder. “Goodness, the two of you sleep together and now you’re mortal enemies.”

   The earl’s eyebrows rose as she danced about the room in a flurry of skirts, dodging the dog and trying to extract the cat now tangled in her hair.

   He attempted to step out of her path as she careened towards him, but too late. She collided into him and air escaped his lungs with a whoosh. Automatically, his arms encircled her to stop her fall. The earl cursed as the cat discovered the refuge of higher ground and clawed a path to the top of his head.

A bloody trail followed in Wagner’s wake as he raked the earl’s cheek then settled like a feline hat on the immaculate head.

   The hound, realizing his quarry had escaped, dashed between the earl’s long legs, tripping him.

   The earl headed inexorably for the floor.

   Amelia surged to her feet, one arm extended as though hoping to avert a calamity.

   The earl made a valiant attempt to maintain his footing. But the Persian rug slid and he measured his length on the polished wood floor with a resounding crash.

   Calla landed on top of him. She scrambled to a sitting position, straddling the noble’s hips. “Stop, you idiotic hound and demented cat! Stop!” She bounced twice to indicate her displeasure, eliciting a groan from the earl as air left his beleaguered person.

   Deprived of his mountain refuge, the cat screeched and took off, every hair on his body erect. Tongue lolling, the hound gleefully gave chase and ran over the earl, planting a paw on his chest and imprinting the pristine buff waistcoat with a large pugmark.

   Lying dazed for a moment, the earl finally struggled to a sitting position. Grasping what came to hand, to remove Calla, he encountered smooth thighs. He lifted her off hastily. “Damn it, girl, what the hell is wrong with you? You’re a bloody walking disaster.”

   “Unhand me!” She wriggled free and jumped to her feet.

   Sitting cross-legged, head hanging, he stared at blood dripping on his garments. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the blood from his face. “I think I should be the one demanding to be unhanded.” He picked up his cane and rose with as much dignity as possible. Effecting what repairs he could, then he eyed her sternly. “You have definitely been allowed free rein for too long. Go to your room this instant, young lady!” He pointed a finger imperiously towards the door. “I shall deal with you later.”

   Calla tossed the rebellion of black curls over her shoulder and glared at him, hands planted on slender hips. Bright spots of pink bloomed on her cheeks and her eyes flashed. “No! And I will not be dictated to.”

   “You will do as you’re told,” he rasped, bearing down on her.

   “Turner,” she squeaked, backing away.

   The hound came to her aid. Without hesitation, he grabbed the earl’s ankle in massive jaws.

   “Desist, you infernal hound!” The earl brought his cane down on the dog’s shoulder.

Turner yelped and released his victim then sat, staring at him indignantly.

   The girl flew at him, her small hands clenched.

   The earl’s eyes widened.

   “How dare you!” she screamed and proceeded to pummel his chest.

  “Stop your nonsense, damn it!” He dropped the cane to grasp her wrists and contain the furious assault upon his person.

   Teeth bared, she lashed out with her feet. “How dare you set upon poor Turner with your cane?”

   Flying knees caught the earl squarely on the thigh and he grimaced with pain. “Stop this instant, girl, or I shall set upon your derriere with my cane!”

   Amelia grasped Calla’s waist, dragging her off. “My Lord, please let me deal with her.”

   He glared at the girl then her dog. “With pleasure, madam.” He wagged a finger under Calla’s nose. “Your time of reckoning will come!” Turning sharply on his heel, he vacated the conflict with a limp.

   Amelia frowned. “What on earth were you thinking, Calla?” She cast her eyes nervously toward the door.

   “If that straight-laced general thinks to control me like one of his soldiers, he’d best think again.” She tossed her head. “He may look like a young version of Papa Charlie, but he falls far short of being like him. I don’t like this earl at all.” Shaking her head emphatically, she retrieved Wagner from the mantelpiece and stalked out. Turner followed meekly.

   Sighing, Amelia sank to the couch and poured another cup of tea. She wasn’t sure she liked the earl either, and the future looked to be a stormy business if he intended trying to control Calla.

   A fragrant breeze wafted in through the open window and Amelia leaned back in the Chippendale chair.

   It seemed a like yesterday that Calla’s parents had died in a storm crossing the Channel from France, leaving five-year-old Calla orphaned. The late earl was Sir Marshall’s close friend and Calla’s godfather. Since there were no living relatives to care for her, the earl accepted the responsibility. The child gave him a new lease on life. They adored each other, and she filled his twilight years with joy. She replaced the son who was never home, nor wanted to be.

The elder found a kindred spirit in Calla and they were, in a way, soul mates. The two were seldom apart and he encouraged her painting and love of music. The earl refused to arrange a marriage for her, declaring that it smacked of slavery. And there was no way in hell his beloved Calla would suffer the fate of a loveless marriage. The girl blossomed under his gentle hand.

   Amelia feared this new earl would crush Calla with what promised to be a harsh hand. She knew, from occasional comments, that the old earl and his son seldom agreed. He loved his son deeply and wanted to see him free of the restraints forced on him by his draconian mother. But it seemed the son enjoyed restrictions. On leaving home, he’d embraced military life.

   Sighing, Amelia put the cup of cold tea down. She’d garnered from Victor and the older servants, that the young earl favored his mother’s character.

   Pounding hooves broke her reverie and she surged to her feet, running to the window. “Oh no, not now, Calla!”

The girl tore past like a maniac, astride her dappled gray stallion. To make matters worse, she rode bareback.

Amelia pressed a hand to her breast. “I fear things are going to become very stormy.”