Page 18 of The Nanny’s Handbook to Magic and Managing Difficult Dukes

Wherein There Is a Thoroughly Educative Discussion About Astrolabes, the Merits of Gumboots, and Umbrellas…

Gloved hands buried deeply in his pockets, Xavier followed his wards and Mrs. Chase into the British Museum’s Mummy Room. Although, to his dismay, he only had eyes for the talented nanny.

Try as he might, he couldn’t crush his altogether bothersome, highly inappropriate fascination with the woman.

His brain whirred with what it was that had him in such a thrall.

Off the top of his head, there were a number of rather obvious things.

She was bright, she was cheerful, she was engaging.

She appeared to know exactly what his wards needed at the drop of a hat pin and could provide it—whether that be the answer to their myriad questions or the right words to quell an argument or to produce a misplaced toy or much desired item as if from nowhere.

Or to be more precise, said item was usually pulled from the pocket of her Parasol Academy uniform at just the right moment, as if by magic.

It was like Mrs. Chase could see right into his wards’ young minds and anticipate the very thing they wanted.

He, on the other hand, had not a clue. Children were like a completely different species to him.

Illogical and unpredictable and far too energetic, like a litter of mischievous puppies—endearing but still prone to creating unmitigated chaos.

From the very beginning, Xavier had struggled to make a connection with his wards.

So had Nanny Butterworth and Nanny Snodgrass, for that matter.

But Mrs. Chase had not only learned their names within the blink of an eye, but had miraculously tamed all three of them to the point they were docilely eating out of her palm!

Mrs. Chase’s services were immeasurably invaluable to him, and he’d wanted the talented nanny to know that, hence his praise that she was worth her weight in gold.

He hadn’t missed her blush—the bright rush of pink into her freckled cheeks.

But he was not certain what her flushed countenance had meant.

Pleasure? Embarrassment? Awkwardness? A modicum of all three?

While Harry, Barry, and Gary seemed to belong to a different species, Emmeline Chase was like some otherworldly creature or being to Xavier. Unfathomable yet endlessly fascinating.

If truth be told, Xavier had been avoiding interactions with the young woman since she’d started working at St Lawrence House.

Not because he didn’t like her. Far from it.

As he’d initially feared when he’d offered her the position, she might prove to be too damn distracting.

And distractions—of any kind—were something he could ill afford.

He couldn’t pinpoint exactly why this inconvenient obsession with Mrs. Chase had sprung to life.

Only that it had, from the very moment he’d first laid eyes on her, sitting on his roof.

(He still had no idea at all how she’d got there.

It was yet another item to add to his steadily growing list of “Unsolvable Mysteries Related to Emmeline Chase.”)

Xavier took up a position on the opposite side of the Mummy Room, leaning against the wall, watching Mrs. Chase as she asked Bertie to lift up young Gareth so he could better see the mummy in its sarcophagus.

Noblemen were barely meant to even notice their staff, let alone cultivate any form of liking for them, Xavier reminded himself with a disconsolate sigh.

Yet he’d engineered their shared carriage ride to be close to Mrs. Chase.

To observe her rapport with his wards, he’d told himself. But that was the lie of the century.

Naturally, he’d tried very hard to pretend an indifference he didn’t feel by looking out the carriage window or pretending to be riveted by his newspaper, when in actual fact, he’d been secretly entertained by his wards and Mrs. Chase’s jolly games.

And more than a little bit impressed by Harry’s ability to both decipher and accurately pronounce “antidisestablishmentarianism.”

If Xavier were truly honest with himself, he would acknowledge that he wanted to steal a little of Mrs. Chase’s sunshine for himself.

To hear her voice, her infectious laughter, glimpse the warmth in her summer-blue-sky eyes.

To admire her coppery curls and the way they caught and changed color depending on the light.

To catch a trace of her delicious violet scent.

And now, here he was, doing all those things as he lurked in the shadows of a British Museum display cabinet of ancient Egyptian relics, gawking like some covetous hobgoblin or a socially awkward schoolboy.

It was the sort of behavior that would have earned him a caning from the exacting tutor his father had once hired, Mr. Dickenson, to cure Xavier’s “deficiencies of character.”

You mustn’t stare at others, Lord Westbrook.

It isn’t just rude, it’s deviant conduct and not to be tolerated.

Even after twenty years, Mr. Dickenson’s caustic criticisms echoed through Xavier’s mind.

He could almost feel the sting of the cane on the palms of his hands and backs of his knees.

Vividly recall the humiliation and impotent fury at his unjust treatment as it burned through his veins like acid.

Xavier’s jaw clenched. Thank God the teasing his peers had dished out at school hadn’t lasted for too long.

Even though he’d initially been dubbed “mad” and “weird,” within a few months, it was also noted that the young Marquess of Westbrook was brilliant at mathematical equations.

Once Xavier started to complete the work of his fellow classmates—in particular, the work of Marcus, Viscount Hartwell—the harassment stopped.

One thing Xavier knew to be true is that everything had its price.

Anything could be bought, including a respite from torment.

While Xavier despised his long-departed father and most of the “lessons” and “corrections” he’d been determined to impart through the odious Dickenson, this was one of the few messages that had truly stuck.

That, along with always have a plan, and always be the smartest, most capable person in the room.

And if you suspect you are not, hire someone who is.

When it boiled down to it, that was the real reason he’d employed Mrs. Chase. She was both smart and capable when it came to caring for children.

It wasn’t because she was pretty .

Of course, it didn’t hurt that she was .

Xavier focused on Mrs. Chase again (or Nanny Chase, as his wards loved to call her) as she patiently answered the children’s myriad questions about the mummified Egyptian “chantress” lying peacefully in her coffin, presenting a benignly smiling painted face—her gilded mummy-mask—to the world.

Even as a grown man, Xavier had never been one to seek out company of the feminine kind.

Like any male, he experienced base urges from time to time if he spotted a lovely face or neatly turned ankle or admirable cleavage.

But he’d never acted on any of those urges.

Not once in his thirty years had he done more than kiss a woman on a handful of occasions.

Which utterly baffled his best friend, Marcus, who was the complete opposite in that regard.

Marcus was an out-and-out rakehell, and no matter how many times Xavier had been dragged to one of his friend’s “gentlemen’s” clubs, or occasionally, an exclusive bawdy house, Xavier had steadfastly crushed any lustful stirrings, regarding them as ungentlemanly.

Not only that, given his particular eccentricities with regard to touch, he’d always shied away from becoming physically intimate with a woman. Well, beyond a trifling kiss or two.

As a result, Xavier was confident that he wouldn’t want to act on any untoward flickers of desire inadvertently sparked by Mrs. Chase.

The problem was his and his alone to deal with.

His burden to bear. Steering clear of the beguiling nanny had seemed like the best solution to his problem, although after a fortnight of doing so, it hadn’t helped.

Xavier had quickly learned that completely avoiding Mrs. Chase was like trying to ignore an itchy spot that needed scratching. The more you disregarded it, the worse the impulse got.

So he’d told (lied to) himself that this short innocuous excursion would alleviate that persistent and annoying urge, so he could get on with his work without any distractions whatsoever. In fact, this whole endeavor had only made his “itch” worse.

Even now, he had to force himself to not stare at Mrs. Chase’s face as he tried to read her expressions; as he devoured her every word, trying to interpret the nuances of what she’d said—whether she was serious or teasing.

She was presently explaining exactly what a mummy was to young Gary— Gareth , Xavier corrected himself—and the boy was scrunching up his nose.

“Ewww,” he said. “You mean there are real bones under all those old bandages?”

“You didn’t seem to mind the canopic jars,” Harry remarked drily. “The bits and pieces in those were even more horrid.”

“Perhaps it’s time to move onto the Horology Room to see the watches and clocks and the astrolabe,” suggested Mrs. Chase brightly.

It was Bartholomew who wrinkled his nose this time. “Do we have to? I don’t want to see a bunch of boring old clocks. There’s lots of clocks at home. Can’t we go to the park instead? You promised us a trip to the park, Nanny Chase.”

“Yes. We want to play hopscotch and jump in puddles!” cried Gareth clapping his hands with boyish glee.

Xavier stepped forward. “I think your sister would like to see the astrolabe,” he said, making sure he caught each of the boys’ gazes in turn. “And it won’t take long. Then we’ll go to the park. Does that sound like an agreeable compromise for all parties?”

Bartholomew affected a heavy sigh. “All right, Cousin Xavier.”