Page 31 of The Nanny’s Handbook to Magic and Managing Difficult Dukes

Emmeline and Mina chatted for a while about books they’d like to read and plays they’d both like to see (even if they couldn’t afford to purchase any new novels or tickets for a London theater performance), and then they eventually decided to repair to the Academy’s fencing saloon for a bout or two with foils.

As they quit the change rooms—there was always an ample supply of suitable fencing attire for graduates to use so one didn’t have to risk ruining one’s clothes (rips and tears were inevitable)—Mrs. Temple appeared in the hall.

“Mrs. Chase, how lovely to see you,” declared the headmistress with a warm smile as she tripped toward them, her pearl-gray skirts softly whispering about her ankles. “How have you been getting on with the Duke of St Lawrence and his wards?”

Emmeline smiled. No doubt Mrs. Temple already knew how she’d “been getting on”—the canny headmistress would have been in contact with the duke to make certain that Emmeline’s performance was at the very least, satisfactory, if not exemplary.

“Everything is going splendidly,” replied Emmeline. “I’m enjoying the work immensely.”

“Excellent,” said the headmistress with a decided nod. Then she glanced at her silver watch, which was always pinned to her bodice. “I would stay to chat longer, but alas, I have to attend a board meeting at our brand-new St Giles orphanage.”

While only the well-to-do could afford a Parasol nanny or governess, the Academy had long been involved in many philanthropic endeavors.

Since its inception, it had established orphanages, a foundling hospital, and a home for unwedded mothers in London.

Mrs. Temple had also recently opened a number of charity schools in London’s poorer areas.

All Academy graduates learned that these benevolent institutions were created because of a specific clause within the Academy’s secret Fae Charter: The Parasol Academy must protect and nurture as many children as possible, no matter their circumstances.

Emmeline wholeheartedly supported such good deeds.

Perhaps she could mention the Academy’s philanthropy to the Duke of St Lawrence.

His wards were orphans so he might consider making a donation.

Mrs. Temple continued on her way, and then Emmeline looked at her own watch. She needed to get going too.

On the doorstep of the Academy, Mina hugged Emmeline goodbye. “I promise that I’ll send you a long leygram as soon as I’ve settled into my new position at Highwood Hall in Hertfordshire.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” replied Emmeline with mock sternness, “otherwise I’ll be teleporting into your new wardrobe in the middle of the night.”

“Goodness, we can’t have that. Knowing you, you’d end up in the Hall’s goldfish pond or stranded in a tree or the coal cellar.”

Emmeline laughed. “You will never let me forget about that time I ended up in the Thames, will you?” Thank goodness Mina didn’t know about her most recent teleportation mishap.

“Well, you can’t be fabulous at simply everything,” said Mina. “Otherwise, what hope do the rest of us mere mortals have? I’m still smarting after that royal trouncing you gave me in the fencing saloon. And you said you were out of practice. What rot.”

“My reflexes might be sharp, but I assure you, my physical stamina is waning. The only reason I’m hailing a hansom cab rather than walking is that I need to get to—”

Dickens on toast. Emmeline pressed her lips together.

She couldn’t believe that she’d nearly let slip that she needed to get to Newgate Prison before visiting hours ended.

Walking the three-and-a-half miles into the City of London would take far too long.

“I’m eager to purchase a few odds and ends at Covent Garden and I’d like to get there before it rains,” she amended, nodding at the sullen gray clouds above them to make her point.

What she’d said wasn’t a complete lie either. She did intend to visit the market first to pick up some provisions for her father.

“Well, enjoy, my dear friend. I’d offer to come with you, but I promised another student that I would help her master some of her incantations.

” Mina lowered her voice. “She can’t quite manage the Unsmirchify spell.

Instead of cleaning up spills and messes, the whole spoiled item of clothing disappears into thin air.

Which is very awkward. A nanny or governess should not be parading around in her drawers and corset. ”

“Oh dear. How mortifying that would be,” said Emmeline.

“And so not manners,” agreed Mina. “From day one of our training, we swear to adhere to the Parasol Academy’s motto, ‘We’re prim, proper, and prepared for anything.’?”

“Very true.” Emmeline gave a decided nod. Next time she had improper thoughts about the duke, she would repeat the Academy’s mantra to herself. It would be the equivalent of a mental pinch. Hopefully, if she said it enough times, it would sink in.

“Good God, Xavier, what’s gotten into you today?” demanded Marcus Cavendish, Viscount Hartwell, rubbing his abused jaw. “That facer of yours nearly knocked my back teeth out.”

Xavier grimaced. Although a purple bruise was already blooming beneath his friend’s light stubble, he knew that Marcus probably wouldn’t mind that much.

No matter Lord Hart well’s state of dishevelment, or the degree of scandal attached to his name, he always seemed to be popular about town.

After all, the fellow was a rakehell and had a wicked reputation to uphold.

If he were bruised, even bloodied or slightly broken, there’d still be women lined up offering to kiss him better.

“My sincerest apologies,” said Xavier, tugging off his boxing glove and flexing his throbbing fingers.

“I think I nearly broke my knuckles too.” He wiped his glove-free hand over his perspiration-beaded brow then plucked his damp silk shirt away from his chest. For the last hour, he’d been sparring with his best friend at the exclusive Belgravia Boxing Saloon for Gentlemen, and now that they’d paused their friendly bout, he was dying to strip off his sweat-drenched clothes and take a bath.

While he positively loathed the sensation of damp clothing against his skin, bathing did not bother him at all.

In fact, indulging in a long hot bath might give him the opportunity to relieve some pent-up physical tension in another way.

Because boxing with Marcus clearly hadn’t worked.

His overzealous punch was an indicator that his simmering sexual frustration was about to boil over.

It appeared that was the drawback of being a thirty-year-old male virgin with a beguiling nanny in his employ.

Egad, he’d turned into a randy March hare with energy to burn and no satisfactory way to expend it.

Would that he was the sort of man who could accompany Marcus to a high-class bawdy house.

Or a society ball to find an obliging widow who didn’t give a fig about the unflattering rumors that dogged him.

He could also simply get drunk. But alas, he wasn’t the sort of man who overindulged in alcohol either.

No, immersing himself in the world of horology and exercising hard were about the only ways he could quell the fire in his veins.

(And occasionally finding relief by his own hand.) Except, none of these methods were working. At all.

He was a horse about to bolt. A storm about to break. A pistol about to explode.

For the first time in his life, Xavier decided that being a virgin was the absolute worst. And he didn’t know what to do about it. He certainly wasn’t going to slake his misbegotten lust by attempting to seduce his wards’ nanny. It wasn’t her problem to fix.

It was his issue entirely. Still, being saddled with his virginity had been his cross to bear for a long, long time.

Xavier supposed that if he did “his duty” and wed, his irksome and rather inconvenient “problem” would be solved.

But he had decided years ago—even before he’d inherited the dukedom, in fact—that he’d rather poke a cravat pin in his eye than hunt for a suitable wife for the sole purpose of fathering the requisite heir and spare.

Indeed, he was certain that finding a dodo bird on the isle of Mauritius would be a far easier feat than hunting for a bride in London’s ballrooms. Given the rumors surrounding his rightness of mind, no doubt it would be a torturous, demoralizing process, and all things considered, one he’d rather avoid.

Besides, his life was so bloody complicated right now, he simply didn’t have the time, let alone the inclination to get married.

He certainly didn’t want to secure the services of a mistress.

The idea of paying a woman to be intimate with him—of reducing such an encounter to an impersonal transaction—didn’t sit well with him at all. He wanted his first time to be—

Gah! Dash it all to hell! He didn’t know what he wanted.

Xavier yanked off his other boxing glove and began unwinding the silk binding from his abused knuckles.

He wished he could think of a way to alleviate his “problem” without betraying his principles.

He wanted Mrs. Chase with an acuteness that was almost unbearable, yet he didn’t want to want her.

He enjoyed her company, admired and respected her, but this bone-deep yearning to have her in a physical sense was not respectful at all.

He supposed it had always been the case, right from the very start. Like a bright shooting star falling from the zenith, she’d landed on his roof and, rightly or wrongly, he’d burned to know her in every sense of the word.

Oh, he was in a bad, bad way.

Marcus tossed him a towel. “Shall we call it a day, my friend?”

Too discomposed to manage a coherent verbal response, Xavier grunted his assent then blotted his face. Devil take him. He was grunting now?

He really was devolving into a troglodyte.