He stared at her, making a thoughtful sound deep in his throat but made no further comment.
Emily lay back down. “I am going to try to get some rest. Goodnight My Lord.”
“Good night, Miss Fletcher.”
Duncan felt as if in some inexplicable way, his relationship with Miss Fletcher had changed in some fundamental way after that night. Outwardly, their behavior toward each other did not change much. Save for lingering looks as they exchanged greetings in the morning, or brushing against each other as they passed in the corridor rather than allowing for extra room. It was subtle, but nevertheless potent.
He lay awake at night, thinking about the curve of her spine and how perfectly his hand might fit in that arch. He pondered her brown curls, her amber eyes, creamy skin and how well they all went together, making her look like a wood nymph or fey creature. He could not look at her skin and not want to run his hand along it, to feel if it was as soft as it looked.
When she spoke, her hands moved as if drawing her words in the air. He could not help but follow the motion, wanting to cover those hands with his. He wanted to pull her to him so that she was flush against his body and could properly appreciate what she did to him.
He turned to his side on the bed, folding his arms under his head to stop them from venturing lower.
This is ridiculous. She’s just a governess.
No matter how many times he told himself that, his eyes insisted on lighting up every time they landed on her. He felt alive in a way he had not since, even before Jane’s death. He had also never felt so helpless or out of control.
It scared the dickens out of him.
Emily had taken to drinking a cup of cocoa with Betsey in the kitchen before bed. It helped her to unwind as did Betsey’s solid, nonjudgmental company.
They usually spoke about their day, regaling each other with stories both of their past and present lives.
“You speak of Lord Sulby quite a lot. You’re quite taken with him, aren’t you?”
Emily stared aghast at Betsey, wondering what she had said that would lead the housekeeper to that conclusion. Betsey gave her an understanding smile. “It’s nothing you said…or rather, not one particular thing. Tis the way you speak of him in general, a dash of fond and a pinch of admiring, with some exasperation thrown in for good luck…” Betsey grinned at her.
Emily gave her a wry smile in return. “Sounds like a recipe for disaster.”
“Indeed,” the housekeeper’s face suddenly grew serious, “or you just might be the best thing to happen to them. They all need a feminine touch in their lives.”
Emily sighed, “If I’m being honest…” she shook her head, “I would like to be more to them all…but, is nothing but a fever dream. The Earl would never look to someone like me. Not when he has all the unmarried ladies of the ton to choose from.”
Betsey leaned closer, “And yet…he has not.”
Emily’s brow furrowed. “Has not what?”
“Chosen any ladies from the ton, of course.” Betsey reached over and patted her hand, “I think it’s time for you to go to bed. Clearly you have reached the end of your thinking capacity.”
Emily snorted, getting to her feet. “You may be right about that.” She rinsed her cup and put it away before heading to the door. “Goodnight then.”
“Goodnight, Emily. Sleep well.”
Emily intended to do just that. It had been a long day and she barely managed to take off her gown and splash water on her face before she was out like a light.
A loud banging woke her up too soon, and she sat up groggily, blinking in confusion, “Wha…?”
“Emily! Wake up. We need you.” Betsey called as she knocked on Emily’s door again. The urgency in the housekeeper’s voice had Emily scrambling off the bed and reaching for her house coat and slippers before opening the door as fast as she could.
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Lord Essex. He seems to have come down with something.”
Emily gasped, and froze, unsure of how to proceed. Having been an only child, she’d hardly gotten to be around sick children.
“Where’s Lord Sulby? Did he return from Sussex yet?” she asked hopefully.
Betsey shook her head.
“Oh Lord…all right, well…do you know a physician who would be willing to come and look at him?”
Betsey nodded. “His Lordship has a personal physician. I can send the coachman to fetch him.”
“Do that. I…I shall go and see about the boy.” She let go of the doorknob and began to walk. “What of the girls? Do they know?”
Betsey shook her head. “I did not wake them.”
“Good. Good.” Emily nodded, quickening her pace. Emily was housed on the third floor while the Earl and his children slept on the second. She hurried to Lord Essex’s room where she found him tossing and turning. Sweat was pouring from his brow and he was hot to the touch.
She quickly pushed his blankets to the bottom of the bed and crossed over to the armoire where there was a basin and a jug of water. There was a maid hovering by the door, shifting from foot to foot, looking uncertain. Emily turned to her. “Wake two footmen and have them bring the claw-foot tub. Then fill it with lukewarm water. We need to give the Viscount a bath.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid curtsied before she left, much to Emily’s surprise. She had no time to dwell on it however as Lord Essex picked that moment to let out a moan of pain. Emily rushed to his side, basin and cloth in hand. She dipped the cloth in the water and touched it to his forehead. “Where does it hurt?” she asked softly as she mopped his forehead.
Lord Essex pointed to his temple and moaned again.
“Headache? You have a headache?”
Lord Essex rolled himself into a ball and nodded into his hands.
“Shh, it’s all right. We’ll soon get you well again.” She pressed the cloth harder to his head, praying that she wasn’t lying.
To her everlasting relief, Betsey appeared with the physician even before the maids were done filling the tub. He bent over Lord Essex and Emily stepped away to give him room to work.
She hovered in the corner with Betsey, holding tight to her hand as the physician cupped Lord Essex and then wrote out a script.
“You’ll make some willow bark tea and give him to drink every five hours. Then mix a tincture of laudanum and give him two drops every hour,” Mr. Evans said.
Betsey looked uncertain. “Sir, we do not keep any laudanum in the house. The Lord forbids it.”
The physician looked startled and then flustered as if he’d known that but had forgotten. “Oh yes…well, perhaps some whisky will do just as well.”
Betsey curtsied, “Yes sir.”
The physician looked curiously at her. “You are the new governess?”
Emily nodded, “Yes, I am.”
“Good. I trust you will stay with the Viscount until he’s feeling better?”
Emily took a step forward. “Of course.”
The physician nodded. “Well then, that will be all for now. Should he take a turn for the worse, be sure and let me know?”
“We will, thank you.”
Mr. Evans looked toward the half-filled tub and nodded. “A bath is a good idea. Well done. I shall leave you to it.”
Betsey escorted the physician out while Emily stayed, divesting Lord Essex of his night clothes before carrying his heated body to the water and gently placing him inside. He made a slight noise of pain as his skin touched the water, eyes half lidded.
“Shh, it’ll be all right. I’m right here. Don’t you worry. We’ll have you right as rain before too long.”
She continued to murmur soothing words as she rubbed him down and after some time he fell asleep. She let him lay in the tub while she changed his sweat-soaked sheets and then called in two footmen to carry him gently to the bed.
After that, all she could do was watch over him while feeding him spoonfuls of willow bark tea interspersed with dollo
ps of whisky. His night was restless and he often woke up moaning but every time, Emily was there to calm him down. She sat in the chair by his bed, housecoat wrapped securely about her and watched over him.
Sometime around dawn, his fever broke and he lapsed into real sleep. With a feeling of relief, Emily relaxed as well, leaning back in her chair until she too, succumbed to slumber.
When Nancy went to breakfast, she found the dining room empty of the twins which was unusual. She dithered, wondering if she should check on them or eat her breakfast and mind her own business. A footman came in with a tray, and filled a plate with food before picking it up again.
“Where are you taking that?” Nancy asked.
The footman jerked in startlement before turning to face Nancy. “Uh, I’m taking it up to the Viscount’s room. He and Miss Fletcher will be having breakfast in his room. Lady Anne is still asleep.”
Nancy frowned. “Why are you taking it up there? Why can’t they come here?”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot that you and Lady Anne were asleep and did not know. The Viscount took sick at night and Miss Fletcher stayed with him.”
“Took sick? Is he all right?” Nancy’s voice rose a few octaves with every word.
“Oh yes, perfectly fine, Miss Fletcher says. She just needs to get some soup in him,” the footman lifted the tray that did indeed contain a bowl of soup, “and then he’ll sleep some more.”
Nancy nodded her head and sat down as the footman went off. She had not failed to notice how Miss Fletcher was inveigling herself into the fabric of her family, making herself indispensable.
There was nothing she could do about the way that her siblings followed her about like she was the second coming or stop the cow eyes she made at their father.
Chapter 17
Duncan arrived home the next morning, exhausted from his overnight trip. A late start from Sussex meant that he’d had to travel through the night or cut short his trip and find an inn to spend the night. While he could have done that, something pushed him to get home as soon as possible.
As he walked into the house, he sensed the uproar that underlined the increasingly urgent way that people moved, the exhausted set of their shoulders, and knew that something had happened.
“The children? Are they all right?” he asked the butler as the man took his coat.
He sighed. “Lord Essex was taken ill last night.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, My Lord. But Miss Fletcher took good care of him,” Mrs. Cooke said appearing in his periphery.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Miss Fletcher? Has she some medical training?”
Mrs. Cooke smiled. “Well, no. But we called Mr. Evans and he gave us a script. I made up the medicines and Miss Fletcher fed them to him. The whisky, every hour on the hour and the Willow Bark tea every five hours. His fever broke this morning and I believe they’re both sleeping peacefully.”
Duncan blinked at her, not knowing how to respond. It was absolutely above and beyond her duties for Miss Fletcher to sit with Harry all night. He would never have asked it of her and he hardly knew how to react to her actions.
Am I supposed to thank her or just take it for granted?
He could not recall ever feeling so confused or conflicted about a governess. He walked slowly toward Harry’s chambers, all the while pondering frantically on the best way to respond to Miss Fletcher’s actions. He knocked softly on Harry’s door and opened it, peering in at his son who lay covered in several blankets.
He smiled to see how his blond cowlick peeked out of the blankets like a curious bird. Stepping into the room, he looked around for the governess but she was not in sight.
“Harry?” he whispered and waited to see if his son would respond. There was no movement from the bed so he stepped back and closed the door. Mrs. Cooke was standing outside the door, her hands folded.
“And the governess? Where is she?”
“I believe she is resting. She was up with the boy the whole night. She needs the rest,” Mrs. Cooke was already protesting even before Duncan had a chance to say a word.
“Of course she needs rest. I agree.”
“Father!” the pattering of little feet coupled with the loud sound startled him. He looked down the corridor and saw Anne running toward him, her face flushed and distressed looking. Immediately he squatted to her level and let her throw herself into his arms. “They told me Harry was took sick? Is he all right? Is he going to die?”
Duncan looked at her with wide eyes, hardly able to take in her words. “Of course he’s not dying. Who told you that?”
Anne sniffed loudly, clutching him tightly, “They said the physician came and Miss Fletcher stayed with him all night. That means he’s really sick.”
“Yes, perhaps he is, but he is not dying. I do assure you. I’ve seen him and he is sleeping peacefully.”
Nevertheless, Duncan’s stomach dropped. He had looked in on his son, but he had not ascertained that he was indeed well. He looked to Mrs. Cooke, “Would you summon the sawbones so that he might tell us how my son is doing?”
“Of course.” She hurried off and Duncan carried Anne into her brother’s room so that she could see that he was sleeping. Her expression softened in the same way his had, when she saw his cowlick peeking out of his blankets.
“You’re sure he’s going to be all right?” she asked softly.
Duncan took a deep breath to reassure her and then let it out without saying a word. He knew what she was really asking: Will I lose my brother like I lost my mother?
The truth was that he could not answer that question with any kind of authority. He simply did not know. “Let’s wait for the physician and see what he says.” He said quietly and avoided her eyes as she whipped her head around to stare at him. Undoubtedly she could hear what he was not saying.
He turned, and left the room, still carrying her. “Have you had your breakfast?” he noted that she was still in her nightclothes and was not surprised when she shook her head slowly.
“Well then, go and change and then meet me in the dining room. By the time you arrive I expect the physician will have arrived and be able to tell us that all is well. All right?”
He placed her down on her feet as she nodded, and she dashed off to obey his instructions. He sighed heavily, shaking his head as he made his way to the dining hall. He could not blame his children for their fear and fragility in the face of possible death. They knew how quick it could snatch somebody from their midst.
He walked down the stairs, allowing himself to feel disappointed that he had not seen the governess.
It’s because I want to thank her.
Somehow, his thoughts were unconvincing. If he was being honest, half of his reason for rushing home was because he wanted to see her again.
He opened the door to the dining hall to see that Nancy was nonchalantly having breakfast. He narrowed his eyes in annoyance as she cut up a piece of fish and put it in her mouth. Opening his mouth, he was preparing to tell her off when he saw the tell-tale tremble in her fingers and the slight flush in her cheeks.
“Nancy, how nice to see you again. How are you?” he asked, taking a seat across from her.
“I am fine.” Her answer was short, clipped, but Duncan had long since learned that her brusqueness was just a cover for worry.
“I have been to see Harry and he looks like the worst is behind him. The physician will be by shortly to give us a report.”
She nodded her understanding, continuing to eat. “Well, that’s nice but I thought he was all better and that’s why the physician left him in the governess’ care. Surely he would not have done that if Harry were in any danger?”
“You’re quite right,” Duncan looked away, not wanting her to see any doubt in his eyes. A serving girl approached, pouring him a hot cup of tea and filling his plate with kippers, beans, and a hunk of bread liberally spread with butter and jam.
He nodded his thanks and tucked in, realizing he was quit
e hungry after a long night of travel with no breaks for food.
Nancy put down her fork and looked at him. “Father, I wanted to speak with you about my own masquerade ball when I turn six-and-ten. Lady Chelsea told me that in order to get ahead of the other girls during our season, it helps if your previous birthday celebrations were memorable.”
Duncan put his fork down and wiped his mouth. “What do you have in mind?”
“Well…there is a singer on Drury Lane–”
Duncan held up a hand. “I am not inviting a theatre troupe to your ball. I do not give a tinker’s damn what Lady Chelsea said it would do for you.”
A Wicked Earl she can't Resist: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 14