Teaching His Ward: A Regency Romance

by Noël Cades

  Mrs Owen’s cup overflowed with contentment that evening.

  Mrs Hodgson had heard through her sister of the Earl of Southwell’s supposed plans for his ward. Having no acquaintance herself with Sir Hubert Frobisher, she had supposed Jemima’s antipathy to be the natural coyness of an inexperienced young woman approaching matrimony.

  “My sister tells me that there is to be a happy event not so far away in your future, Miss Carlow,” Mrs Hodgson commented.

  “Indeed there is to be an event, but not a happy one,” Jemima told her.

  “It is quite natural for a bride to feel some anxiety, my dear,” Mrs Hodgson said. “Marriage is a great change, but it is a very comfortable state.”

  “Not with someone like the man I am affianced to,” Jemima said.

  Mrs Hodgson frowned. She knew from Mrs Owen that Jemima had described her future husband as “elderly”, but supposed this to be an exaggeration. Why, a man of twenty-five might seem old to a girl only recently out in society!

  “I am sure your guardian must have chosen an eligible husband for you. Even if he is a little older, that is the case in some of the happiest unions I know of.”

  “Not five decades older,” Jemima observed.

  Mrs Hodgson and Mrs Owen exchanged a glance, both ladies quite taken aback by this statement. “I am sure it cannot be so,” Mrs Hodgson said. “Some gentlemen may have the appearance of being of later years than they really are. I am sure that your guardian could not have arranged for you to wed a man of, what, nearly seventy! Really, my dear Miss Carlow, such a thing would be absurd!”

  “He was born the very year that Westminster Bridge was opened, for his father took him in the first cavalcade to cross it, as he is fond of telling people. From that you may yourselves deduce his age,” Jemima said. Sir Hubert’s architectural claim to significance was something of a joke among his neighbours.

  Mrs Hodgson had noticed how often the Earl of Southwell’s eye fell upon his ward during dinner. She might have suspected a personal interest there, had she not known of the marriage he had supposedly arranged for the girl. Instead, she had supposed that the Earl’s watchful regard must be on that other man’s behalf. Assuming he had contracted an eligible match for her, he might well wish to ensure that no complications developed to obstruct it.

  But no one could suppose a man of nearly seventy to be an eligible match for a girl of seventeen! There was some mystery or misunderstanding here, Mrs Hodgson thought, though what it was eluded her utterly.

  “Nonetheless, perhaps there will be many more years of… strong health ahead of him.” Mrs Hodgson forbore to use the term “vigour” lest it alarmed Jemima’s gentle ears, but hoped her words might nonetheless provide some reassurance.

  They had quite the opposite effect, of course. For the prospect of spending twenty or thirty more years with such a husband was enough to make anyone faint with horror. It only made Jemima all the more determined to escape.

  Mrs Owen changed the subject at that point, knowing from her own experience that Jemima was immovable when it came to her opposition to her marriage.

  The joy of seeing her son and having him welcomed by the Earl of Southwell had quite overcome her, and when the guests departed she excused herself on the grounds of tiredness.

  Jemima was glad to see how happy the evening had made Mrs Owen, for she had developed a sincere affection for her companion. She was herself on the point of fetching a book she had left in the salon before going to bed, but her guardian stopped her.

  “If you are not overly tired, take a nightcap with me in the library.”

  Jemima readily assented. While she had enjoyed the company of their guests very much, she had missed conversing with her guardian. He had seemed so silent and disapproving since his return, and she was anxious to win back his regard. Not merely for the sake of her own heart, which still ached with the new awareness of her feelings for him, but for the sake of her freedom. Only if he approved of her again might he agree to release her from her terrible engagement.

  She sat by the still-alight fire while he poured her a drink.

  “So, did the naval hero live up to Mrs Owen’s glowing descriptions of him?”

  Jemima was taken aback by the question. There was something in the Earl of Southwell’s tone that she could not understand. Still, she was sure he must have approved of Richard Owen, for who could not? Thus thinking that her guardian wished her to express a good opinion of their guest, she was all enthusiasm.

  “Indeed, my lord. He seems a very fine and pleasant man. I found the stories of his travels very interesting.”

  Marcus did not know why he had tortured himself with the question. He regarded his ward, her eyes shining as she spoke, and could only assume her emotion was inspired by the young man she had just met. Had he left matters too late?

  Having vowed many times never to repeat his earlier impropriety, he found himself so inflamed with desire, wine, and fury over the thought that another man had won his ward’s affections, that all his former good intentions were lost.

  “When we spoke on the eve of my departure, I mentioned to you that there were various areas your husband would wish you to be prepared in. I am glad to see that you have obeyed my instructions regarding your classical studies,” he said.

  Once again he was standing near her. Tall, dark and disapproving, and she longed for his good opinion.

  “I am sure that I will never live so long as to read every text, but I hope that I am less ignorant than I was.”

  “You may also recall that I mentioned learning to be receptive to a husband’s physical affections.” Marcus traced the side of Jemima’s face with his hand, brushing back a stray lock. His fingers trailed her neck, moving down until his hand passed over her breast. He cupped it through the fabric of her gown, his thumb brushing across the area, and she gasped.

  “My lord…”

  “A dutiful wife does not resist a husband’s attentions, Jemima.” With his hand increasing the pressure of his caress he drew her to him, his lips insistent on hers.

  His embrace was more demanding than the previous occasion. There was an urgency there, even a sense of violence. It thrilled her, both with fear and a desire for him to mould her even closer against his hard, broad chest. She let out a small cry as he pressed the peak of her breast between his finger and thumb. It did not cause pain so much as a throb throughout her whole body.

  Then his lips were on her neck, drawing in the flesh there as his hands moved to her waist and gripped her firmly.

  Just as he raised his head to hers once more, and she thought he would again embrace her, he ended contact as swiftly as he had done on the previous occasion.

  “I am satisfied that you will be able to fulfil your wifely duties accordingly, when the time comes.” He brushed his thumb across her lips and she longed again for him to kiss her.

  But he did not.

  “Remember only that you must yield, Jemima, to whatever your husband may demand of you. There is no place for maidenly coyness between man and wife. The marriage bed is sanctified by both church and state, and you will be bound to show him obedience.”

  Chapter 24

  The Earl of Southwell knew his behaviour was once again outrageous. Outrageous, ungentlemanly, and unforgivable.

  But he had lived like a monk for three months in Spain, with the proffered affection of women there holding no appeal for him. He had not then attributed this to his growing desire for his ward. Yet as he looked upon her now, he realised that she was all that aroused him.

  Aroused and infuriated. To come home and discover all that he had discovered. And then for her to appear this evening looking so ravishing, and bestowing all her charms upon some damned naval pup. It gave him an irrational urge to torment her, although he probably suffered even more as a result.

  "You should get some rest. I have matters to discuss with you tomorrow," he told her.

  Jemima, bewildered both by his behaviour and her r
esponse to it, nearly fled from the room.

  Alone, Marcus nursed the rest of his brandy as he stood by the fire. That his ward still appeared to melt into his embrace gave him hope that all was not yet lost. But he must hasten his plans to get them both to London and make the final arrangements. Tarrying here was dangerous. Out of his sight, who knew what curate or naval officer or other swain might next appear?

  He would take up Miss Berystede’s kind offer to assist with the trousseau, for that was a female affair.

  Marcus was half inclined to surprise Jemima at the altar, though this might be drawing out the charade too far. Then again, the only thing that seemed to subdue her irrepressible spirits was the mention of her supposed bridegroom.

  A thought struck him. Did he want to subdue them? He had imagined his future countess to be a stately woman, a competent hostess when required, but otherwise placid and quiet living. Had his reluctance thus far to marry been because the reality of such a vision held little appeal?

  It was arranged that they would return to London the day after Mrs Owen’s son left Southwell Dene to visit some friends in Surrey. Marcus did not wish to deprive Mrs Owen of the society of her son. Though he privately regretted that this meant Jemima saw more of the young man, since the Hodgsons invited them for dinner and Jemima also visited during the day with Mrs Owen.

  “Following her kind hospitality to your cousin, Miss Berystede has graciously offered to act as your chaperone while you are in London,” Marcus told Jemima.

  She was bewildered. “My cousin?”

  “Your cousin, Lady Julia Carlingford, now returned to Ireland,” Marcus said. “To whom you bear a striking resemblance.”

  “A resemblance?” Realisation finally came. “You mean I am to go to London in my own name? And stay again with Miss Berystede?”

  “You would do well to remember that this will be your first visit to that lady’s house,” Marcus advised.

  She was to stay with Kitty and Miss Berystede and Ann Pargeter again? The prospect was as confusing as it was delightful. But surely her guardian could not mean her to deceive Miss Berystede a second time?

  “But Miss Berystede… she knows, surely she could not…?”

  “You need have no qualms on that good lady’s account. The scheme was of her own devising.”

  This was a great deal to take in. That Miss Berystede should not only approve of, but had even suggested a second deception. What could it mean?

  “When I am in London, will I be out in society?” Jemima asked. She was so overjoyed at the prospect of seeing Kitty again that she barely cared if her guardian did plan for her to spend all day in lessons with a tutor. It would also be the busiest part of the season when they returned.

  “Naturally, once you are fitted out with whatever young ladies require for such a thing,” Marcus told her. He had no real notion of what this might be, but Miss Berystede had made some mention of wardrobe. That was a woman’s affair, and he would leave them to it. “And of course your trousseau,” he added, recalling that Beatrice Berystede had also referred to this.

  “My trousseau?”

  Marcus winced at the sudden shadow that dulled the excitement in her eyes. He would need to relieve her on that point very soon. It would hardly do for her to return to society with another fictitious engagement. But he was not ready to present her with his own plans. Keeping his tone even, he spoke. “You will of course wish to have the accoutrements considered necessary by a woman for her marriage.” This conjured the vision of his ward in some filmy garment barely covering her modesty, ready for her waiting husband, and he quickly changed the subject.

  Jemima’s thoughts ran in quite the opposite direction when it came to contemplating the sort of attire that a future bride of Sir Hubert Frobisher might choose. She could only imagine wanting a suit of armour for such an insupportable ordeal. She could not imagine submitting to the kinds of embraces that her guardian had demonstrated to her, embraces that despite her secret hopes, he had failed to repeat.

  “I fear that I have very limited fortune of my own to equip myself appropriately,” she said. Aunt Harlington had always impressed upon her that as a penniless orphan, she could have no lofty prospects for herself regarding her future. Perhaps this might now be an advantage, for Sir Hubert could surely not wish to take a beggar-maid to Frobisher Hall?

  “You will incur no expense yourself. I will settle any bills, as it is my duty as your guardian to do so,” Marcus told her. Or rather as his bride, though he did not mention this.

  Jemima bowed her head, somewhat regretting that she would not be able to use rags as a means to repel her loathed future bridegroom. “You are very good, my lord.”

  It should have been the easiest thing in the world for Marcus to simply say: “For it is I who will be your future husband.” Yet still, he found he could not. What if the words merely alleviated her despair, but did not dispel it?

  Three months ago, Marcus thought he would have barely cared what her reaction might have been. He had been so furious with her deception, so disturbed by his own reaction, that any reluctance on her part to become his wife might have been ample punishment. Now, he wanted to see the same joy on her face that he himself felt at the prospect of being with her.

  But he remembered her animation when talking with Richard Owen the previous evening, and his nerve failed. He did not wish to be a consolation prize.

  The Earl of Southwell announced the plans to Mrs Owen, who was to accompany them to London. He had decided it was best for her to remain ignorant of Jemima’s former antics there.

  Mrs Owen was quietly delighted with the plans, for her son would be in London before returning to his ship. Loving needlework and dressmaking as she did, she was pleased by the idea of assisting with the selection of Jemima’s trousseau. She had a fine eye for clothing, even if as a widow on a modest pension, she could not afford any grand style for herself. Not that she had had the occasion to need such a thing, for even during her marriage Mr Owen and she had preferred to live quietly, mixing little in society beyond their immediate neighbours and family.

  Jemima, who had just started writing a letter to Kitty, now crumpled the page, seeing no need. Instead, taking advantage of her guardian’s occupation with his bailiff, she slipped away to the stables to ride Satan. She would be forgiven this once, surely, if she indulged in one last, bareback gallop across the open downs?

  “We are to depart for London tomorrow,” she told Juan in Spanish. “I do not know when or if I will be back. But you will care for Satan just as much as I do, won’t you?”

  Juan was dejected by the prospect of Jemima leaving. She was the only one of the household, save for his master, who had troubled to learn his own language. He knew the stallion would miss her as well, for as much as it tolerated him, it snickered and became agitated with expectation whenever she was on her way to the stables. From this Juan could tell when Jemima was coming long before he saw her, for Satan had some sixth sense when it came to the young woman.

  “You aren’t coming back?” Juan asked.

  Jemima shook her head sadly. “My guardian wishes me to marry someone who lives far away.”

  Juan did not understand this at all. He had assumed that his master, having brought a beautiful woman to his home, intended to marry her himself. The situation seemed quite simple to the stable boy. Not having been reared with the tact and niceties of English society, he spoke his mind. “Why does he not marry you?”

  Jemima felt her face grow red. “I am afraid he does not wish to.”

  Juan thought the Earl of Southwell must be very odd. He supposed it was not his place to comment on this, but his face spoke his thoughts.

  “He is an Earl, you see,” Jemima tried to explain. “And I have no fortune, and am not nearly so highly born.”

  That, and the fact that her guardian was not enamoured of her, and continually disapproved of her behaviour, she thought. If only she might have had more time to win his better opinion
. Though even doing so would probably not have been enough. For why would he marry her, a girl of no family nor any significance?

  Juan still thought his master must be a fool not to marry Jemima himself, for he surely had money enough for both of them? He had heard romantic tales in his childhood of princes marrying peasant girls, and could not see why matters should be so very different in England.

  Jemima did not go so far as to wear her breeches, but she did ride Satan bareback and astride. It might be the last chance she ever got to do so, at least for a long time. And on such a horse! The wind in her hair, the thunderous rhythm of his hooves, as they rode she felt one with him. He was hers, even if she did not own him. If only she had been born a boy, she might have been able to work with horses as Juan did.

  When she returned, she said a reluctant farewell to the stallion. Juan and her guardian would be his only riders henceforth.

  “You will keep him safe, won’t you?” she asked the Spanish boy, and she did not only refer to the horse.

  On their final evening at Southwell, Marcus drank little, lest wine again inflame his lust to the point of losing self-control. He summoned Jemima to the library again, with his intentions strictly honourable.

  “I forgot to give you this earlier,” he said, handing her a parcel. “It is a present from Madrid.”

  “But it is not my birthday,” Jemima said, feeling surprised.

  “A guardian may give a ward a souvenir of his travels, without it being an anniversary.”

  Jemima untied the knotted string that secured the package. The contents flowed out in a river of exquisite white lace. She had never held such finer material, the embroidered flowers were like starry daisies. Mrs Owen would be in raptures when she saw it.

  “It is a mantilla,” Marcus told her. “The Spanish women wear them for weddings and so forth. Then there is this, to secure it.”

  He handed her another, smaller packet. Jemima drew out an ivory comb, inlaid with pearls, intricately carved as to look like lace itself. The work was so delicate that she feared she would break it by merely touching it.