The Duke's Governess in Disguise

by Claudia Stone

  Then you should let her go, a voice in his head whispered.

  Allowing Miss Smith to leave would be the honourable thing to do, Rob knew, and yet he knew he could never bring himself to do it. Of all the things he had been accused of down through the years, honourable was not one of them—at least not when it came to his dealings with the fairer sex.

  Rob wandered down the hallway to the library, where he poured himself a rather large glass of brandy, hoping it would quell the guilt which was eating away at his stomach. Two more glasses did something to dampen the shame within him and, feeling a little tipsy, he made his way upstairs. The sight of Harley waiting for him in his dressing room only further inflamed Rob's feelings of guilt, so he dismissed the valet's offers to help him undress. He could not look the man in the eye, not when Rob had refused him leave to court Miss Smith, under the auspices of wishing to protect her honour.

  You are an utter cad, Rob thought to himself, as he tossed and turned restlessly under the covers. He had finally drifted into a light sleep, when a sound from the doorway jolted him awake.

  Was there someone there?

  Rob scrabbled to sit upright and as he did, he caught a vague smell of burning. His head turned to the door, where he glimpsed a masked figure, before the door closed behind them and the oriental rug beneath his feet burst into flames.

  "Fire!" Rob roared, leaping from his bed and running toward the dressing room. The basin of water that Harley had left for him to wash in was still upon the armorie. Rob grabbed it and raced back into the bedchamber, where the flames had now engulfed the drapes on the huge four-poster bed. He flung the water upon the growing inferno, but it did little to stop it.

  I have to get out of here, he thought frantically, as smoke filled the room.

  He covered his mouth with his sleeve and dashed across to the doorway, but when he made to turn the handle, he found that the door was locked shut.

  Lud, he thought, as he banged furiously against it, yelling at the top of his smoke filled lungs, I'm going to die.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  11

  Emily gave a yawn, which she hid behind a gloved hand, as she watched the children play on the riverbank the next afternoon. She was exhausted after last night's rather dramatic turn of events—though it had not seemed to dull the children's energy reserves, for they were full of exuberance as usual. They cheerfully called out to each other as they skimmed stones across the river's smooth surface, unperturbed by thoughts of what might have been.

  Emily gave a shiver and once again said a silent prayer of thanks that the duke had been unharmed, and that the servants had managed to contain the fire to just one room. If it had spread, all that would be left of Hemsworth House would be a pile of smoking rubble.

  The night before, the occupants of the third floor had all been woken by a frantic footman, just after midnight. They had been herded downstairs—still in their night-garments—to the courtyard, where they were to wait until the all clear was given. Emily had stood shivering with the children, as inside the house the servants dashed from the kitchen to the duke's chambers with buckets of water. The servant's efforts had been nothing short of heroic, as they raced to save Hemsworth House from ruin.

  His Grace, Emily was told in a whisper by a scullery maid who had brought them out blankets, had been rescued from his room by Mr Harley and had been brought to the grooms' quarters by the stables, to wait for the physician.

  "Is he hurt?" Emily had asked, as a fear, unlike any she had ever known, gripped her.

  "No one tells me nuffink," the scullery maid replied with a shrug.

  They had stood outside for nearly an hour, until Mr Brown was certain that the flames had been entirely quenched, and then they had returned to their rooms. Emily had helped Sally to settle the children into bed, assuring them that though the acrid smell of smoke still lingered, all danger had passed.

  Once she had returned to her own room, Emily had found sleep elusive. She lay in bed gripped by fear and worry for Hemsworth and when, a few hours later, she heard the sound of someone passing in the hallway outside, she had leapt from her bed to seek news of the duke.

  "His Grace is fine," Mrs Ilford replied—for it had been she that Emily had heard, making her way back to bed, "He's grousing and complaining that the physician has ordered him to rest for a few days, but I wouldn't expect anything less from him. Thank goodness Mr Harley was walking past when he was, for if he hadn't heard His Grace banging upon the door, Lud knows what would have happened?"

  "Why was he banging on the door?" Emily had asked in confusion, but the housekeeper had not deigned to reply. Instead, Mrs Ilford abruptly changed the subject, chiding her for being up so late and bustling her back into her room.

  The wheres and whys of how the fire started, and how His Grace came to be trapped in his own bedchamber, had left Emily's mind the moment that she lay down, and she had drifted into a short, deep sleep.

  Indeed, given that the morning was as busy as usual, it was not until the next afternoon that Emily found time to ruminate on all that had happened the day before.

  The fire was, of course, at the forefront of her thoughts. From the school room they had been able to hear the hustle and bustle from downstairs, as the servants set about repairing the ducal chambers. Her mind insisted on worrying about what might have been, and mulling over Mrs Ilford's strange behaviour. Though, now that she knew that Hemsworth would recover, Emily found that her thoughts were also happy to slip away from the fire, to examine the few thrilling moments that she had shared with the duke in the drawing room.

  Her face flushed as she recalled the searing kiss—her first—and the wanton way in which she had responded to Hemsworth's touch. No respectable lady would have allowed herself to end up in such a scandalous embrace, and Emily knew that she should feel a sense of shame, or regret, but she could not.

  Being in Hemsworth's arms had felt right, as though she had belonged there, and she would not give up that memory for the world.

  Her own convictions that the kiss had been a wondrous thing, did not matter, however, when it came to matters of propriety. She knew she should leave Hemsworth House as soon as possible; she had been able to untangle herself from one embrace, but would she have the strength to do it again? A sensible lady would leave at once, though of late Emily had not been acting as a sensible lady would.

  Ava is coming to fetch me at month's end, she reminded herself, what harm would it be to stay?

  The harm, she realised with a jolt, would not be to her, but rather to the children. Cressida and James called out to her from the riverbank, waving for her to come and see the pinkies which were swimming in the shallow waters.

  "Baby fishes," James proclaimed, as Emily reached them.

  "Fish," she idly corrected him, as she peered into the water, where a school of small, black pinkies were visible.

  "They're so small," James whispered, as he crouched down to poke the water with his finger, sending the poor creatures fleeing in fear.

  "James, you frightened them away," Cressida complained, scowling darkly at her brother.

  "I just wanted to play with them," James wailed, his lip trembling as tears threatened.

  "You're so stupid," Cressida groused, "I wish I had an older sister and not a silly, stupid, younger brother to play with."

  "Now, now," Emily interjected, sensing that the pair were close to fisticuffs, "That's not nice Cressida, say sorry to your brother."

  Cressida offered James a half-hearted apology, but the boy seemed not to be listening. He was deep in thought, as evidenced by his tongue, which was poking out of his mouth.

  "I wish I had a younger brother," he finally said, "Then I wouldn't be the baby anymore."

  Emily's heart ached a little at this certain statement, for there would be no more siblings for them, given that they were now orphans.

  "Maybe Miss Smith and Uncle Rob will have a baby," James continued, turning his big, brown eyes up to Emily,
"Then I shall have a brother or a sister to play with."

  "I don't think—" Emily began, but Cressida interrupted her.

  "They can't give you a brother, silly," Cressida huffed, and Emily was momentarily relieved that the little girl would quickly dispel James' hopes, and end the wretched conversation. "They're not your parents. If they had a baby it wouldn't be related to you by blood, it would just live with us."

  Lud; Emily felt herself flushing as the children casually discussed her producing a child for the duke, as though it were as simple as baking a cake.

  "The duke and I cannot have a baby," she interjected, adopting her most stern voice, "Because we are not married."

  "Then you should get married," James countered, seriously, "I think Uncle Rob would like to, he's always looking at you when he thinks no one's watching him."

  Gracious; Emily's face was now beet in colour and she was completely and utterly flustered.

  "Don't say such things, James," she admonished him, "His Grace is far too important to spend his time looking at a mere governess."

  "It's true," James replied, aggrieved that she would not believe him.

  Emily quickly stifled any more talk of babies and marriage by suggesting that they return back to the house for some food.

  "I'm starving," James agreed, instantly forgetting his grand, matrimonial plans and running ahead along the path.

  They walked down the river, cutting across one of the fields as a shortcut. Overhead, the clear spring sky had darkened ominously and they were still some way from Hemsworth House, when the heavens opened up with torrential rain.

  "Look, the crofter's cottage," Emily called to the children, pointing to the abandoned home where they had played before. With her shawl over her head, Emily sprinted after Cressida and James, into the dry shelter of the cottage.

  For a house that had been abandoned years before, it was in remarkably good shape, Emily thought, as she looked around the small room, that must have been the kitchen. An old table and one chair stood by the open fireplace and on the far side of the room was a door, which Emily supposed led to the bedroom.

  "Do you think there are ghosts?" James asked, peering around the dim room uncertainly.

  "No," Emily was firm, though a shiver went through her. "There is no such thing as ghosts—however, there is such a thing as a chill, and I don't want you to catch one, so we shall stay here until the rain passes."

  Her tone seemed to settle matters for James, who immediately set about exploring the room. Cressida remained by the window, peering out at the lashing rain, whilst Emily made for the fireplace, wondering if there was anything with which she might build a fire with.

  In her search, Emily found an old tinderbox, but when she prised it open it was empty. Within the grate were the remnants of some old sticks and twigs, and a half-burned page from a newspaper.

  "Princess Charlotte to Marry?" she read aloud, from the headline, but was distracted by a yelp of pain from James.

  "I caught my finger," he wailed, holding up his index finger, which was gushing blood, for Emily to inspect. She set about staunching the blood at once, with one of her handkerchiefs, whilst reassuring James that it was only a small cut and was not life threatening.

  "The rain has stopped," Cressida called from the window.

  "Thank goodness for that," Emily replied; she was exhausted and longed for a few minute's respite.

  They arrived at Hemsworth Hall a short time later; the children's shoes were caked in mud and the hem of Emily's dress had fared no better. She knew that they looked an awful state, and their dishevelled aesthetic was not helped by James, who insisted on holding his bandaged finger aloft, so that the world could see the blood stained bandage.

  "Lud, don't you look a sorry lot," Sally called cheerfully, as they arrived at the children's rooms.

  "We were caught in the rain," Emily explained apologetically. It was she who had led the children across the fields, dirtying their clothes and shoes, but it was Sally who would have to clean them.

  "No matter," the young woman smiled, "The girls downstairs will tackle that with a bit of lye and some elbow grease. In the meantime though, they'd best change, His Grace has asked to see them both."

  "He has?"

  "Aye," Sally smiled, "And you as well. Why don't you run along and dress into something a bit cleaner and I'll get these two hellions ready."

  Emily took her leave of the children and returned to her bedchamber, where she hastily changed into a clean gown. She ran her fingers through her hair, before tucking it under her cap, and hurrying back to the nursery.

  Cressida and James were ready and waiting for her, both clean and shiny-faced. Sally led the way down the corridor, to the east wing of the house, where the duke had taken up residence.

  Emily's knock upon the door was answered by Mr Harley, the duke's handsome valet. He blushed somewhat upon seeing her, then ushered them all inside to a luxurious sitting room, that was decidedly feminine in its decor.

  Emily silently took in the wallpaper—patterned with soft, pink roses—the frescoes upon the ceiling—which featured delightfully plump, winged cherubs—and the furnishings—pink and frilly—and decided that these rooms must have belonged to the late duchess.

  "Please excuse the decor," Hemsworth called, as he entered the sitting room from a door on the opposite side of the room, "Mrs Ilford insisted that these were the only rooms suited for a duke. I'm rather inclined to disagree with her, but I'm afraid she's not the type of woman who's inclined toward allowing people to do that."

  Emily smothered a smile at the thought of the fearsome Duke of Hemsworth being hen-pecked by his housekeeper. Though, she conceded, if anyone was capable of such a thing, it was Mrs Ilford.

  "She is a rather wonderful cook," Mr Harley commented loyally, as he rushed forward to assist the duke to his chair.

  Mr Harley, Emily noted, had grown a slight pot-belly since the first day that she had met him, and she could not help but attribute it to Mrs Ilford, who still insisted on serving the valet the biggest portions at dinner.

  "I'm not an invalid," the duke mumbled, as Harley fussed and fretted as he helped settle the duke into an overstuffed armchair—pink, of course.

  Despite his protestations, Emily noted that Hemsworth was moving much more slowly than usual, and that his breathing seemed a little laboured. Indeed, even his voice was somewhat altered, sounding as raspy as an old man's, one who had spent a lifetime smoking a pipe.

  "Now," Hemsworth said, once he was settled, "Tell me, how are my two favourite children?"

  Cressida and James both rushed to speak at once, interrupting each other in their efforts to tell the duke about their late night adventure, their fishing by the river, and their stranding in the abandoned cottage.

  "And I hurt my finger," James finished, holding up the blood-stained bandage for Hemsworth to inspect.

  Emily winced at the sight of it; why had Sally not thought to change the bandage? It made his cut, which was small, seem so much worse than it was.

  "Is it bad?" Hemsworth questioned mildly, "Will we have to cut it off to save you?"

  "No," James smiled boyishly, looking delighted at the very mention of amputation, "Miss Smith said that it is only a small cut and that it will be fine, as long as I keep it clean."

  "Miss Smith is very wise," Hemsworth replied solemnly, his eyes resting upon Emily, "We are lucky to have her here with us. Harley, please fetch a clean handkerchief for Lord Dunstable, so we can wrap his finger again."

  Mr Harley disappeared through the door that Hemsworth had come in through; Emily caught a glimpse of a fluffy, frilly, four-poster bed, before the door shut behind him.

  "Are you feeling well, Uncle Rob?" Cressida asked, with a nervous glance at Hemsworth, as he descended into a fit of coughing. Emily leapt from her seat to fetch him a glass of water from the jug on the table, a shiver going through her as their hands briefly touched.

  "I am perfectly fine," Hemswor
th replied, once the coughing had abated, "I simply inhaled some smoke last night. My doctor says I should be as good as new in a day or so."

  Harley returned with a clean handkerchief and Hemsworth made a great show of unwrapping James' bandage to inspect the cut, before handing over to Emily to wrap it back up again.

  "Aren't you lucky to have Miss Smith looking after you?" the duke said softly to James, as Emily tied a small knot, to keep the bandage in place.

  "Very," James agreed, "Cressida and I think you should marry her."

  From across the room, Harley made a strangled sound, which mercifully distracted everyone from Emily, who was sure that her face was now as pink as the furnishings.

  "And why is that?" Hemsworth asked, looking for all the world as though he were thoroughly enjoying the conversation.

  "Well," James replied, looking very serious, "You can't have a baby unless you get married."

  Lud. Emily wished that the floor would open up and swallow her whole, for she had never been so mortified in all her life. She could not meet the duke's eye, nor could she form the words to instruct James to stop speaking. Instead, she sat, bubbling with embarrassment, and waited for the conversation to end.

  "That is very true, young man," Hemsworth eventually replied, his voice struggling to hide his amusement. "One cannot have a child unless one is married. You have given me much to think upon."

  The clock upon the mantelpiece mercifully struck the hour and Emily finally found her voice again.

  "I'm afraid that it's time for dinner," she said, standing from her seat so quickly that she was momentarily dizzy. "Come along, children. Say goodbye to His Grace."

  Cressida and James obediently bid the duke goodbye, with promises that they would visit him again the next day. Emily made to follow them out the door, but paused as the duke called out to her.

  "A moment, if you please, Miss Smith."