A Temporary Governess

by Blaise Kilgallen

  Alex's pulse jumped beneath her warm mouth. He abruptly yanked both of their hands off of her torso. The magical spell that had Clarissa enthralled, rapidly evaporated. Not meaning to, she sighed loud enough to be heard.

  Was that a sigh of neediness? Or disappointment? Alex wondered, but he managed to control his lust. He growled another soft warning. “That was not a good idea, Miss Marrick,” he said. “That is, unless you would like a more intimate riding lesson right here and now."

  He bent forward, nudging her forward and away from his chest. Briskly, he then snapped the reins against the horse's neck.

  Clarissa's wanton action silenced her.

  Omigod! What was I thinking? I just kissed the marquess! I never entertained such ideas before! What must he think of me? Better yet, what would my sainted mother in heaven think of me?

  Quickly, Clarissa closed her eyes and whispered a silent short prayer for forgiveness. Avoiding Alex's eyes, she turned and wiped two gloved fingertips over the place where her lips had rested briefly moments ago.

  Did she think to cleanse away that surprising kiss she just gave me? Alex wondered.

  "Good grief! Do forgive me, Your Lordship. I cannot understand what came over me.” She spun away and faced front again, her cheeks heated with blooming color.

  Alex was raised as a gentleman and had not forgotten propriety, but often simply ignored what was proper behavior. Given an incentive like the kiss Miss Marrick had planted on him, he wondered about her reputation. He might enjoy a bit of sexual sport with the hoydenish Miss Marrick after all. It would be interesting—a kind of parlor game—to see how far Beatrice's temporary governess would go if pushed by his seduction.

  He needed a change of pace—something different—someone new and fresh. He was weary of painted ton women like Georgianna Ponsonsby. He might even contemplate marrying again if the right one came along, simply to beget a legitimate heir.

  Rape was never his style, and he would never take an unwilling partner. But he had been damned restless lately. Of course, he would adhere to his vow about diddling virgins, but there was much to enjoy before any final denouement.

  Having allowed his thoughts to meander, Alex now squeezed his legs against the horse's sides and spurred Thunder into a collected canter as they rode on in silence.

  Clarissa's cheeks still burned with mortification when they arrived in the stable yard. Lady Beatrice had been helped off her white pony by a groom and stood waiting for Clarissa and her father. The marquess dismounted, swung Clarissa off the saddle, and let go of her. Quickly, he remounted and was about to gallop away.

  Clarissa grabbed for one of Thunder's reins to detain him. “Your Lordship, if you are going to dismiss me,” she said, “I would like to know now, if you please."

  Sitting on the huge chestnut thoroughbred, his silver-tipped hair ruffled by the breeze, and wearing country casual clothes like an ordinary citizen, the marquess was not nearly as intimidating as Jane had described him. Clarissa's impression about the man she met only twenty minutes ago was quite different. Unable to read his thoughts, now she worried what his decision was going to be.

  "Dismiss you?” The thought hadn't once crossed Alex's mind. “I have not yet decided,” he replied, arching an arrogant eyebrow. “You will know soon enough, Miss Marrick, when I do."

  Without another word, he whirled the stallion and was gone, pointing Thunder toward the open fields again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  As Clarissa and Beatrice started up the Priory's central staircase, Frederic Black appeared unexpectedly on the landing of the second storey.

  Even without certain knowledge as to who he was, Clarissa's stomach muscles tightened.

  It must be Jane's nemesis—and mine—the man who accosted me in the dark hallway outside the schoolroom.

  Jane had described him of medium height, brown hair, powerfully built, and with a predatory aura. Clarissa could well believe it. The black-hearted scoundrel grabbed her, kissed her, and wouldn't let go. She still wondered what might have happened had she not fought him off.

  Looking at the man on the landing, Clarissa also thought him a bit older than the marquess. As she and Beatrice mounted the elaborate carved staircase, Clarissa watched as the man she assumed to be Frederic Black assessed her. She saw no criticism in his gaze as there had been in the marquess's.

  Loosened by the morning's breeze and her unexpected gallop, her unruly tresses were haloed by the sun's rays filtering through the tall, narrow windows of the two storey foyer. Framing her features, Clarissa's hair enhanced the beautifully clean planes of her face. Her ivory skin was displayed against the dark green of her riding habit. The man openly admired her, and Clarissa recognized a feral glint in his eyes. Uneasy herself, she understood how Jane had felt.

  "Good morning, little lady!” Black greeted Beatrice first, with too cheerful a voice. “A-hah! I see you have been riding your pony. And how are you this morning?"

  Leaving the unanswered question hanging in midair, he turned to Clarissa. “And you are Miss ... Miss who?” he asked, raking his eyes up and down her a second time.

  "I am Lady Beatrice's new governess, Miss Marrick."

  "Frederic Black, at your service, Miss Marrick,” he replied with a mocking bow. “What happened to the other one? A Miss Hornsby ... was it not? Was she turned off due to ... umm ... rude and improper behavior?"

  "Miss Hornsby is suffering from the measles and is ill, sir,” Clarissa answered, tartly. By now, she and Beatrice had reached the landing above the entrance foyer.

  "Measles! Gadzooks! What a damnable thing for her to spread about! I hope I did not...” Then he caught himself seeing Clarissa raise an eyebrow.

  Beatrice had gone ahead of Clarissa without replying to Black.

  Coughing slightly to cover his faux pas, Fredrick continued, “I say, are all governesses as beauteous as you, Miss Marrick? I'm certainly beginning to think so.” The look in his eyes had turned into a leer. Using a whispered undertone, he said, “You are quite more lovely than your former counterpart, Miss Marrick."

  With a thin smile cracking her lips, Clarissa attempted to bypass him without adding a reply.

  "Dare I hope you and I can spend some private time together?"

  For a second Clarissa didn't believe she heard him aright, or she would have moved on more quickly. He reached out and grasped her wrist, preventing her from leaving. “You will be here for a while, will you not, Miss Marrick?"

  Clarissa felt herself stiffen under his firm grip. She pulled in a deep breath to steady her composure before saying, “I am not certain, sir, what length my tenure shall be, or even if I am to be kept on at all."

  She stepped back and moved quickly away from his unwanted touch.

  "Now you must excuse me, Mr. Black, I am late for Lady Beatrice's lessons.” Clarissa spun away, leaving him standing there. She kept her eyes straight ahead, not wanting to give him the impression that she had fled from him in fright.

  Clarissa heard Black's chuckle, a light, menacing sound as it pursued her down the hall. She recognized the avid male interest in his eyes. Obviously, he wanted her attention and meant to attain it. Clarissa shivered. Her skin crawled with goose bumps beneath her riding habit.

  Was that why Jane warned me Mr. Black might compromise me?

  At the vicarage, Clarissa believed Jane was making mountains out of molehills, so she did not voice her own concerns. She wondered now if she should have.

  It was later that afternoon when Clarissa learned from a servant that the marquess and his guests had departed to London. They were not expected back for several days, so she must have mistaken Mr. Black's implied innuendoes on another encounter.

  "I do not know for certain when His Lordship plans to return,” Mrs. Pritchett had commented when Clarissa inquired. “Sometimes he returns quickly, even the next day, and sometimes, he stays in London for weeks at a time."

  "Are many parties held here at the Priory?” Clarissa asked,
hoping for additional insights for her novel.

  "Yes, if His Lordship is at home. He likes company. He does not care to be alone, so he often brings people back with him.” Nanny glanced up at Clarissa. “You needn't worry, Miss Marrick,” she said. “Even if the house is full, it is very large so we rarely see much of His Lordship's guests. And as is right and proper, he never permits Lady Beatrice downstairs to mingle,” she added with a consenting sniff. “M'lady is too impressionable for someone her age."

  "To me it is a mistake for Lady Beatrice to be closed away from what goes on at the Priory. Even with the marquess's guests, I mean,” Clarissa continued. “My parents were very strict as to what I learned as a child. But mingling with their adult friends was part of my upbringing. What you say may be true, I suppose, but Lady Beatrice is of an age where she will soon be a young lady herself, and no longer a child."

  "I fear what goes on at His Lordship's house parties, Miss Marrick. And I believe I know what is best for my lady,” Nanny answered firmly. “Male and female guests visit the Priory all the time, Miss Marrick. The ladies behave promiscuously with His Lordship. I dare say, they do so in ways that you cannot even imagine,” she continued, raising one eyebrow. “I would rather Lady Beatrice not be exposed to such improper behavior even though Your Lordship condones such things from his guests."

  Mrs. Pritchett pressed on. “Ladies I see here are obsessed with pots and pans of powders and paints, or with their jewels and lavish wardrobes. They fawn on the marquess to get his attention. If Lady Beatrice were permitted to mingle, undoubtedly they would wish to ingratiate themselves to her as a means of getting close to her father.” Mrs. Pritchett sighed, a deep frown puckering her brow. “And from what I have learned, Miss Marrick, His Lordship invites those women in order to keep the party lively so he and his male friends are entertained.” Nanny's stern expression tightened. “I do not wish m'lady to become part of the bait to ensnare the marquess into marriage a second time."

  Clarissa nodded, pressing a finger against her lips while considering the problem. “Hmm, yes, I expect that is so. I wondered about Professional Beauties, however, Mrs. Pritchett. Really, I am not as naïve as you may think,” Clarissa smiled, “but I have never seen one up close."

  "You'll see them if you stay here long enough,” Nanny muttered. “They may have titles, but that does not mean they are real ladies, if you know what I mean.” The nanny's lips pursed as if sucking on a lemon. “It would not do for you or Lady Beatrice to mimic their behavior, Miss Marrick. Or should I say—their misbehavior."

  Clarissa heard the scornful tone in the nanny's words. So, the marquess's titled female guests were in reality beauteous courtesans? How exciting!

  "Can you tell me who was at the marquess's last party, Mrs. Pritchett?” Clarissa was anxious to learn. “I ask only because I may have read about some of them in the London papers."

  The nanny did not answer for a moment, and Clarissa wondered if the woman would refuse to divulge the names. Clarissa was dying to know whom she heard talking that day in the woods. Finally, Mrs. Pritchett reeled off a few names. Some were even familiar to Clarissa.

  "The Viscountess, Lady Charlotte Grey, the Marchioness of Ballywood, Lady Louise Gladney, and of course, Countess Devon, Lady Georgianna Ponsonsby, just to mention a few of His Lordship's regular lady friends."

  Clarissa's ears perked up. She never heard of the Countess of Devon. Could it have been Lady Georgianna Ponsonsby she heard in the woods? Was she in love with the marquess?

  "I've heard of the others, but not Lady Ponsonsby. Who is she?"

  "Just another of his—” Mrs. Pritchett caught herself, pressing her lips together to smother the foul word she almost said out loud. “Another Professional Beauty, is all. She has lasted longer than most,” she replied tartly. “Like all ladybirds, they soon get their wings singed when he tires of them."

  "I can tell the countess is not in your good graces."

  "I don't hold with most goings on in London's Polite Society. Nor with the Carlton House set either. Poor Princess Caroline. Married to that brutish rascal, the Prince of Wales,” Mrs. Pritchett muttered, her middle-aged face settling into a disapproving grimace.

  Clarissa wondered with amusement if nannies and other members of the English aristocracy thought the same thing. Buried in Lower Cadbury, leagues from the Metropolis, she had only recently become interested in the worldly milieu of Polite Society when she decided to try her hand at writing a romance about it. So much so, that Clarissa was yet untutored how London's beau monde operated.

  As if finished with her commentary, Mrs. Pritchett picked up a roll of crocheted lace she was working on and left the schoolroom. At least Clarissa learned some new things.

  Later that evening she approached Beth, the little maid who tidied the schoolroom and looked after Clarissa's meager wardrobe. “Tell me, Beth, does Lady Ponsonsby bring lavish gowns with her to the marquess's house parties?"

  "Ooooh, does she! And ain't they loverly, Miss,” Beth exclaimed. “I helps her lady's maid freshen the wrinkles out o'some when the countess visits. All embroidered with seed pearls and sparkles they are—even tiny diamonds sewn onto some of ‘em."

  "And is the lady who owns them very beautiful, too?” Clarissa asked.

  "I think His Lordship thinks so. She is at the Priory more than she is not, if ye take me meanin'.” Beth wiped a dust cloth over the wood, aimlessly polishing Clarissa's desk.

  "Do you think the marquess is in love with her? Will he marry her so Lady Beatrice has a stepmother?"

  Beth looked at Clarissa with horror crossing her face. “Gor no! His Lordship cannot marry her, even if he wanted to, Miss Marrick. Lady Georgianna is married to the Earl of Devon. Not that he comes here with her. I heard the old earl spends most o’ his time in London gambling or in Scotland for angling. No, no,” she said, swishing the rag over the table a bit more vigorously. “Lady Georgianna always comes here alone."

  "She is a married woman, and she visits the marquess here ... alone ... although he is not married?"

  "Aye,” Beth said. “But there are other guests that do the same thing, if ye know. The countess is friendly with Mr. Black, too. He stays with the marquess to keep him company."

  Beth shut her mouth, her big eyes opening wide to focus on Clarissa. “P'haps I oughta not spoke out the way I done, miss. ‘Twas only servant gossip I was spoutin'."

  "Yes, of course, Beth, I understand. Do not worry."

  Well, now, Clarissa mused. What a slow top she was! It must have been Mr. Black she heard in the woods with the Countess of Devon! What could that mean?

  So, there must be a secret liaison that Clarissa had been privy to with her eavesdropping—exactly the sort of thing she read about in Burney's novels. Oh, how intriguing! She had to write more notes!

  Lady Georgianna could very well be her villainess, quite unfaithful to her aged husband, with possibly more than one man. Of course, the countess's behavior was condemned, and rightly so, by Beatrice's nanny. As a young girl, Clarissa had been impressed by her father's sermons enough times to denounce the ton's tawdry peccadilloes as the work of the devil.

  And the marquess was probably no better. Somehow, though, he did not appear to be quite so dissolute and depraved. But he must be. When she met him, she thought him ... beautiful ... if arrogant. Would she still visualize him as the passionate lover and hero she planned to use in her book? Or was she completely in the wrong about him?

  Like all nobles who preyed on innocent country misses, governesses, or unwary maids in service to them—underlings like her and Jane—the Marquess of Chester was likely no different. The more she thought about it, the more Clarissa wondered. Were the subtle overtures he made to her during their ride together meant to seduce her? Recalling her acute embarrassment, she blushed. Well, he never kissed her. But then, she had kissed him.

  Just then, Beth spoke up. “Miss Marrick, I heard there's to be another house party next week."

 
; Another party? Some guests left today. And now there were new guests due to arrive in a few days? My, the Priory is a busy place for constant entertainment and research on her book.

  "Is that so? I was told the marquess might stay in London for a spell."

  "I heard it from the cook a little while ago. ‘Tis definitely scheduled for next week."

  "Well, then, that will be exciting. Do you suppose there will be more guests this time? I have wondered what goes on at the Priory. I hoped to have a peek, never having been invited to such aristocratic parties."

  "I can show you, Miss Marrick. I know a place we can get a gander at ladies and gents all dressed up in their finery. When the Prince of Wales is at His Lordship's parties, ‘tis even better, ‘cause the gents wear their battle decorations.” The maid giggled. “They seem almost as gaudy as them ladies in their fancy gowns."

  "Oh, Beth! Do you suppose the Regent will be here? Oh goodness! I would dearly love to see him."

  "Leave it to me, miss,” Beth promised. “But don't tell Miss Pritchett, or she'll skin me alive. She don't approve of what goes on below stairs.” Beth paused and whispered behind her fingers. “Or what goes on above stairs, either,” she snickered.

  Now Clarissa could scarcely wait to write notes in her diary after everyone was asleep. Such personal insight was just what she needed for research on her book.

  Chapter Seventeen

  May 2, 1811:

  I encountered both Mr. Frederic Black and the Marquess of Chester on the same day. They are quite different in appearance, but perhaps, not so different in character. My meeting with each of them was rather brief.

  Mr. Black was intimidating, so I can understand Jane's feelings about him. I know now that I must be wary of him. If he lives here with the marquess on a regular basis, this will be a terrifying several weeks if I continue to run into him. I must do like Jane, and keep my doors locked at night.

  I am still not sure what I think about the marquess. Of course, I am grateful to him for rescuing me when I might have suffered a disastrous fall from Glory. At first, I believe he did not know who rode his horse, so it was no wonder he was annoyed.