The Governess Was Wanton

by Julia Kelly

  “As it should,” said Jane before she hugged Mary’s arm a little tighter. “Now let’s get you dressed. You have a ball to attend.”

  Mary picked up the edge of her heavy skirts as inky blue as the sea at twilight and swept swiftly down the Marquis de Lancey’s garden path. Never in all her years as a governess did she think she would be breaking into a ball, but here she was sneaking around like a young lady meeting a gentleman for a forbidden assignation under the stars.

  Her heart pounded against her chest like a trapped bird.

  If I am caught—

  But I won’t be. I can’t be.

  She exhaled slowly as the marquis’s huge house came into view. Tonight would be a success—her one reward for fourteen years spent so considered and careful. It was true that she’d pushed and argued and sometimes crossed the line of what was appropriate when speaking to her employers, but she’d never actually broken the rules. She’d never wanted to before.

  She paused a moment before mounting the stairs to the veranda, rearranging her skirts that were scattered with delicate silver spangles sewn onto the fabric. She adjusted her half mask, making sure that the black silk ribbon holding it securely around her head was in place. As long as it didn’t slip, she’d be safe.

  Then, touching the handkerchief she’d tucked into her bodice at the last minute, she padded up the stairs and slipped through one of the ballroom’s open French doors. It was all so easy.

  Finding Lady Eleanora, however, was not so simple. The marquis appeared to have invited half of London to partake in the merriment. It was just after nine o’clock, but the party was already loud and boisterous. The anonymity of the masque encouraged people to be just a little bit more. More excited. More flirtatious. More reckless. Most balls of this kind had a midnight reveal where all the masks would come off at once, but Lady Eleanora had told her the marquis forwent that tradition, preferring to allow his guests to bask in their namelessness for as long as they chose. It added just a touch of daring to the evening.

  Mary was peering around the towering hair of a Marie Antoinette and through a pair of shepherdess hooks when she finally spotted her charge. Lady Eleanora had added to her Diana costume a mask made entirely of glinting gold stars. She looked perfect.

  Standing with her were Aphrodite and Athena, presumably Miss Laughlin and Miss Cordelia in their own costumes. Mary could see now that pushing Lady Eleanora into joining in their group of goddesses had been a strategic mistake. The Grecian-inspired robes suited Lady Eleanora, showing her beautiful figure to its best advantage.

  Presiding over their little group was Lady Laughlin in a rich plum dress with only a simple black half mask to hide her features. She was not, it seemed, taking part in the costumed festivities.

  Lord Asten was nowhere to be seen.

  Mary raised her eyes to the heavens, hoping whoever watched over errant governesses was keeping an eye on her, and did her best impression of a carefree lady, gliding over to join an old friend.

  “My dear,” she said with a laugh as Lady Eleanora turned to her.

  “Oh, you found me!” The young lady’s eyes widened at the sight of Mary in her borrowed costume. “Your dress is stunning.”

  Mary swept her skirts back and waved a hand as though to say that it was of no consequence that she was wearing a gown that cost three months’ wages. “A fortunate find thanks to a friend with excellent taste.”

  “Lady Eleanora,” Lady Laughlin said from over Mary’s right shoulder, “who is your friend?”

  Dread churned in her stomach even though she and Lady Eleanora had rehearsed this part over and over again. She would assume another name—Miss Falsum—and hope that Lady Laughlin didn’t push too hard when she realized that she had never heard of any such lady.

  “Lady Laughlin, may I present Miss Falsum. She’s a dear friend of Miss Bigelow,” her charge said in a smooth lie.

  “A pleasure, I’m sure,” said Lady Laughlin, casting a critical eye over her. Mary didn’t like how long the woman’s eyes lingered over her face.

  “Lady Eleanora, I presume?” a low male voice rose up over the din of the ballroom and mercifully pulled everyone’s attention away from Mary.

  A tall, handsome man with a head of blond curls bowed low to her charge.

  Lady Eleanora flushed a pleasant shade of pink. “I thought everyone was supposed to be anonymous tonight, sir.”

  The man, who was dressed as a musketeer sans the long wig, smiled. “I could never mistake you for anyone else.”

  “Lord Blakeney, how smart of you to recognize us,” Lady Laughlin broke in. “You, of course, are acquainted with my daughters, Una and Cordelia.”

  “It is a pleasure as always, Lady Laughlin.” The man made a short, polite bow.

  “What a crush it is,” said Miss Laughlin with a flip of her fan. “The marquis is too generous with his invitations.”

  “And I think I saw a thrice-turned dress by the punch,” said Miss Cordelia.

  Miss Laughlin nodded. “I do wonder if it’s kind to allow those ladies who can’t afford a new dress to attend. It must be so difficult for them.”

  Mary felt her heartbeat kick up with indignation. She was one of those ladies, and she knew that if she’d had the chance to secure a legitimate invitation to a masque such as this it would have been the highlight of her year.

  “I think some of the costumes are quite ingenious,” Lady Eleanora ventured, her eyes sliding over until they connected with Mary’s. She gave a nearly imperceptible nod of encouragement.

  “Well, not all of us can have a keen eye for what’s à la mode,” said Miss Laughlin haughtily.

  “Girls,” said Lady Laughlin with a laugh. “I’m certain Lord Blakeney doesn’t wish to hear prattle about gowns all night long.”

  “Not at all,” said Lord Blakeney.

  “You haven’t guessed who we are yet, sir,” said Miss Cordelia.

  The handsome man turned his attention to Lady Eleanora. “You’re Diana, if I’m not mistaken. I see your bow, but where is your quiver of arrows?”

  “I left it off for fear it would impede any chance I might have to dance this evening,” Lady Eleanora said with a blush. “It was my friend Miss Falsum’s idea.”

  Lord Blakeney bowed over Mary’s hand. “It’s a pleasure, madam.”

  She curtsied, examining the young man who’d clearly singled out her charge. So far, he showed excellent taste.

  Lord Blakeney turned his attention to Lady Eleanora once again. “Do you think Diana would approve of your accepting a dance?”

  “I’m certain she would if I were asked,” said Lady Eleanora softly.

  “My daughters were just saying how much they enjoy dancing, Lord Blakeney,” Lady Laughlin cut in. “Una is so accomplished at the waltz, and Cordelia favors the mazurka.”

  “I’m continually amazed at the mastery of the young ladies I meet,” said the young man politely. “If there is a dance free on your card, Lady Eleanora, I would be honored.”

  Her charge picked up the card that hung from a ribbon on her dress and showed it to him just as the orchestra on the opposite end of the room played the last bars of a polka with relish. “It appears I have the next waltz free.”

  He smiled and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”

  Mary watched the pair glide to the floor and prepare for the waltz, his arm solidly around Lady Eleanora’s waist and her hand nestled in his. They looked beautiful together—the young woman’s masses of dark hair against his golden curls—but more important was the adoration in Lord Blakeney’s eyes as he swept the girl off.

  When Mary turned back, she found both of the Laughlin girls pouting.

  “They make a lovely pair,” she said, unable to resist pointing out her charge’s triumph.

  “It’s incredible how a competent partner can mask the deficienci
es in a girl’s dancing,” said Lady Laughlin.

  “Deficiencies?” She laughed. “If she has any, I can’t see them. It seems that Lord Blakeney is certainly enjoying himself. Do you see how he leans down to whisper in her ear?”

  The baroness raised her fan and began to flick at the air. “It’s such a shame that Lady Eleanora didn’t get a chance to elaborate on our introduction. I could have sworn I knew every unmarried lady of your age in London.”

  Mary let the jab at her spinsterhood glance off her. “And what do you presume my age to be, Lady Laughlin? I’m so curious to know.”

  Lady Laughlin’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not fond of games, Miss Falsum. As Lady Eleanora’s chaperone, I must insist that you make your identity known to me.”

  “Her chaperone?” she asked, snapping open her own silver fan as though she didn’t have a care in the world. “How very exciting for you to have three young ladies to guide through the season, although of course your daughters have already done it once, isn’t that right?”

  Lady Laughlin bristled at the implication that her daughters had not succeeded in snaring a husband on their first go-round, but before the baroness could say anything something caught her attention over Mary’s right shoulder.

  Curious, Mary turned around. Her breath hitched. Standing before her was Lord Asten in all his costumed glory.

  Asten had spotted his daughter across the crowd, speaking to Lord Blakeney—a tall man with a passion for the study of archaeology. He’d watched as Eleanora placed her hand in his and allowed herself to be led off for a waltz. She looked happy—thrilled even—and he wondered if he should begin to prepare himself for a courtship.

  He decided it’d be best if he were there when Lord Blakeney returned Eleanora to her party. That way he might have a word with the man while taking the measure of him.

  Lady Laughlin was speaking to another woman as he approached, but a coy smile spread over her lips nonetheless. “Lord Asten, I presume?”

  He gave a shallow bow. “You are, as always, a picture of grace and beauty, madam.”

  The pretty words more rakish men used never quite tripped off his lips with ease. Not that it mattered much. The only woman who really intrigued him recently was tucked away safely on the third floor of his home, well away from his amorous thoughts.

  “I must introduce you to my new acquaintance,” said Lady Laughlin. “But perhaps you already know her since she’s your daughter’s friend. This is Miss Falsum.”

  His gaze passed over to the lady standing with Lady Laughlin, and a lightning bolt hit him square between the eyes. She was perfect—or as near to perfect as any woman could get—with curling brown hair that glinted fiery red in the candlelight of the chandeliers overhead. A silver half mask covered her nose and cheekbones up to her forehead, but he could make out a pair of lush red lips and a chin that came to a point like the bottom of a heart. A sparkle lit her chocolate eyes with mischief, as though she was sharing a joke he wasn’t privy to.

  Lust reared up in him, nearly matching the way his body reacted to the untouchable Miss Woodward.

  The lady dipped into a curtsy. “Lord Asten, it’s a pleasure.”

  Her voice wasn’t the light, lilting thing that fashionable ladies affected these days. Oh, it was proper and correct to be sure, but there was a slight huskiness to her tone that made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He wondered what she sounded like in the throes of passion.

  Her. If you can’t have Miss Woodward, pick her.

  “Miss Falsum was just about to tell me the story of how she knows dear Lady Eleanora,” said Lady Laughlin, pulling him back from the whorl of desire that his brain had become. “I’m surprised you two haven’t made each other’s acquaintance yet either.”

  “The night is full of mysteries,” said Miss Falsum. “But an introduction isn’t necessary. I know a great deal about Lord Asten.”

  Asten practically leapt on the opportunity that had presented itself. “How is it you know me?”

  “By reputation. I’m a devoted reader of the broadsheets.”

  The thought that somewhere in London a woman might be sitting in her drawing room looking for his name in the papers flattered him.

  “And a listener of gossip no doubt,” Lady Laughlin said with a laugh. “It’s the best way to gather information in London, don’t you think?”

  Miss Falsum stopped fluttering her fan long enough to deliver the baroness an icy look. “I’ll have to take your word for it, ma’am. I’m not often idle enough to indulge in the pleasure.”

  Asten knew it was disloyal to feel such satisfaction at watching someone needle Lady Laughlin, but he couldn’t help it. He was beginning to suspect that Miss Woodward was right. Lady Laughlin was asserting herself and her opinion into his life too much. It was beginning to grate on him.

  “I must confess, I came over to find out what transpired before Lord Blakeney danced off with my daughter,” he said.

  “Lord Blakeney was so kind to think of Eleanora before he asked Una and Cordelia to dance,” said Lady Laughlin. “One never likes to see the wallflowers overlooked.”

  Wallflower? His daughter might by shy, but she didn’t cling to the fringes of the ballroom. She wasn’t a charity case who could only get a dance by relying on a man’s pity.

  “I don’t suppose you’d engage in something as frivolous as dancing, Miss Falsum,” said Lady Laughlin. “Since you are so little idle.”

  “I don’t dance as often as I would like to, but I enjoy it when I have a skilled partner,” said Miss Falsum.

  “I’m surprised your hand isn’t in great demand,” he said, knowing it would irk Lady Laughlin to see him pay attention to a woman she clearly saw as nothing more than an upstart. It wasn’t the most earl-like behavior, but the dig against his daughter still smarted.

  No mask could hide the startled look in Miss Falsum’s eyes. “You mustn’t jest, sir. I’m far too old to fill up a dance card.”

  “Even more reason to make up for lost time and lost dances, then.”

  The once-bold woman hesitated as though wondering whether she should entrust herself to him. There was something vulnerable about her, as though his words had opened up an old wound. A powerful urge to take her up in his arms and soothe her gripped him.

  “Trust me,” he said.

  Whatever it was about those words, the mysterious woman nodded once and slid her hand into his. Sure enough, a bolt of white-hot desire shot through him. It was, he realized, the same sensation he’d felt every time he touched Miss Woodward, and for a moment he wondered about the slight gravel of the woman’s voice and the glint of chestnut in her hair . . .

  It was impossible. Miss Woodward was a governess, and she’d made it very clear she respected the barriers that stood between his world and hers. He’d been transfixed by her, and she’d pulled back, throwing up all the walls of propriety and common sense between them. It had taken every ounce of logic he had not to go scaling those walls just so he could touch her a little longer.

  No, the more he looked the less this woman resembled Miss Woodward. She shared her beautiful hair and the appeal of her voice, but no doubt so did dozens, if not hundreds, of women in London. This woman was more mysterious than he could imagine Miss Woodward’s frank nature ever allowing herself to be. Besides, Miss Falsum was luxuriously attired. He knew the sums he sent off to settle his daughter’s modiste’s bills and he knew Miss Woodward’s salary. The two simply did not match.

  “As I said, it’s been a long time since I’ve waltzed,” said the lady as he led her out to the floor that was rapidly emptying as couples changed partners during a break between songs. “I can’t promise that your toes will survive the encounter.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be just fine,” he said, gathering her into his arms. “I’m honored to be the man to bring you back to the dance floor afte
r such a long drought. A woman as beautiful as you should dance as often as she pleases.”

  That made her blush a light pink right on the apples of her cheeks, sending a smile to his lips. He hoped it wouldn’t be his last opportunity to make her blush that evening.

  Chapter Seven

  Mary wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, but she didn’t want it to stop. How could she when it felt so good to be wrapped up in a man’s arms and swept into the gentle one-two-three rise and fall of a waltz?

  But this isn’t just any man, a little voice in the back of her head reminded her. This was Lord Asten, and if he were to find out who she was, there’d be dire consequences. She knew this and yet it was still impossible to break away from him because she didn’t want to. This was her chance to enjoy a fantasy with a man who was decidedly delicious and completely out of reach.

  He let go of her waist and swept her into a turn perfectly timed with the music. Then he caught her again and murmured in her ear, “You never told me your name.”

  “But I did.”

  He smiled down at her. “Miss Falsum? ‘Falsum’ is the Latin word for deceit.”

  She could’ve kicked herself for letting Lady Eleanora give her a name that was so obvious, but she hadn’t thought that anyone would notice. The entire night—from the masks to the elaborate costumes—was about the fun of anonymity.

  “How am I supposed to properly thank the lovely lady I’m dancing with when the music ends if I don’t know her name?” Lord Asten asked.

  “A simple thank-you would suffice,” she said.

  He shook his head, his green eyes flashing with amusement. “Not after this dance. You waltz beautifully.”

  “Some things you never forget.”

  “I feel as though I know you,” he said.

  “Perhaps we danced together once,” she said, knowing that not even in her wildest dreams would she have stood up with a man like Lord Asten. His bachelor years had been spent taking long visits to landed estates and Asten House in Belgrave Square. Her debutante years were spent miserable at school, the forgotten daughter of a mother who chose a new life.