by Regina Darcy
Dear, pragmatic, unsentimental Madame, who loved Henrietta as if they were related by blood. All that he could know of her was what she had told him: that she had attended the Girls’ Academy in Paris and that she had graduated with distinction to make her living as a governess.
A spy for Wellington? Why had he told her that? And what did it signify? Spies sought to unearth military secrets and government plans; they had no business in the ordinary dealings of a humble governess. It meant nothing.
“Miss Jamieson,” he said earnestly. “I asked you the most important question a man can ask in his life. Will you be my wife? I will not rush you to the altar, but my heart cannot rest unless you give me your answer.”
“I… Yes,” she said. “I will marry you.”
His pleasure at her response was visible on his face. “My dear Henrietta!” he cried out, tossing away the mistletoe. “You have given me cause to celebrate this evening. I was dreading the ball tonight. The prospect of going through the motions of festivity when I know who it is that I want at my side for next year’s Christmas ball was a daunting one.”
Next year’s Christmas ball. She would be back in Paris and he would be alone and humiliated in England, spurned by a lowly governess with whom he had had been foolish enough to fall in love.
“I must go,” he said. “There is still much to do. But throughout tonight, I shall be aware of you up here, watching, and I shall look up often for the comfort of your presence.”
She watched him go. Belatedly, she realised that the lips whose kiss she had responded to with such genuine passion had been the same lips that belonged to the man who had devastated her mother ten years before. The shame that engulfed her was equal to the passion that had been ignited in her.
TEN
Lady Charlotte’s gaze followed the Duke’s gesture as he put his hand to his lips and then blew a kiss in the direction of the minstrel’s gallery.
“You are sending your love to an unseen paramour, Your Grace,” she said.
“My niece is up there, watching,” Edward said, placing his hand on her waist for the dance that had just begun.
“You are far too indulgent an uncle,” Lady Charlotte criticized. “She should be in bed at this hour.”
“She is with her governess.”
Edward bowed in the next step of the dance; Lady Charlotte curtseyed. Then, once again, they were together, her hand on his shoulder, his hand clasping her other hand as they swayed in step to the musicians’ tune.
“Still, my lord, the hour is late, well past the appropriate bedtime for a child, and certainly, a governess should be abed as well, should she not? How can she do her work if she is allowed to be a spectator at such an event as this?”
“Miss Jamieson is a most circumspect young woman who provides my niece with excellent care and instruction,” Edward replied. “In fact,” he went on as the final strains of the music played, “so admirable is Miss Jamieson that I have been so bold as to ask her to become my wife, and she has done me the honour of accepting.”
It was fortunate that the music ended as he finished his sentence because his words paralyzed his partner.
Lady Charlotte stood, rooted to the floor. “Surely, you jest,” she hissed as the other dancers began to leave the ballroom floor in search of their next partner or to partake of the wassail bowl and refreshments which were arrayed on tables in the alcoves. “You, a duke, would surely not ask a mere governess to be the Duchess of Farringdon.”
“I have done so.”
“You—I cannot believe that you would stoop so low.”
“I feel rather that I have reached very high, Lady Charlotte. May I get you something to drink?”
“You, sir, may go to the devil,” she answered, stalking off from the floor as if she were leaving a duel.
“You have offended Lady Bedington?”
Edward had not seen his cousin approach. Lord Anson looked cynically amused.
“So it would seem,” Edward replied casually. “She appears to disapprove of my choice of a wife.”
Lord Anson, who had been about to take a drink of his champagne, halted, the glass halfway to his lips. “A wife? You have chosen a wife?”
“I have. She has accepted my offer.”
“Who is this mysterious paragon who has conquered your heart?” Lord Anson asked derisively.
“Miss Jamieson.”
“You jest,” his cousin interjected with a raised eyebrow.
“How singular,” Edward replied with steel in his voice. “That’s exactly what Lady Charlotte said.”
“So I should think. You, the Duke of Farringdon, cannot intend to marry a governess. Why, you know nothing about her.”
“I may know more than you think. Although I do not know how you claim to find her familiar. How could you know her?”
“I am not sure… but I have seen her before now. A long time ago.”
“A long time ago, she would have been a child.”
“Yes… yes, she would have been a child,” Lord Anson said thoughtfully. “Just a child.”
Unaware that she and Lord Anson had shared an identical reaction to the disclosure of the Duke’s matrimonial intentions, Lady Charlotte was striding out of the ballroom. She knew the layout of the manor as well as she knew her own home. It had been her intention for several years to be the Duchess of Farringdon, and she had made it her business to know where all the rooms, niches, alcoves, and hidden doors were located, so it was no trouble for her to make her way up the back staircase to the minstrels’ gallery.
To be made a fool of by a governess who thought herself worthy of being the wife of the Duke of Farringdon was not to be borne. Lady Charlotte, magnificent in her outrage, entered the gallery in a swirl of rustling satin and sparkling diamonds, imbued with a sense of purpose.
She saw the governess and that insufferable child seated by the gallery railing, where they could look through the wooden posts upon the dancers below.
“I suppose you think you have managed quite a feat,” she said.
The Governess and Jacqueline, startled by her voice, had not heard her entrance because the music had begun to play and the dancers had taken their positions on the floor. The silly chits looked as if they were having a picnic. There were plates of food spread out upon a rug, for all the world as if they were out-of-doors in the middle of summer. Insufferable!
Henrietta rose to her feet. “Milady?”
“You actually think that you are suitable to be the wife of a duke?” Lady Charlotte spat out.
“My lady, this is neither the time nor the place for such a conversation.”
“You, go to your room!” Lady Charlotte stabbed a finger in Jacqueline’s direction. “Your governess and I are going to have a conversation which will not be appropriate for you to hear.”
“This is Lady Jacqueline’s home,” Henrietta said, placing a reassuring arm upon the child’s shoulders. “She will not be the one to leave.”
“You behave as if you are the lady of the manor in truth.”
“I behave as a governess should.”
Jacqueline was confounded by the conversation which made no sense to her. What was this talk of wives and duchesses? “Miss Jamieson?” she questioned.
“There’s nothing to be troubled by, petite,” Henrietta assured the girl. “Lady Charlotte doubtless wanted to ask me a question about your progress and I am happy to tell her that you are living up to your uncle’s expectations.
“Lady Jacqueline is a very bright child and she is a credit to her family. If you have any further questions, milady, I suggest that you direct them to the Duke, who can satisfy your curiosity much more ably than I can.”
Lady Charlotte glared at Henrietta, who maintained her calm, level expression. Realising that she could not bully the governess, Lady Charlotte left, shaking with rage and humiliation.
Her French dress, the family diamonds, all had been donned with the intention of winning the Duke’s affections and
a proposal of marriage. The entire county knew of her ambition to be duchess. And now she was usurped by a lowly governess! And in order to save face, she would have to stay at the ball for the duration, dancing and flirting and acting as if she were having the best time. It was not to be endured!
“Mademoiselle,” Jacqueline said, “I do not understand. Lady Charlotte seemed afflicted. “Why did she come up here?”
“I am not sure, petite,” Henrietta replied absently. Below, on the floor, the Duke was dancing with his grandmother, who, despite her age, had an agile step and a grace that rivalled that of a much younger woman. As he had throughout the night, he paused in his steps to blow a kiss toward the gallery.
Forgetting her bewilderment at Lady Charlotte’s conduct, Jacqueline sent a kiss back to him, squealing with excitement when he made a gesture with his hand as if he had caught it.
Henrietta was glad when midnight arrived and, despite Jacqueline’s protestations that she was perfectly wide awake, she could send the girl to bed and retire to her own bedroom to think. Once she had closed the door to her chambers, she sank onto her bed, drained by the events of the evening.
She had intended to make the Duke fall in love with her so that she could reject him. But he had fallen in love with her, not through any of the arts of maidenly seduction which she had learned from Madame, but by some unknown alchemy of which she was entirely unaware. He had proposed, as she had intended that he should do. She had accepted, which was also part of her scheme.
But she had not intended to fall in love with him. That had not been part of the plan. She could not fall in love with the man who had ruined her mother, devastated her father, and completely laid waste to her childhood. She could not give her heart to the man who had taken the happiness of a family away forever. She could not yearn for the kisses and the affection of a man who could be so kind to his family and so viciously cruel to strangers.
And yet, she had.
ELEVEN
“I understand that congratulations are in order.”
Unable to sleep, Henrietta had gotten dressed. It was not yet morning. Darkness still ruled over the hour and no one was awake, or so she had thought when she silently descended the stairs. But when she reached the front door, intending to make her way to the inn where she would hire a conveyance to drive her to London so that she could book passage to France, she discovered that she was not the only one who had not gone to bed.
Lord Anson, walking with a studied pace that revealed that he was not entirely sober, came to her, still dressed in his evening clothes from the ball.
“Where is the blushing bride off to at such an hour? Surely, you are not having second thoughts?”
“I must return home,” she said stiffly.
“At this hour?”
“I must go,” she said.
“Surely, my upright cousin has not molested your virtue?” he jeered. “Surely, he has behaved with the utmost propriety.”
“I must go.”
“Where will you go? Silly girl, it’s not even dawn. You cannot propose to saddle a horse and ride away.”
“I must go,” she insisted.
He was silent for a moment. “Very well,” he said finally. “If you are determined to go, I shall take you to the inn in the village. From there, you will be able to obtain a ride to your destination.”
He was not the man she would have chosen to escort her away from the manor, and yet, she had no other option.
“Thank you,” she said rigidly.
He bowed with exaggerated reverence. “At your service, my almost-duchess. Come with me, and we’ll be away.”
It did not take him long to saddle his horse. She was mounted behind him and was obliged to wrap her hands around his waist to maintain her seating while, beneath her cloak, her skirts were in complete disorder around her legs.
She gave a brief thought to how unseemly she must look, but there was no time to waste if she was to get away from the attractions of the Duke, and she forced the thought of her appearance from her mind. It was night-time and they were traveling in darkness. There was no one to see her and once Lord Anson delivered her to the inn, he would soon forget about the governess who had bolted on the night of the Christmas ball. They all would forget her, and she would forget them and return to France, where she belonged.
She bit her lower lip.
It was time to forget her dreams of revenge and do as Madame had bade her: forget the past which she could not change and live for her own life. She realised the wisdom of those words now, too late, after she had surrendered her fragile heart to the man who had been the wellspring of her quest for retaliation for these past years. As they sped towards the inn, she took deep breaths to hold back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes.
Before she knew it, they had arrived. The inn looked different now that most of the snow had melted and there was only a thin layer on the ground to mark the horse’s hooves as they entered
“Pull your hood down over your face,” Lord Anson directed her. “No one must remember that you have been here, or my cousin will know where you went and will be able to trace your departure.”
“What shall I say?”
“You shall say nothing. I will talk to Lodings. As a man, he understands these things.”
“What things?”
“I am in the habit of coming here from time to time to rent a room for a bit of manly entertainment of which my prudish cousin would not approve. There is a room in the back of the inn, removed from the other chambers. My lady companions and I can enjoy ourselves in full without being overheard.”
“You are coming in?” she asked in dismay.
“Do you really wish to obtain a room at this hour of the night on your own?” he inquired. “Of course, I’m coming in, to see that you are lodged safely for the night. I will speak to Lodings about your travel destination so that you may leave with all haste on the morrow.”
She was too distraught to argue with him and he was right. She did not wish the Duke to be able to find her.
Lord Anson banged on the door of the inn. A few minutes later, Lodings appeared, a lantern in one hand, wearing a nightcap with his hastily donned clothes.
“My lord, you want your usual room?” he asked, paying no attention to the woman hiding behind Lord Anson, her face and hair concealed by her hood.
“As usual,” Lord Anson concurred. “Please bring us up some refreshment, something to drink. Brandy will suit, I think.”
Lord Anson led her to the room he had spoken of. Henrietta wondered why there was a room for lodgers that was so far from the stairs and so removed from the other chambers, but once they were inside and Lodings had brought the brandy, it became apparent why Lord Anson had brought her to this particular room. She watched, puzzled, as he latched the door shut, then walked to the table upon which the bottle of brandy and two glasses awaited, his pace much steadier now that the night ride in the cold air had sobered him.
“I am about to enjoy a most unique Christmas celebration,” he said. “Take off your cloak, cherie. You are not going anywhere.”
“You must let me go!” Moving swiftly, she raced to the door and had just unlatched it when Lord Anson’s hand gripped her arm, catching her before she was able to flee from the room.
He pulled her away from the door, holding her tightly in an embrace that hurt. “Drink, love,” he said, forcing the glass of brandy to her lips and making her drink.
She pushed it away and the liquid spilled over her dress.
“You’ll find this much more pleasant. Regrettably, your mother did not have the comfort of brandy when I met with her on that most momentous occasion. Shall I tell you about it?” he asked in conversational tones, quaffing his glass of brandy and pouring another. “I said drink!”
But she was staring at him in disbelief.
“You?” she repeated. “It was you? You were the lover who broke her heart?”
He laughed out loud and bowed. �
�I probably broke her, but we were never lovers,” he replied with an unpleasant smile. “I had left the battlefield. It was the Battle of Ligny, should you wish to commemorate the occasion. It was a defeat. Napoleon won. I suppose that pleases you. Of course, he went on to lose shortly after, at Waterloo, but no matter. It is of Ligny that we speak. I left the battlefield. I was younger, inexperienced—in battle, not with women—and not quite myself, you understand. My cousin has a much hardier constitution than I have.
“But enough of my cousin. I’m quite tired of him, to tell the truth, but I shall enjoy this encounter with his runaway fiancée even more than I savoured the experience with your mother. It has taken me time, but I finally figured it out. You are her image, you know. You might be one and the same.”
“You—you took my mother by force,” Henrietta stuttered.
“Well of course, after all she wasn’t willing,” Lord Anson replied with a condescending smile.
Henrietta felt her world come apart. So, her family’s downfall had been due to an even more vile crime. One not committed by the Duke.
“Is she well, your mother? I fear that we did not part on the most pleasant of terms.”
“She is dead,” Henrietta spat out the words, rage lacing every syllable.
“Alas, I feared she might not fare well after our somewhat, shall we say, rugged coupling? Your father, is he well?”
“He died soon after she did, you beast.”
“I should have preferred death rather than shame, were I your father,” Lord Anson said cheerfully. “He was no match for me, you see. Even with my wits addled from battle, I had no difficulty in overcoming his objections to my intentions. And now, there is no one to interfere.”
As the full horror of the family’s past descended upon her, Henrietta was unable to move. She was left paralysed in the very real nightmare of having delivered herself willingly into her enemy’s hands. There was no one to save her now. If only she had trusted her heart…and the Duke.