The Unconventional Governess

by Jessica Nelson

  She took it, a puzzled expression on her face. “Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but whatever are you doing so far from London in such finery? Especially with the Season in full swing.”

  She did not sound contrite over her impertinence. He met her curious look with a crooked smile. “Ah, that is a question I do not care to answer... Mrs.?”

  “How is our patient, Miss Gordon?” A man who looked to be the epitome of physicianhood walked into the room. He must be the village apothecary. He came to stand above Dominic. The man rubbed at his finely tuned mustache, studying him with all the objectivity of a cat studying a mouse.

  These people were all the same.

  “Your patient is fine.” Dominic wrestled himself into an upright position, despite the razor-edged pain beneath his ribs. “I must be on my way to London. Duty calls.” He couldn’t stay here. Should he have an episode, there was no telling how this doctor might respond.

  “Hmm.” The apothecary turned to Miss Gordon, who looked a tad perturbed that Dominic had answered for her. Or perhaps he imagined the peevish set to her mouth. The woman amused him for some very odd reason. He had been gone from society too long, he supposed.

  Nothing had ever induced him to take residence in the cage of responsibility foisted on his older brother, the earl of St. Raven, until his brother and sister-in-law had died in a tragic carriage accident, leaving him heir to the estate and guardian to one little girl, who refused to do what she was told.

  And yet he adored her. His brother had entrusted him to care for Louise, and he was not going to allow anyone to take that responsibility from him. Not even his little sister.

  “Duty?” asked Miss Gordon.

  “Yes, a twelve-year-old girl in need of a new governess.” He paused, eyeing the woman before him. “You don’t perchance know of someone looking for a position?”

  Chapter Two

  “I do not.” Henrietta set her jaw, eyeing Lord St. Raven sharply. Did she have a sign on her head proclaiming her situation? Either way, she’d already ascertained that he was not someone she wished to work for. No doubt the girl was as difficult as he was, and she had no experience with children anyway.

  What did she know of teaching? Nothing, which was why it was best to find a position with a sweet, biddable child.

  “In that case, bring me Jacks and ready my carriage for departure,” he said in a voice that resonated with an irritating earl-like authority. He was a man obviously used to being obeyed.

  “You are not going anywhere.” Annoyed by the determination on her patient’s face, she gave him a stern look. “There is no telling what internal damage you may have suffered. To get up, to be active, could worsen your condition.”

  The man scowled at her. And it was a dark scowl indeed, on such a handsome face. She crossed her arms and sent the apothecary a pointed look. “Do you not agree?”

  “I do agree.” He stroked his chin. “Are you sure we should not bleed him? His humors are visibly imbalanced. His coloring, for example.”

  “We will not be using leeches. My uncle, Mr. William Gordon, says they are ineffective, and that conclusion is based on years of observation and experience.”

  “A fine physician. I’ve seen his works in various medical journals.” The apothecary dipped his head. “No leeches, then.”

  Grunting, their patient pushed himself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. She examined his physique for any other weaknesses, any inordinarities. Pain whitened his lips, but did not soften the stubborn jut of his well-defined jaw. He was a larger and broader man than Henrietta had realized. When he’d been lying down, it had been easy to forget his size. Her own stature had often been called average, as had most everything about her besides her intelligence.

  “I’ve business to attend while you are wasting time discussing bloodsuckers and the humored color of my skin. Send for my valet. Instruct him as to my needs.”

  A rustling of skirts and a perfumed puff of scent announced Lady Brandewyne’s arrival. She entered the room, forcing Henrietta to move toward the foot of the bed. Though comfortable, the room was hardly spacious, and with their medical tools set up, the space further shrunk.

  “He’s awake! How unfortunate, how terrible that you were attacked by bandits on my property. Those roving groups of perfidious miscreants...but never mind. After all you’ve been through, and now this. We are all deeply sorry about your family’s loss.” She clucked her tongue. “How can I see to your comfort, my lord?”

  He lifted a pointed look to Henrietta. “My valet, if you please.”

  “But certainly.” The lady called for a servant. “What else?”

  “Louise must be ready to go within the hour. It’s paramount I return to my northern estate.”

  “Why, yes, yes, of course.” Lady Brandewyne cast a searching look to Henrietta, who felt tempted to shrug her shoulders and leave this beast to his wildness. This might be her last opportunity for nursing, however. If she had to find a post... The depressing thought weighed upon her.

  “It is my opinion—” she gave St. Raven a steady look “—that the jostle of a carriage will be quite painful and his wounds might reopen. Keeping them clean will also be problematic. I cannot recommend he be moved.”

  He looked about to retort when a commotion outside their room ensued.

  “Oh, my.” Lady Brandewyne pressed a hand to her bosom and exited, followed by the doctor. Henrietta remained in the room, along with her lady’s maid—an extravagance she had insisted she did not need, but Lady Brandewyne would not hear otherwise.

  St. Raven leaned back upon his pillow, weakness overcoming his pride. Foolish man. Of course a man who asked for a new cravat while half-conscious with pain would refer to going to his estate as paramount.

  Henrietta pursed her lips, peering out the doorway. Downstairs a girl with thick raven hair and an obstinate expression wrestled with a servant. Behind them, Lady Brandewyne’s butler, housemaid and three other servants watched the tussle. Henrietta leaned forward, attempting to listen without leaving her patient. For all she knew, he was just waiting for an opportunity to sneak away.

  Like Uncle William. How could he have done such a thing to her? All because she contracted rheumatic fever...such nonsense to fear for her life. Risks were always present, no matter where one lived. She’d much rather face death on a field with her uncle than waste away as a companion to a crotchety rich person or, worse, governess to a spoiled child.

  “Eavesdropping?”

  Henrietta’s attention flickered, but she did not turn toward that voice. And what a voice. Husky and laced with humor. His scowl earlier had seemed out of character. This man acted like a coddled prince, dressed like a dandy and spoke like a...well, she wasn’t sure, but she knew one thing: no patient of hers was going to be harmed due to willful ignorance.

  “Yes,” she finally said, keeping her eyes trained on the situation below. “I cannot leave you here alone.”

  “You have no regard for my station.”

  He obviously wanted to converse. Sighing, she turned. He sat resolutely on the bed, his hands spread upon the mattress for balance. A curious smile played about his lips.

  “Should I? You are an injured man. Your title and your wealth have little importance in a sick room.”

  “Come now, Miss Gordon, do not be serious with me. Your brows are knit so tightly that I fear they shall remain forever stuck that way.”

  “You are impudent.”

  “I am bored and, most unfortunately, beset upon by many responsibilities not of my own making. It appears your word is more revered than the town doctor’s.” His eyes, that striking rich green, regarded her laughingly. “Release me. Give permission.”

  The town apothecary was a nice man, but he had not updated his medical knowledge in years. It had not escaped her notice that he had seen rather than read her un
cle’s articles. He was slightly better than a self-taught surgeon. Heat flushed through her, turning her palms sweaty. Lord St. Raven befuddled her.

  Had she ever met such a charming personality? She could not recall, though, when one was dying on a battlefield, she doubted charm was of any importance.

  But how very annoying to be almost swayed by this man’s smile, by his persistent eyes.

  “No.” A high-pitched girl’s voice came from below stairs. “I insist on seeing him at once.” The shrill proclamation was followed by the patter of footsteps on the long, winding staircase that served as the centerpiece to Lady Brandewyne’s home.

  Determined footsteps, Henrietta concluded. She put her back to the wall, bracing herself for the child about to burst into the room. Lord St. Raven regarded the entrance with interest, his arms propped on his knees.

  The girl flew into the room. She was a wisp of a child and shot directly to the earl’s sickbed.

  “Oh, Dom, how could you?” She threw herself against him, eliciting a pained grunt from the subject of her emotions. “First you leave me for months on end, and then you act the hero, taunting criminals until they chase you and leave you practically dead on the roadside, beaten to a bloody pulp by pernicious ruffians.”

  Henrietta felt her eyebrows raising at this exclamation.

  “I’d hardly call myself close to dead. Roughed up a bit, that’s all.”

  “That is not what Jacks said.”

  “Dear one, you’ve been listening in on adult conversations,” Lord St. Raven murmured, his hand patting the girl’s back, belying the censure in his tone.

  “And I’ve had to deal with insipid servants all week. I declare, Dom, you are perfectly horrid to have left me by myself at St. Raven in the first place. You shall never leave me again.”

  After that impassioned declaration, the child swiveled around and leveled a sharp look at Henrietta. She quickly smothered any existence of laughter.

  “Who are you?” Eyes the same shade of emerald as the earl’s regarded her with distrust, but where his twinkled in immature mischief, hers were intensely serious.

  A grudging admiration for her pluck rose within Henrietta. She inclined her head ever so slightly. “I am Miss Gordon.”

  “You don’t look like a lady.”

  “And you do not speak like one.”

  The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you to answer thus?” The imperious quality to her tone suggested an unfamiliarity with conflict from those she deemed less than her equals.

  Henrietta squared her shoulders. This little girl did not bother her. After all, how many people had doubted her abilities as an adequate nurse? Men considered her silly and women accused her of misplaced priorities, going so far as to suggest she lacked femininity.

  “My lord.” Lady Brandewyne came into the room, nursing a frown. “The girl refused to stay in the nurseries.”

  “The girl has a name.” The child’s eyes blazed green fire.

  Oh, the impertinence! These two were most certainly related.

  For Lady Brandewyne’s part, she puffed up her chest, cheeks billowing with suppressed irritation. “What manner of child is this to speak so? Someone must take her in hand, at once.”

  “Louise.” The earl placed his hand upon the bristling girl’s shoulder in a reproachful manner, but Henrietta did not miss the betraying quiver of his chin. She pressed her lips together to keep from uttering an ill-timed criticism. Or chuckle. “Go with Lady Brandewyne to the nursery, please.”

  “The nursery? Why, I am practically upon my thirteenth year. The time for this nonsense has passed. You almost died. I cannot be apart from you any longer.”

  At that, Louise’s eyes moistened and Henrietta felt a deep compassion overwhelm her. “Your father is quite healthy and should recover nicely as long as he rests these few days.”

  She gave him another hug and then sailed past Henrietta with a toss of her head, in which the hair looked almost as unmanageable as the personality.

  “Dom is not my father.”

  * * *

  Dominic sat back against the pillows, palming the sore place in his ribs and containing a wince. No need to let the dragon nurse in the man’s profession see his discomfort. How he loved Louise, but she’d exacerbated his pain in more than one way.

  He could not let Barbara have her, but somehow he must find a way to be well again. To be a fit guardian.

  “Are you in pain, my lord?” Miss Gordon edged near his bed while the doctor did something at the makeshift table they’d set up at the side of the room. “Can I offer you relief?”

  “Now you’re solicitous,” he muttered. What an inconvenience this entire fiasco was. He’d been invited to several parties this week, but had sent his regrets. His past friends would never understand his illness. “When my valet has freshened up, send him to me.”

  “I shall do so.” Her brisk tone left no doubt she would. That serious look on her face...did she ever laugh or make merry? He squinted up at her, scrunching his nose in such a way as to draw the lightest bit of humor to her dark eyes.

  She did not smile, but an attractive blush stained her delicate skin. Almost too delicate, as though she’d been ill. He studied her more thoroughly as she turned to the doctor, murmuring in a low tone. Yes, her clothes hung a tad too loosely about her frame. They were not of the best quality, though certainly better than what a maid would wear.

  He would know, as in the past he had made it his business to ensure his household was dressed to represent him. An illusion of perfection that, until the accident, he’d taken great joy in creating.

  A groan caught up to him, gurgling inside. Louise. Whatever was he going to do with her? She absolutely hated his sister, Barbara. But could he really raise her when he had no idea of his future? If Barbara discovered his epilepsy, then he’d have a battle on his hands.

  As though hearing the subject of his thoughts, Miss Gordon came back carrying a drink. “Who is the child?”

  “What is this?” He took the cup, peering at the foul-smelling brew.

  “Tea with a tincture of herbs to soothe the pain you’re in. The girl?”

  The reiterated question was rude, yet Dominic found himself amused by her plain speaking. He sipped the tea, ignoring the wretched taste for the sake of his aching muscles.

  “She is my niece,” he finally said, meeting Miss Gordon’s frank gaze. “Bequeathed to me last year when her parents died.”

  “Bequeathed? What a terrible thing to say.”

  “One more mark against me shall not make a difference. It is all adding up, is it not?”

  “What is?”

  “Your blatant disapproval. You do not know me, and yet you find fault.”

  “Nonsense. I simply asked about the girl.” She had the grace to look away from him, as though acknowledging a slight deviance from the truth. “Your niece is—”

  “A terror, I know.”

  “Not at all.” She looked up then, a warmth to her eyes. “Her manners are lacking, but her absence of guile is appealing and she obviously holds a deep love for you. I can commiserate with her, as my own parents died when I was about her age.”

  Dominic did not know what to say. Perhaps this explained the odd accent, the plainness of her clothes despite her regal bearing. “What happened?”

  Her eyes flickered. “A fire. My father pulled me from the house. He went in for my mother. Uncle William took me in afterward. I assisted him in the medical field. I have traveled around the world with him and intend to continue to do so.” There was a shadow to her features, and her gaze lowered.

  Neither of her parents had come out of that house.

  The implication soured the air between them. A clench of empathy stirred within, and Dominic then experienced the most curious urge to know what she was thinking. He could not recall ever wonder
ing such a thing about a woman. What made her different? Perhaps her obvious lack of artifice. The simplicity of her presentation combined with the gentility of her manners? Or perhaps it was such a simple thing as her refusal to fawn over him.

  His ego could not recall such a neglect.

  She cleared her throat. “Where is your niece’s governess?”

  “She unexpectedly quit.”

  “The governess gave you no warning? No time to hire someone new?”

  “It all became too much for her, I suppose. I myself would never wish to teach children.”

  “You never know what you must resort to in difficult situations, my lord.” Henrietta’s smile looked suddenly sad.

  “That reminds me... I shall need to write her a letter of recommendation. Could you have writing utensils sent up to me?”

  “You would reward a governess who has quite effectively left you in the lurch?”

  “Why, no, dear Miss Gordon, but neither will I punish her. No doubt she is already fretting over her future. She will perhaps wonder what is to become of herself? A genteel woman of good family and no money, fallen on hard times. Who will take her on now that she has left her current situation? Without a letter of recommendation...suffice it to say, England is a harsh place for those caught between the servant class and the peerage.”

  “You are very astute for one who wears such expensive clothing.”

  “Another jab.” His lips quirked. “Miss Gordon, I think you should count yourself very fortunate that you are not in need of employment, for that sharp-edged tongue of yours could very well be your downfall.”

  “Fiddle faddle,” she rejoined, but an odd expression had crossed her face.

  “And what is the meaning of your distaste of the finer things?” he continued, enjoying her discomfiture. He thought she might deserve a bit of perturbation. “I enjoy silk cravats and well-made clothing, and there is nothing wrong with such enjoyment. You would begrudge me my clothes, but have me refuse to recommend my governess? Even knowing that Louise can be trying? You’re a hard woman, Miss Gordon.”