The Unconventional Governess

by Jessica Nelson

  Her dress was one he’d never seen before. A pale rose with lace and flowers and...he could not find his thoughts. His hand was still out.

  She placed hers upon his. Warm skin against his own. Louise watched them with a strange expression, but the music flowed and he did not take the time to analyze the look.

  He could only be aware of the woman coming toward him, slight and graceful, with a message he could not decipher dancing deep in her gaze.

  Then she was to him. He smoothed one hand down to her waist, pulling her against him. The other hand curled around hers, trapping her so that her upturned face silently asked questions to which he could not answer.

  The music, a blend of violins and piano, pumped through his blood, carrying the beat of his heart until he couldn’t think. He only felt this woman in his arms, the way her steps haltingly matched his.

  The scent of roses drifted from her hair, teasing him, begging him to draw her even closer. They looped around the room, her skirts swishing against his legs, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

  And she did not speak, but there were words in her eyes. They locked gazes. He dipped his head against hers, dimly hearing Louise’s clapping in the background, the squeal of her excitement joining the song. Heat from Henrietta’s cheek brushed against his own, and he heard her faint intake of breath as he moved them across the floor.

  His nerves thrummed. He had danced with countless women. In countless countries. Never had he felt this connection, this drawing. He wanted to kiss her.

  Absolutely, unaccountably unacceptable.

  But he would think about that later. He would grind these feelings to ashes and sweep them from his life. He could not make the promises she deserved to hear when his future was unknown.

  The strains of the waltz were dying down, fading away, and he brought her to a halt in the middle of the room. How could such dark eyes glisten at him, swimming with emotions and thoughts, asking him his in return. Her lips parted, soft and rosy.

  “Oh, that was so lovely, like watching an artist painting on a canvas.” Louise’s trilling voice wedged between them.

  Henrietta removed her hand from his. She backed up, and he slid his palm slowly away from her waist. Too slowly, for she gave him a castigating glare that told him she knew exactly what he was doing and that she did not approve.

  Casting him into the box of flirt again.

  He belonged there. It was for the best.

  Henrietta could never know of these feelings springing within him, unfurling and blooming. She must never realize, and if he had to play the part of superficial to keep her from ever seeing him as anyone better than he was, so be it.

  * * *

  “Miss Gordon, you have a caller.”

  She looked up from the book she’d bought. The pictures were in-depth and well done, but so far she’d found nothing on epilepsy, nor how to treat it. Not for the first time, it occurred to her that Uncle William might know something of the disease.

  She set the book to the side and stood, smoothing her skirts. Dominic’s butler wore a long face and bored eyes. She gave him a quick nod. “In the parlor?”

  “In the hall.” With one long, disparaging look, he left.

  Of course, he would find it beneath him to deliver a message to a mere governess. Clenching her jaw, she hurried out of her room and down to the main area of Dominic’s house.

  The gilded door frames and large windows brought to her attention how exceptionally lovely and lush his home was. What would it be like to live here for the rest of her life?

  Goose pimples skittered up her arms as she remembered their waltz.

  No, she told herself firmly, descending the staircase.

  Flirting was second nature to a man like Dominic. It meant nothing. Though, she must admit that perhaps she owed him an apology. After meeting so many people during the dinner, she had realized that the beau monde of London was much worse than him. Even Mr. Hodges, for all his good humor, struck her as unreliable.

  As she neared the bottom of the stairs, she focused on the figure awaiting her. A serious, square-shouldered man with a physician’s cane and elaborate top hat. At first she thought it was Uncle William, but then she realized it was Mr. Moore.

  One of her uncle’s dear friends.

  “Mr. Moore, how do you do?” She curtsied, and he responded with a gentlemanly bow.

  “Very well. I had heard you were in town and thought a walk about Hyde Park might be just the thing.” Thick gray eyebrows wiggled over gentle blue eyes. This man had sporadically been a part of her life as far back as to even when her parents had been alive.

  “What a lovely surprise.” She hesitated. “I am governessing, at the moment, and will need to ask permission.” How that grated, but it could not be helped.

  “What is this talk of permission?”

  She spun around. Dominic strode into the hall, the lighthearted quirk on his lips setting her heart aflutter. As soon as that betraying physical response occurred, she struggled to contain it. She pasted a stern look upon her face, denying the smile that edged her lips.

  She had fought very hard to not think of their dancing, of the hopes trembling on the precipice of her emotions. He could not just stride in here with his long legs and fancy-free demeanor and bring it all back. She refused to allow him the power.

  “Is that why you’re scowling?” he asked, eyes twinkling. “You need not frown at me so, Miss Gordon.”

  Mr. Moore inclined his head in greeting. “You must be Lord St. Raven. I am an old friend of Miss Gordon’s. We have studied many a medical mystery together, with her uncle. While in town, I thought it good to take a stroll about Hyde Park.”

  Dominic pulled out his watch fob and made a show of reading its time. Henrietta’s toes danced beneath her skirts. Was he being obtuse on purpose?

  “Louise is practicing the pianoforte at her aunt’s this morning. Miss Gordon can be spared a few hours, if she wishes.” There was laughter in his voice.

  Did Mr. Moore hear it? A hot wash of heat doused her. How very humiliating to have once been free to do as she pleased, to discuss the greatest medical advances in the world with minds of great scope, and now to be reduced to an employee who must have permission to take a walk.

  Galling and unwelcome and all her uncle’s fault.

  It was as if Dominic knew how she strained against this societal cage, and he laughed at her.

  Sparing him a haughty glance, she turned to Mr. Moore. “I would love a turn about Hyde Park.” She swooped her skirts in a flouncing statement and exited the door he held open for her.

  She peeked behind her once, just a quick look to see if Dominic still laughed at her. A shudder rippled through her when she saw him in the doorway, his smile gone, his eyes a dark, impenetrable mask.

  A fanciful thought.

  But the image invaded her conversations with Mr. Moore. Even as he expounded upon an herb discovered in the Outback, or Down Under, as he said many called it.

  “That is a land of convicts, is it not?” She tried forcing interest. Her bonnet kept the sun off her face, but it was a hot London summer day. Close to noon and the street was filled with people of various sorts, of varying incomes and classes.

  “There is violence. I’ve letters describing angry aboriginals and former British convicts seizing control of the colony. Our military has been working on restoring order.” Mr. Moore paused. “But enough of that. How is it that you are a governess? You should be with your uncle. You are one of the best herbalists I’ve ever met.”

  She explained the entire thing, then, ending on how she’d decided to join her uncle without his permission, asked him to not divulge her current employment status.

  “I will not say a word, my dear. Are you sure it is wise?”

  She began to blurt out that practicing medicine was all she wante
d, but stopped. A memory of tea with Dominic and Louise bombarded her. The cool breeze, the warm laughter. That feeling of belonging that had been absent since her uncle left her. And something more. An intangible spice that could not be identified, something that had been missing in her life.

  Drawing a deep breath, she said, “I cannot stay a governess. Practicing medicine is all I know.”

  Mr. Moore grazed her arm, enough to stop her, but not enough to cause notice from passerby. His kindly eyes roved her face, concerned. “I saw Mr. Gordon only a fortnight ago in Wales. He confided in me, and it is time for me to confess to you, that he asked me to call on you. To ascertain your happiness.”

  Unexpectedly, her eyes watered. She blinked rapidly, willing her tear ducts under control. She would not be in this position if he had not abandoned her.

  “He told me,” continued Mr. Moore, “that he has hopes you’ll marry.”

  “Marriage is not conducive to the study and practice of medicine.”

  “It could be.”

  “Are you married, Mr. Moore?”

  His face crinkled for a second, and perhaps she may not have seen that brief ripple of pain if she had not been studying him so intently.

  “There was someone. Years ago.” He looked down the street in front of them as though peering at the past. “The youngest daughter of a vicar.”

  They continued walking, the sounds of their shoes lost in the clatter of passing carriages.

  “I did not marry. I chose medicine and learning over creating a family.”

  “A difficult choice,” murmured Henrietta. She never wished to face the wrenching tug between mind and heart. What a terrible, terrible situation to find oneself in. “You are happy, though, are you not? Why, if you’d stayed with her, think of all the education you might have missed. The medical community would have suffered greatly by your absence.”

  He chuckled. “You flatter, my dear.”

  “I read your paper on leeches. It is why I refuse to use them.”

  He made a commiserating sound, but there was a frown upon his face. “I cannot help but wonder what became of her.”

  The longing in his voice, perhaps unbeknownst to him, carved holes in Henrietta’s certainty that a man of his caliber would not regret leaving a lowly and possibly uneducated vicar’s daughter for a far greater calling. She blinked against the sunlight.

  “It is fortuitous that you chose to see me today. Even though Uncle William put you up to it. I am researching epilepsy, but there is very little information to be found. What can you tell me of it?”

  “There have been studies published in France. I shall find them and send them to you. I do have a friend studying the pathology of the disease. What is your interest in it? I do not think herbs can bring relief.” He studied her.

  She ignored the question for another. “If one was discovered to have epilepsy, would there be a danger of incarceration?”

  “I should think so, depending on the family and rank of the individual.”

  “A member of the peerage?”

  “Ah, one who can afford the costs of a hospital. I daresay that if a peer was found to be suffering seizures, there are many who would wish to consign that person to an asylum. But a title can get one out of all sorts of predicaments.”

  Dominic would be happy to hear that, she thought. He needn’t worry about being locked up after all, and he could have Old John arrested or, at the very least, run out of the village.

  A great relief trembled within. She would tell him as soon as possible.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dominic grabbed the edge of his seat as the carriage rocked to a stop. Opposite him, Louise braced her feet on the floor and lobbed a toothy smile. “Are we home?”

  He peered out his window at the darkening skyline. “Almost to London, I think.”

  They had spent the day at Lord Waverly’s estate. Louise and Henrietta had been in a different group somewhere on the property, while Dominic stayed with Barbara and her husband. It had been quite boring and he’d dodged several eager mothers wishing to introduce him to their daughters.

  His footman opened the door, revealing a stout man with a creased face beside him. He doffed his hat. “Yer pardon, my lord, but there’s been an accident. Do ye by any chance have Miss Gordon with you?”

  He climbed out. “In the other carriage.”

  “I’m here.” She was already charging toward them, that determined, no-nonsense expression on her face as dear to him as her doe-eyed, pink-lipped response to waltzing with him.

  A band tightened around his chest.

  The man who’d stopped them tipped his hat to her. “Joseph O’Gregory, blacksmith in the village of Craven, just over the hill. There’s been word from the Waverly estate that you’ve a doctor with you—” he tipped his head to Dominic “—my lord.”

  “I went into a nearby village to purchase a few items and happened to see a man in need of medicine for his cataracts,” she said shortly, by way of explanation. “Go on, please. Time is of the essence.” Despite her small stature, there was an innate pride in her form, in her expression, that bespoke knowledge and skill. No one seeing her now would think her less than she was.

  “My nephew fell off a roof. His leg be twisted funny, and he can’t walk. Passed out, he is.” The man pressed his cap against his heart. His gaze bored into Henrietta and his hands gripped the cap so hard his knuckles were pale-boned spheres against the rough fabric. “Can ye fix him?”

  “I shall certainly do my best.” She did not even glance at Dominic, but motioned for the man to leave. “Ride ahead and I will follow. Put him on a flat stretcher of sorts and carry him into a house. A clean house. Try not to jostle him. Tell someone to wait at the village edge to show us where to go.” With a flip of skirts, she rushed back to her carriage. Presumably to tell his driver where to take her.

  He hurried to his own carriage, heart pumping strange beats within his chest.

  She had not asked permission.

  As an earl, most people looked to him for guidance. Even when he had not been earl, his position as second son often lent him an authority that the nonpeerage responded to.

  “Follow them closely,” he told his driver, before opening the carriage door himself and getting in.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Louise.

  “Nothing that can’t be fixed, I hope.” He rapped the carriage ceiling to signal he was ready, and they started off.

  It took only ten minutes before they reached the village. Less than five more and they were in front of a small, well-tended cottage. Henrietta had beat them there. He heard the quiet timbre of her voice through the open windows of the house.

  “You will continue home,” he told Louise.

  “But—”

  He gave her a no-nonsense look, and for once she capitulated. A pouting capitulation, but a small victory, nonetheless. Satisfied that she’d stay put, he gave his driver instructions to take her back to the estate.

  He ducked into the little house. It was surprisingly full.

  “I’ll need everyone but his parents to leave,” Henrietta said in a loud and clear voice. Murmurs ensued, but the look she gave almost made Dominic want to turn and run himself. A chuckle rolled in his throat and he ruthlessly shoved it away.

  He stepped to the side, allowing everyone to exit.

  “You may leave, as well.” She was bent over the patient, who remained oblivious to his surroundings. A blanket covered his lower half.

  “I shall stay and assist.” One glance at the white-faced parents assured him that she would need his help. They were too shocked to be of much use.

  Henrietta looked up, her pupils large and dominating her irises. Two bright spots of color stained her cheeks. An escaped tendril cupped her jaw. “Very well, if you’ve the stomach for it.”

  Sh
e straightened, pulling the sheet down to expose ripped and bloody clothes that shrouded a leg jutting at a sickening angle.

  He nodded, forcing back the instinctive need to flinch.

  That queasy feeling was still with him when they finally made it home four hours later. Eyes heavy with sleep, he yawned as the carriage pulled into the drive. He had ridden up with Bates to protect Henrietta’s reputation. He lowered himself to the ground. He didn’t envy his driver’s position, and it occurred to him how spoiled he had lived the last few years.

  He’d never considered what a servant’s life entailed, or even cared.

  He squeaked the door open and found Henrietta sleeping on the seat, her cheek resting against her hands, her lips soft with sleep. A catch of breath buried itself in his throat.

  Her eyes fluttered, opening in a slow movement. “We are home?”

  “Yes, we’re home.” His voice cracked, but he didn’t think she noticed.

  What was worse than falling for a woman determined to leave? A woman with her own goals and dreams?

  Even if she didn’t have those, he could not trust himself to be responsible for a family. His body did what it wanted, when it wanted. What if he had a seizure in public? Worse still was the threat hanging over him from the apothecary. Until he established a plan for what he was going to do with Louise, he was trapped.

  No, he should not have danced with Henrietta. He should not have flirted with her. Perhaps he should not have hired her, but he could not regret such a move when it protected Louise and helped further Henrietta’s dreams.

  After all, at the time he had none of his own.

  Now he was dreaming of a life that could never be.

  * * *

  When Henrietta awoke the next morning, one idea was clear in her mind. She had to speak with Dominic. She dressed hurriedly, ate quickly and set Louise down for a math lesson. While her pupil figured sums, she went downstairs.