“Merciful heavens, Marissa,” whispered a frantic Hattie. “We’re in for it now, make no mistake.”
“I didn’t mean to let her go, Georgie,” Marissa pleaded, her huge doe eyes glistening with tears.
“No, I am sure you didn’t, dear,” Georgeanne said. “But your uncle might not see it that way. Maybe one of the footmen will see Rosie and whisk her away before anyone spots her. Come on, Marissa,” she added, grabbing the little girl’s hand. “If we hurry, we’ll be upstairs before anyone’s the wiser.”
A short while later, after unsuccessfully checking for Rosie in the library and several other rooms, Georgeanne entered the drawing room, now worried about how the guests would greet her. She was neither a guest nor a relative, but an interloper, stuck somewhere between the hierarchy of servants and masters. She soon realized that her worry over her status was for naught. Lady Ashbury’s friends were a mixture of young and old, and all accepted her presence without comment. Will Townsend was there anticipating her arrival and came to her side immediately.
“Miss Forsythe, you look lovely tonight,” he said, warm appreciation apparent in his eyes.
“Why, my lord,” Georgeanne replied with a teasing smile, “you have failed to make me a pretty leg.”
The reference to that gentleman’s quixotic gallantry every day when he greeted Georgeanne and Marissa at the bottom of the stairs brought a smile to his handsome countenance. “Quite right you are.”
The mischievous look he threw her was warning enough for Georgeanne to reach out and grab his sleeve, thus preventing him from making an exaggerated bow. But before she could say anything, Raynor was beside her with his frowning brow and angry eyes locked on her hand gripping Townsend’s arm.
“Guests in my home don’t expect to be mauled, Miss Forsythe,” he said before turning to his friend. “Yet, by the young lady’s stricken expression, Will, I can only assume you have been behaving badly.”
“Now there you’re out, Tony,” Townsend replied with a hearty laugh. “Fact is, I’m trying to show the proper respect due a lovely lady.”
“Really?” A dark eyebrow quirked suspiciously. “One would hardly think that would cause the lady’s consternation.”
At that precise moment, Bivens announced dinner, drawing this lordship’s attention, and Georgeanne made good her escape, releasing Townsend and ducking around a nearby couple, hiding from Raynor’s view.
Though the meal was a long affair, Georgeanne was able to relax and enjoy the turtle soup, succulent orange glazed goose, poached salmon steaks, veal and numerous side dishes. With an elderly gentleman on either side, she had only to take turns listening to their soliloquies, one lamenting the deteriorating condition of Mad King George, the other critiquing the Prince Regent’s flamboyant lifestyle. Thus, she had plenty of opportunities to glance about the table and was somewhat surprised to find Lady Olivia Cosgrove noticeably absent. For this, Georgeanne was truly grateful.
Raynor, she saw, was quite the congenial host, paying attention to both his dinner partners. Lady Bettencourt, an elderly obese dowager, persisted in bending his lordship’s ear about her sister’s young and very eligible daughter. When the chance arose, the attractive matron on his other side chatted about the theater. His smile, warm and encouraging, was evident throughout the meal, and Georgeanne couldn’t help but wonder where the dour, reticent peer was who usually appeared at tea.
When the ladies adjourned to the drawing room, leaving the men to their port and cigars, Georgeanne found a chair that was not too close to the pianoforte. The gentlemen soon sauntered in, most looking about for comfortable seating where they could unobtrusively doze during the ensuing concert. Georgeanne, who had been congenially chatting with a young married woman, somehow found herself alone with Townsend.
Just before the Italian soprano was introduced, from across the room Georgeanne’s eye caught a movement under the settee. When Lady Bettencourt, the matron of impressive proportions, sank down on the blue silk damask couch, her voluminous skirts and petticoats ballooned around her, obscuring Georgeanne’s view of the naughty cocker spaniel. Thinking it better not to bring attention to puppy, Georgeanne folded her hands demurely in her lap, more in a prayer than anticipation of the singer.
When the soprano began winding up her first aria, Georgeanne noticed Rosie’s rustic snout poking out, chewing and pulling on Lady Bettencourt’s petticoats. The dowager shifted her legs several times, then finally reached down and grabbed a fistful of taffeta and muslin and gave them a good yank. To Georgeanne’s horror, the teething pup gave a playful growl and rose on all fours to vigorously attack the yards of white muslin petticoats.
Alas, a growl is a growl. Georgeanne inwardly cringed when the dowager jumped up from the settee, screeching like a banshee, rivaling the soprano’s last resounding note. With eyes wide-open as saucers, Georgeanne watched helplessly. The dowager ruthlessly pulled on her purple taffeta flounces and dragged Rosie out from under the settee. Obviously enjoying the tug-of-war, the cocker spaniel began darting between the display of two unseemly pudgy limbs. With more playful growls, Rosie clamped on to the tearing fabric. Lady Bettencourt grabbed a fistful of taffeta and swung up and around. As a satin flounce tore loose, the puppy, eyes showing white and teeth clenching tenaciously to the fabric, sailed through the air.
Hoping to nab the silly creature, Georgeanne rose from her chair and moved closer. But Raynor rushed past her to the panic stricken dowager as she lost her balance. He barely managed to prevent the large woman from crashing to the floor. With outstretched arms, he took the full impact of her fall, staggering under her more than considerable weight. Nonetheless, he managed to remain standing.
“Oh, that is impressive!” observed Georgeanne, awestruck by his lordship’s prowess.
“Indeed,” Will, one step behind her, concurred in a suspiciously shaky voice.
“Lay you a monkey she topples?” said one elderly gentleman turning to another.
Meeting Townsend’s laughing eyes, Georgeanne was hard pressed not to break out in whoops and quickly resorted to her fan to hide a grin. She looked at Raynor. His countenance had turned a ruddy hue, whether from the exertion of keeping the huge dowager on her feet or anger over her spontaneous comment she could not tell. Quickly, she busied herself with the job of snagging Rosie. The frisky pup was jumping in and out from under the Lady Bettencourt’s skirts, snapping and barking. Georgeanne was the only one with the presence of mind to grab the pooch and remove it from the room.
Out in the hall, she beckoned to one of the footmen who’d gathered to catch a glimpse of the commotion. She shoved the wigging little cocker at him, then returned to the scene to find some order had been restored. Guests offered their sympathies to Lady Bettencourt, now prostrate on the settee while Lady Ashbury waved burnt feathers under the dowager’s nose, even as a number of gentlemen worked at maintaining straight faces. Raynor was the only one who was not having any trouble manifesting a humorless expression.
Georgeanne watched in despair as the party broke up. Within minutes, Will Townsend was the last party goer who remained. And he had Lady Ashbury in stitches, irreverently describing the debacle, including an exaggerated description of his friend’s Herculean strength.
“No easy feat, to be sure,” Townsend repeated, shaking his head in wonderment.
By now, Georgeanne had joined the two, hoping there was safety in numbers. She glanced at Lady Ashbury and both broke into peals of laughter.
“With no thought to his won safety,” Townsend continued in an awed voice, “Tony rushed in to save Lady Bettencourt, completely unaware that a dragon was attacking her. Ferocious the beast was, too.”
“Oh, do stop,” cried Georgeanne between gurgles of merriment. “We really should not make fun of the dowager. The poor dear was truly frightened.”
“Indeed,” came Raynor’s sour comment from where he stood by the fireplace, listening to Townsend rehash the event. “It never should have happened. H
ow did the dog get loose, Miss Forsythe?”
“I am sure there is a logical explanation,” replied Lady Ashbury, sparing Georgeanne from responding. “It was unfortunate. But it is late, Anthony. The answers can wait until tomorrow.”
This had the effect of speeding Townsend on his way, and Georgeanne headed for the stairs along with Lady Ashbury when Raynor called out,” One minute more of your time, Miss Forsythe.”
With a commiserating glance from his aunt, Georgeanne turned and followed Raynor back to the drawing room. The clicking of his black shoes upon the marble tiles drew her eyes to his feet, then up his calves. His long strides allowed her to observe the outline of his muscular thighs. As her eyes traced the lines of his form fitting jacket, she felt the heat rise to her face.
Inside the drawing room, Raynor came directly to the point. “Can you explain why that puppy was under the settee?”
“Well, not specifically, my lord,” she hedged, as her eyes focused on his scowling brow. “But I am sure it was an accident.”
“What was an accident?”
Georgeanne caught her lower lip between her teeth, trying to decide just what to say.
“Miss Forsythe, you are trying my patience.”
Georgeanne blinked. Did he really think he was exercising patience? “Very well,” she said, taking a deep breath and standing taller. “Marissa sounded so wistful earlier about seeing all the pretty ladies at the party that I gave her permission to watch the guests arrive from the first floor landing.”
When she wasn’t more forthcoming, he pressed, “And the puppy?”
“You know Marissa is very attached to Rosie and takes her everywhere. Anyway, the cocker managed to slip out of Marissa’s arms.”
“I see.” Raynor did, actually. He remembered sneaking down with his older brother Alister to that very same landing to observe their parents when they hosted balls and elegant dinners. He could certainly understand Marissa’s curiosity. It was Miss Forsythe, aiding and abetting the five year old, he couldn’t fathom. All the governesses he’d been acquainted with had always discouraged such behavior. Still, the deed itself wasn’t so very terrible. It was the puppy that had caused all the commotion. “From here on out, Rosie will be kept in the mews since the animal can’t be controlled.”
“You cannot do that, my lord,” Georgeanne instantly challenged.
“I most certainly can and will do exactly that.”
“But Marissa has grown attached to Rosie, and it will hurt her deeply if you take the dog away. I cannot let you do this.”
Raynor allowed his eyes to take in Georgeanne’s rigid stance, from her clenched fists, the glorious flesh of her heaving chest, slender neck, flushed cheeks, and vivid green eyes that fairly glowed with her anger. Just the sight of her was enough to put his emotions into a tailspin. What he wanted to do was reach out and draw her into his arms. What he needed to do was remind this adorable widgeon that she was the governess.
He brought his brows together and drawled in a dangerously low voice, “You forget yourself, Miss Forsythe.”
“You are an abominable brute!” she retorted, throwing her chin up in the air. “Apparently, Marissa’s feelings mean nothing to you.” She whirled around and was out the door before Raynor could think of a suitable reply.
“Damnation,” Raynor growled. The woman was infuriating. From the very day she’d appeared before him, she’d managed to upset his life. It was quite a paradox, actually, for she’d succeeded with Marissa where others had not, controlling his niece’s tantrums and bringing a smile to Marissa’s angelic face.
Despite this, the volatile Miss Georgeanne Forsythe remained a constant source of irritation to him. Forgetting her position as a governess—a servant—she continued to instruct him on how to act, challenging his every decree, and even casting disparaging looks on her betters.
Worst yet, he was growing more and more attracted to her. Infuriating, yes, but he remembered every curve of her supple form, the eager openness with which she’d returned his kisses, the honest emotion displayed in her flashing green eyes.
He shook his head in frustration. How was one to deal with such an impossible governess?
*** Chapter 9 ***
No summons for a reprimand came the following morning, so Georgeanne breathed another sigh of relief. Still, she was mindful that she needed to curve her behavior to that befitting a servant. Thus later that afternoon, Georgeanne, the governess, walked demurely beside her charge into the drawing room with Lord Townsend. As usual, Lord Raynor stood by the fireplace.
After she and Marissa had bobbed curtsies, they sat on the settee with Lord Townsend to partake tea. Lady Ashbury sat opposite Georgeanne, poised to pour tea, when the knocker sounded on the front door. Moments later, a discreet tapping on the double doors heralded Bivens, who announced Lady Olivia Cosgrove.
A stunned silence settled over the drawing room as all eyes stared at the beautiful vision in rose satin sailing past the butler. Olivia greeted Lord Raynor with a resplendent smile, then acknowledged Lady Ashbury and Will Townsend. Deliberately ignoring Georgeanne, Olivia glided over to Marissa and gave the child a light, condescending pat on the head, almost as if she were afraid of contamination, Georgeanne thought irreverently.
“You are just like a miniature lady, Marissa,” Olivia cooed in a cloyingly sweet voice.
Marissa’s little mouth formed a moue as she ducked her head down. Pulling away from Olivia’s hand, the child scooted closer to Georgeanne before her big doe eyes peeked up at her uncle through long brown lashes.
Raynor gave his niece a reassuring smile, and Georgeanne noticed that he made a point of placing Lady Cosgrove in a chair some distance away from his niece and her governess.
As Lady Ashbury resumed pouring tea, Olivia explained airily, “I have been meaning for ever so long to drop in and see your aunt, Anthony, for a comfortable coze, but somehow time just slips away. Of course, I had no idea your teas were strictly en famille,” she concluded, pointedly directing a glance at Georgeanne.
“Since she takes care of Marissa, stands to reason Miss Forsythe would be included,” Townsend spoke up. “Besides, I am here so it ain’t just family.”
Olivia gave a tinkling laugh. “Maybe not through blood relations, but certainly your relationship with Anthony qualifies you as an honorary brother. I wonder, would that make me his honorary sister? Though ours is hardly a type of relationship in which siblings indulge themselves.” She smiled coyly at Raynor.
Raynor acted as if he’d not heard a word. Instead, he asked Marissa if she cared for another macaroon. Since the child sat with one in her hand and another on her plate, she declined with a shake of her blond curls. Then he began questioning her about her schoolwork.
If Lady Cosgrove was miffed by Lord Raynor’s lack of attention, she hid it well. She chattered easily with Lady Ashbury and Townsend, mostly comparing their social calendars, which effectively eliminated Georgeanne from participating in their discussion. Unfortunately, the beauty weaseled out of Townsend that he would be attending a dinner at Curzon Street two nights hence. Consequently, with the aplomb of an accomplished hostess, Lady Ashbury graciously extended an invitation to Olivia. Which, Georgeanne concluded, was the main purpose of Olivia’s visit.
When Olivia prevailed in soliciting Raynor’s escort to Vauxhall for that evening, Georgeanne decided she’d endured all she could and remain silent. She helped Marissa gather her leftover cookies and pocket them in the front of the child’s white muslin pinafore, then made their escape. They were almost out the door when Lady Cosgrove loudly proclaimed, “My Anthony, what a presumptuous female, not to wait to be excused. I suppose one must expect that attitude from hired help nowadays.”
Trying not to react, Georgeanne nearly bit her tongue. However, while mounting the stairs, she could not resist bending down and whispering to Marissa, “I am truly sorry, dear, that you did not see fit to bat that spiteful cat’s hand away like some annoying fly when she patt
ed your head.”
As Marissa found this sentiment highly amusing, she and Georgeanne continued up the stairs in a much more cheerful mood to finish off the stash of macaroons.
Over the next few weeks Lady Ashbury kept the staff busy, hosting small dinners with elaborate menus followed by light entertainment. Raynor was not always available, as he’d depart early for a rout, the theater, or simply for one of the gentlemen’s clubs. But Lady Ashbury never appeared ruffled by his defections for she called upon Lord Townsend to even out the number of males per females.
Also as instructed, Georgeanne attended the dinners and afterwards found herself drafted to be the fourth for cards or, more often, participating in impromptu dances. The rugs were rolled back in the long drawing room, and the older ladies volunteered to play the pianoforte. Georgeanne was flattered by the fact that she never lacked for dance partners and genuinely enjoyed Lady Ashbury’s older set. Since a number of young people were always present, she formed several congenial relationships with the women.
Most of the guests accepted her unique position as a lady of quality cum governess. But Georgeanne never was included in the invitations that rained on the Curzon Street mansion, nor did the ladies ever share confidences that amounted to anything more than the latest on dits.
The gentlemen, on the other hand, paid her lavish compliments on her appearance, yet always maintained a discrete distance. Oh, one or two tried to break through her own natural reserve to embark on an illicit relationship, but Georgeanne was quick to give them a sharp set down. If that didn’t dampen the ardent suitor, she never hesitated to warn that her employer would be informed if the gentleman did not cease his attentions. Needless to say, none were foolhardy enough to chance facing Lord Raynor’s displeasure.
When Lord Townsend was included among the guests, he took pains to see to Georgeanne’s comfort, such as procuring her drinks, and of course, was first in line to solicit her hand for a dance or volunteer to partner her at cards.
The Impossible Governess Page 10