That was not a thing a young lady does.
She shivered. Even so. She did not need to be a woman of the world to know what a gentleman was thinking when he…when he looked at a woman like that. It was no secret, then, that Alfred Carmichael admired her.
Was it awful if she was pleased? If she found herself intrigued by the thought that she warmed him?
Meredith bit her lip again and looked away from the looking glass around her small bedchamber. She was only here because she could teach because she was good with children. If she were to risk that…if she was to put herself in a position of scandal…
She was not here to land a husband. Miss Clarke had very strict rules about such things—society had very strict rules about such things!
Meredith took a deep breath. She was here to teach Archibald. That was all.
And when she was no longer needed, when Archibald had learned all from her curriculum and probably a little more, she would return to London and the Governess Bureau and her next assignment.
Nowhere was permanent. Nowhere was home. And she would not ruin the precarious respectability that she had earned, despite her past, for a man.
After one more glance into the looking glass, she stepped out of her bedchamber. As she walked down the corridor, Meredith saw light spilling out from one room. Archibald’s. It snapped shut as she approached.
Meredith smiled and knocked gently on the door. There was a pause, a scuffle, and then a small voice spoke.
“Come in.”
She opened the door and saw Archibald seated on the other side of the room with a book in his hand and chest heaving. He had obviously run over from the door.
Meredith smiled. “I wished to say good night before I went down for dinner. I hope you do not mind me disturbing you.”
Archibald shook his head. “I…I wanted to see what you were wearing. My mother died when I was born. I have never seen a lady dress for dinner before.”
Meredith’s eyes widened as she sat on the end of Archibald’s bed. “Never? Your brother does not entertain the gentlefolk of Rochdale?”
It did not seem possible. What else was a duke doing all the time, when not running for elections, if not hosting and entertaining?
“A few times,” said Archibald quietly, putting his book down. “But not often. Not here, anyway. I suppose all members of Parliament have dinners all the time in London. Your gown is very pretty.”
Only a child who had never seen a lady dress for such an occasion could consider the old gown she had put on as pretty!
“I hear there is a ball in the next few weeks,” she said instead. “Is that true?”
Archibald nodded, rubbing his tired eyes.
“Well,” said Meredith quietly. “Why don’t I ask your brother whether you can attend? Even just sitting in the corner and watching all the ladies and gentlemen in their finery would be something exciting, wouldn’t it?”
The child’s eyes grew wide. “Really? You think Alfred will permit it? Can I go riding tomorrow with both of you?”
Meredith nodded. “Let’s focus on the ball, first of all. I will ensure it. If I offer to sit with you to keep you under control—”
“I can keep myself under—”
“—then I am sure he will agree,” continued Meredith with a smile. “Time for bed.”
Archibald rose and quickly hugged her before clambering into bed. “I hope you have a nice dinner, Miss Hubert.”
Meredith’s smile broadened. You never really knew what you were going to be faced with when one was a governess. The children you cared for could be monstrous—or, in this case, absolutely delightful.
It was evident from his rapid and rather clumsy hug that embraces were not something Archibald was used to. It broke her heart.
A gong sounded downstairs.
“There, I will be late if I do not go down,” said Meredith wistfully. In a way, she would rather stay here. Archibald was, by far, much the easier Carmichael brother to deal with.
“Say hello to Alfred for me,” came the sleepy reply.
Archibald’s eyes had already closed by the time Meredith had walked across the room. He was such a precious child. It was a privilege to care for him.
All her nerves had gone. Archibald had reminded her precisely why she was here. As Meredith swept downstairs, she knew what this dinner was for: talking about Archibald as much as possible.
That child had lost his parents. He did not even know what a lady’s evening gown looked like, for goodness sake! He needed his brother, and Meredith was going to ensure Alfred knew it.
At least, that was what she had intended. Unfortunately, like all good intentions, they were swept away within a moment as she reached the bottom of the staircase and saw Alfred.
Something painful lurched in her stomach. Alfred was wearing a formal frockcoat, his silk waistcoat the precise color of her gown—that Carmichael blue again—and his cravat matched. He was standing tall, looking into the distance. He was waiting for her.
He had never looked so handsome, his appearance only improving as he smiled.
“Miss Hubert.”
You will control yourself, Meredith told herself silently. You are here to give a report of yourself and your pupil and encourage the elder brother to pay more attention to the younger. That was all.
That was all she would permit, anyway, for she simply could not allow the duke anymore of herself. That was not who she was.
“Your Grace,” she said. It had been a mistake to call him Rochdale. It had created…well, not exactly friendship between them.
There was too much fire in his eyes to be called friendship.
“I thought I would meet you here and take you into the dining room,” he said with a smile, offering his arm.
Meredith looked at it blankly. This was not what she had expected. All these good manners…where was the gruff and businesslike duke she knew?
Well, not entirely. She had seen a different side of Alfred Carmichael on their ride together, albeit briefly. How was she supposed to know which was the real duke and which was that trotted out for ceremony?
“Miss Hubert?”
Meredith collected herself. “Yes—yes! Thank you, Your Grace, that is most kind.”
She tried not to pay any attention to the heady sensations threatening to overwhelm her as she took the duke’s arm. He was warm, strong. He held her close as they stepped down the corridor toward the dining room on the other side of the house.
She swallowed. This tension she felt whenever she was near him, it was not natural. Why was she so much warmer in his presence? She should say something. But what? What words could possibly explain the rush of emotions stirred within her if she could not understand them herself?
Thankfully, it was a short walk to the dining room, and a footman opened the door.
“Here,” said Alfred quietly, helping her into a chair at one end of the long dining table.
There. She had managed it, the most difficult part of the evening. Now Alfred would step away from her, step away from the intensity of whatever it was between them, and she would be permitted to collect herself.
But instead of moving to the other end of the table, Alfred sat down beside her. So close she could reach out and touch him.
Meredith shivered and tried immediately to put that thought out of her mind. She was being foolish again, showing her ignorance of the nobility. It was madness to think two people could have a rational conversation seated at opposite ends of a table like this! Alfred—the duke wanted to know how his brother was doing, and for that, they would need to converse.
There was nothing more to be read into it, Meredith was sure, and she was a wanton woman indeed for even thinking there was any more to it!
“Archibald says hello,” she said in a quiet voice, hoping to immediately bring some clarity and focus to their conversation.
It did not help. Alfred smiled at the mention of his brother’s name, and something in Meredith’
s heart fluttered.
“I hope my brother is not forcing you to become his messenger,” said Alfred with a wry smile as footmen stepped in silently bringing in their food.
Meredith picked up her fork, hardly knowing what she was doing. She had to keep this business. She was a governess, not a lady to be courted or dazzled. If Alfred was charming, that was because he was a gentleman! He was not attempting to impress her, and she would be a fool indeed to allow his courtesies to go to her head!
“Nothing of the sort,” she said lightly, picking at her food. “But I do believe it would be good for him to be more involved in your life. The ball, for example. He should attend.”
She had not considered it a particularly dramatic message, but Alfred coughed and took a hasty gulp of the red wine poured for him by a passing footman.
“Ball?” he said eventually, thumping his chest. “I admit myself surprised he knew of such a thing—or you, for that matter.”
Meredith laughed. “Rochdale—Your Grace, you think anything can be kept secret in a house like this? You think we do not all precisely know what plans Mr. Walker has for you?”
She winked at Miles, the footman who stood behind the duke, who stifled a laugh very poorly and was overcome with a coughing fit.
Alfred turned to stare at the unfortunate footman, who pinked and stood even straighter. When he turned back to Meredith, she was eating innocently.
“Funny,” he said dryly. “I usually spend so much time in London, so little time here in my actual home, that I forget my servants know the place better than I do. Thank you, Miles. You may go.”
Miles bowed low and left the room, still coughing. Meredith tried not to smile.
This was what she had missed, she thought silently. Good conversation. The earl and countess were both witty, and though Mrs. Martin permitted herself an occasional conversation, it was nothing like this.
“Roberts, do me a favor, would you,” said the duke quietly, and the butler appeared at his shoulder immediately. “I know we prefer service à la russe in this house, but would you ask Cook whether, just for this evening, we can go back to service à la française?”
“Very good, Your Grace,” said Roberts quietly before disappearing.
Meredith pinked and hoped he would not notice. This was not what she had expected. Service à la russe, or service in the Russian style, was far more vogue in London and Paris these days; each course brought out one at a time by footmen who served onto guests’ plates.
Service à la française was considered so much more old-fashioned, even if she did prefer it. All the courses out at once, covering the table, so the diners could pick and choose what they wanted at their own leisure.
But why did the duke wish to do that…if not to remove all servants from the room?
Other servants, Meredith reminded herself sternly. Do not forget your place in all this, my girl. This was not about you. You are not special.
Roberts had appeared again. “Cook says it would be her honor, Your Grace, and the footmen are bringing up the food now—ah, here they are.”
Meredith blinked. She had not expected…well, all this. A dinner on a Wednesday was not supposed to be so grand, was it? Or were these twenty-odd platters, some piled high with sugar glazing, some adorned with flowers, what a duke always ate, even when alone?
“Thank you, Roberts, Miles, Johns, you may all go,” said Alfred with a wave of his hand.
Within a moment, Meredith was left alone with the Duke of Rochdale and more food than she believed possible to fit on a table.
“There,” said the duke quietly. “Now, we will not be disturbed.”
Why could she not prevent her cheeks from pinking? There was nothing suggestive in there, nothing to indicate that she must be careful with her innocence. This was just a dinner.
Just a dinner.
“Please, help yourself and do not worry about mixing courses. I always preferred the French style anyway,” said Alfred with a smile. “Now, talk to me about geography.”
Meredith blinked. She could not have possibly heard that correctly, could she?
“G-Geography?” she stammered as Alfred added some roast potatoes to his plate.
He nodded. “Yes, geography. What areas of geography will you be teaching Archibald in the coming weeks, particularly as we are now at war in the Americas?”
Meredith’s eyes widened, and she dropped her gaze to avoid his own. Her plate was empty. Helping herself to some chicken, peas, and a funny-looking type of pie she did not recognize, Meredith could no longer avoid the question.
“I admit myself impressed,” she said lightly. “I do not know many fathers—apologies, guardians, who would think of updating the curriculum.”
“Well, what is the point of politicians,” said Alfred bracingly, “if we cannot redraw the map a few times in our careers?”
Meredith laughed automatically. Was that not the point of servants, to laugh at the jokes of one’s masters?
But the duke merely looked weary. “I did not intend it to be a joke, but I can see the humor.”
Meredith stopped smiling and took a mouthful of the delicious food.
“’Tis strange,” he said quietly. “The more time I spend around you, the more I see Archie—Master Archibald come alive. It is…intoxicating.”
Meredith swallowed her food and looked at him nervously. He was not eating, and his hands…his hands were on the table, mere inches from hers, his lingering gaze warming her.
She had to get a grip of herself—of this conversation.
“Thank you,” she said. “The best praise at all for a governess is praise of her pupil.”
“You do not look for praise for yourself?”
Meredith took another mouthful and swallowed it before allowing herself to reply. She had to think. She couldn’t just speak the first words that came into her head. That was for children, not governesses.
For it felt as though they were dancing into dangerous territory…but she could not help herself. She had to speak her mind; she always had.
It had been one of those qualities that had almost got her into trouble last time…
“Perhaps, at times,” she said honestly, and she saw Alfred’s eyes glitter. “But when one has this station in life, one has to leave behind the idea that one’s life will have me at the center.”
Meredith hoped he would understand the subtle hint to her station. She was a governess, his brother’s governess. Any flirtation had to disappear.
Alfred nodded, his eyes fixed on her. Meredith’s stomach lurched. She was having an intimate dinner with the Duke of Rochdale. How had she managed to get herself into this situation?
“In a way, I understand,” he said quietly. “A politician is meant to think of others, rather than oneself. I do not pretend it is always easy. I think man’s first inherent state is to think of himself, to seek protection and betterment for one’s own. I suppose I hope I have, over time, risen above it.”
Meredith placed her fork down and leaned in unconsciously. It was the first real conversation she had had since arriving at Rochdale Abbey. Mrs. Martin was civil most of the time, and the butler, when he encountered her, was aloof but polite. The maids held her in awe for some reason, and the footmen…well, she knew better than to chatter with them.
This was different. This conversation was real, with depth. He made her feel alive.
She glanced at her plate. Her food was almost entirely gone. She had barely tasted it, her senses consumed with Alfred.
“Yet that suggests a tribalism I do not believe we still have here in England,” said Alfred nonchalantly.
Meredith smiled.
“Ah, a smile! Come now, Miss Hubert, you must explain that to me.”
There was a playful look on his face Meredith had never seen before, and she dissembled rather than explain it. “Oh, no, it was just a thought, nothing more.”
The duke placed his knife and fork down. “And I request that you share it.
”
Meredith’s heart fluttered. What harm could it do? “I was merely thinking that it is strange for a member of Parliament, a gentleman whose sole purpose in government is to represent a small part of England—a tribe, if you will—to disbelieve in tribalism.”
Alfred stared for a moment and then chuckled, shaking his head. “I should never have doubted you, Miss Hubert.”
Why did she long to have her first name on his lips? Hubert had been the name she chose, an opportunity to leave behind the ignominy of her family. Meredith was her true name, and to hear nothing but falseness from his mouth when he addressed her…it pained her more than she could have expected.
“Here, have some pudding,” said the duke, oblivious to the thoughts running through her mind. “And then tell me, are you lonely here?”
Meredith had been taking a sip of wine, a luxury indeed. She managed not to splutter and did not spill a drop onto the white linen tablecloth.
Lonely? In his house? What on earth did the duke mean by asking such a thing? To be sure, if there had been a mistress in the house, it would have been a perfectly innocent question from her.
But from him, those eyes and the way he looked at her.
“Sometimes,” she found herself admitting. “But I am very busy, Your Grace. Archibald and his education take up much of my time, and I have use of your library and my horse. I…I enjoy riding.”
“Yes, but…but is it enough?”
As he spoke those words, he moved his hand forward as though to take hers. Meredith almost lunged for the platter of pudding to avoid him.
“My word, what a delightful dessert. I do not think I’ve had gimblettes de fleurs d’orange in ages,” she gabbled.
By the time she had helped herself to a portion and replaced the platter, Alfred’s hands had gone.
Meredith attempted to control her breathing. He was being kind. She was reading far too much into this innocent dinner, so much that she was making a fool of herself.
She could not stay any longer in this dining room. She was not to be trusted, that had been proven, and by the looks of it, neither could he. Alfred.
The longer she was here, the more her heart wanted her to rebel and say something that she would regret…eventually.
A Governess of Great Talents Page 12