It rapidly became clear, however, that Alfred was not interested in understanding the minutiae of Archibald’s education. Firstly, because he did not permit Meredith to finish her sentence; and secondly, because of the manner in which he did this.
Stepping across the room, Alfred pulled her into his arms and stopped her words with a passionate kiss.
Meredith melted into his arms and gave herself over. All she wanted was Alfred. She wanted to spend her life in his arms, right here, being worshipped by him.
It did not feel like much to ask. Losing herself in the pleasurable sensations he sparked across her entire body was all Meredith could do—standing up alone was taking too much concentration. The world was better whenever she was in his arms. This was where she belonged.
Alfred broke the kiss and released her from his arms. They could not keep doing this.
This was getting out of hand.
He examined her with a look of concern. “Something is not right, Meredith. I can always tell with you. What is it? You can tell me anything.”
Meredith thought there were a great deal of things she would never tell him. What duke would want to hear their younger brother had been placed in the care of a woman who had grown up in one of the worst thieving gangs in all of England?
She almost smiled. Sometimes she wondered how she managed to keep it all in, the sadness, the disappointment, the lies.
“You can tell there is something wrong?” she deflected with a smile. “Just like that?”
Alfred looked serious. “I am starting to become an expert in you, Meredith, and I know when you are not happy. Something is wrong, and I wish to change it. Talk to me.”
Meredith was tempted to simply say her sadness could be kissed away. Those fingers could bring such pleasure. Perhaps they could repeat their previous encounter in the kitchen.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway, and a footman was scolded for having mud on his shoes. Meredith almost laughed. No, it was madness to think that they could get away with such a thing. Not today.
Stepping away from him to ensure she was not tempted to throw herself back into his arms, she looked along a shelf as though hunting for a book.
“I came in here looking for a copy of The Theory of the Four Movements,” Meredith said calmly, hoping her frantically beating heart did not betray her. “I was sure you had a copy, and I was hoping to discuss utopia and dystopia with Archibald in the coming—”
“You are not despondent because you cannot find a book,” interjected Alfred. “Come now, give me some credit.”
Meredith turned to glare, temper rising, before allowing it to wash away. “I truly came in here to look for that book.”
“I am not saying you did not,” Alfred countered. “But that is not what ails you.”
Meredith had never noticed just how tall Alfred was. With such a serious look, his jawline tight, and eyes focused on her, it was like standing in the sun on a brilliantly hot day.
She did not say a word. How could she trust her voice? It was far too likely to spill out her hopes and dreams, her wild expectations for a future she knew she could never have.
She should have written to Miss Clarke. Sunday evening, she had sat at her desk and wondered whether writing to the proprietress of the Governess Bureau was the best idea. Request a new place. Say that nothing had gone wrong, but she wished to be closer to London.
Half of the letter had been written before she had screwed it up.
No, she could not leave. Not after such good progress with Archibald. There was no knowing who would come after her to care for Archibald, and she felt…well. Responsible for him. As though she would be betraying him if she decided to leave because she could not control her feelings for his half-brother.
“You cannot hide from me forever, Meredith. I am your master.”
Meredith bit her lip. She had to say something. She would always regret it if she did not, and now Alfred had spoken those words, she did not have much of a choice.
“Yes,” she said calmly as she turned to face him. “Yes, you are, and that is precisely what is on my mind.”
Alfred’s forehead puckered. “What, that I am the master of this house? I would have thought you would have been well aware of that fact the moment you accepted this position.”
“And yet I did not know that… When I accepted this position? Alfred, can you not hear it in your own words?”
He looked genuinely confused, and Meredith realized she would need to spell it out. “Alfred—or Your Grace, as I should address you—you are the master of this house. You are the master, and I,” she swallowed, “I am just a servant within it. I am your brother’s governess!”
She had expected him to look abashed, nod, or say he had not considered that.
Instead, a broad smile crept over his face. “I know, ’tis a little saucy, isn’t it?”
A little saucy? Did he have any idea what she was risking? How the entirety of society, not to forget the ton and Parliament, would judge them from what they were doing—what they had already done?
Perhaps he did not care. Perhaps this was merely something he had done before.
Meredith pushed the thought aside. She could not permit that John Talbot to influence her. She knew Alfred better than that.
The important thing was to stay calm. This was a conversation they had avoided. Usually, they were so distracted by…well, kissing, that they never managed to talk about it.
But they needed to talk about it.
“Alfred,” Meredith said quietly. “When I came here, when I was chosen for this appointment by Miss Clarke…I thought I would spend a little time discussing with you which Roman senators you thought Archibald should learn about. Whether a trip to the nearest city would be beneficial for his study of the English church. In short, all the questions that a governess should be asking her master.”
Alfred nodded, taking a step toward her. Meredith retreated. She could not permit her emotions to get the better of her.
“But here we are, talking about…about….”
“Love?” Alfred said softly.
Meredith swallowed. It was not a word she had ever spoken to anyone. Even her parents had been reticent to discuss emotions, that sort of thing considered a weakness.
When you cared too much about a person, they could betray you.
That was what it had been like in the cut and thrust world of thievery, and Meredith had never seen anything in the rest of the world to suggest it was any different.
Fixing her gaze on Alfred firmly and trying to ignore how handsome he was, Meredith knew she had to say something.
“This…this cannot continue.”
Every syllable in that sentence hurt to say, and it was with some relief that Meredith came to the end of it.
Because it was true. It was not as though she could do anything to change their situation! No, as she had said to Alfred in the kitchen garden…
“There is no understanding between us, Alfred, and I know there never will be. But you know I…there are feelings there, on both sides, I thought.”
Alfred considered her closely. Meredith felt discomfort settle in her chest. She was not accustomed to being examined in this way.
“What do you want?” Alfred said finally.
Meredith swallowed. Did she have the bravery to say what she really wanted?
For what she wished more than anything was for Alfred to…to propose to her. There, she could admit it in the quiet of her mind. It would be the culmination of the wave of desire he had stirred in her the moment he had invited her to dinner—no, before then, when he had accosted her on the lawn when riding Beauty.
She had thought him so rude then, so condescending. He had not bothered to know her, yet made so many assumptions about her—but had she not done the same? Even now, when she knew him better, there was still so much to discover.
Alfred leaned against an armchair, still examining her closely. “I do not think there is an easy answer t
o that question, is there, Meredith?”
Meredith swallowed but knew no words were coming.
“In that case,” Alfred said in a low voice, “why cannot we just enjoy this for…for what it is?”
Meredith had always been a woman who knew what she wanted. She had wanted to leave the Glasshand Gang, and eventually, she had managed it. She had wished to find some sort of respectability, and eventually, she had managed that.
The day she had been accepted into the Governess Bureau had been one of her happiest. Why, there was even a pension scheme, Miss Clarke had said! She would not have to work all her days merely to end up in the workhouse. The Governess Bureau had given her the stability she had so desperately craved…but was she about to lose all of that? It was a risk she took by accepting Alfred’s words.
“Why cannot we just enjoy this for…for what it is?”
An arrangement. That was what Miss Arabella Smith had entered into with her employer, Lord Hastings.
It had been her last employer because when Miss Clarke had discovered the details of the arrangement, something Miss Smith had always refused to reveal, she had removed Miss Smith from the Governess Bureau.
Meredith had never heard of Miss Smith again. There had been rumors, of course. There were always rumors. Most of them sounded incredible, but there was no knowing what could happen.
There had been a few others, though not at the Governess Bureau. Other governesses did not have the rules of the Bureau to live up to, as Meredith did, and she knew the rule was there for two reasons.
Firstly, to protect the Governess Bureau.
Secondly, to protect the governesses.
Because that was what an arrangement with your master did. It removed all your protection as a woman of the household. The masters simply took what they wanted, and whenever they wanted, with the promise of a good reference at the end of it all.
“Tell me…tell me about Molly.”
Alfred frowned. It was quite clear that the question, in his mind, had no bearing on the rest of their conversation.
“Molly?” he said slowly. “I do not believe I am acquainted with anyone called Molly.”
Meredith’s heart sank. It was hardly an auspicious start. If he could not even recall her name, it was unlikely Alfred had cared about her very much.
“Molly Butters,” she said softly. “She was the undermaid here. She left the day I arrived. You…you do not remember her?”
Alfred had a blank look. “What has a Molly got to do with us?”
“Just answer the question, Alfred,” Meredith said in a firmer tone. The concerns she had been unable to ignore needed to be addressed. She owed herself that, at the very least.
Alfred sighed heavily as he rolled his eyes. “Fine, we will play this little game. Molly, I cannot even recall her face.”
Something cold and sharp slipped down Meredith’s throat and into her stomach.
“I…I cannot believe that you do not remember her,” she said finally, trying to keep the tone of accusation from her voice. “She was here for almost three years, from what Mrs. Martin has told me. You do not recall her at all?”
Alfred shrugged with something like a smile on his face. “Meredith, I think you forget just how many servants there are in my house—and for the garden and the grounds. And all my tenants! You think I have the capacity to remember the name of an undermaid?”
Was this a sign of things to come? Meredith’s ice-cold stomach was now twisting in knots most painfully. If that was how Alfred treated a servant he had bedded and then swiftly, it appeared, forced to leave…well. How would he treat her?
Would she receive the same treatment?
“What is this all about, Meredith?”
She did not reply. How could she?
“I do not understand why you are so interested in her,” said Alfred, rising from the armchair, “when it is us I wish to speak of.”
Meredith nodded without saying anything. She had made a lucky escape, then. It would have been so easy for her to allow him to bed her. Alfred was persuasive, certainly, and he had proven what pleasure he could bring her.
Yet she had held out, thank God. Meredith tried not to let her disappointment show. Alfred was not the man she thought he was.
Taking a deep breath, Meredith said quietly, “I think…I think it is best we stop this. This, between us.”
Alfred grinned. He evidently believed she was joking. “What, caring about each other? Wanting each other?”
If only he had said love again. Until that point, Meredith was almost certain that if he had just professed his undying love for her, she would have succumbed. How would it have been possible for her to resist?
But he did not. It was all physical for him, all about getting under her skirts.
Alfred stepped toward her. “My goodness, are you trying to tell me you don’t like my kisses?”
Before Meredith could respond, Alfred pulled her into his arms once more and kissed her neck, trailing a line of kisses down to her décolletage. It was heady, wonderful, forbidden, and that made it all the more delicious—but Meredith pulled away.
Not today. Not again.
“No,” she said quietly.
She was being taken advantage of; she knew it. Meredith wanted to trust him, wanted to believe the hurt look on his face—but how could she, when he had given her no indication of serious intentions?
Meredith stepped away from his embrace, though with some regret. She had to speak seriously to him, she had to make him understand.
“I am in earnest, Alfred. Where is this, this assignation going?”
Meredith looked closely into his eyes. This was Alfred’s moment to impress.
The smile faded from his face. “I do not know.”
Pain like nothing else entered Meredith’s heart. Even as she had asked about Molly and found the answer she had feared, a small part of her had been convinced there was a plan in Alfred’s mind that would bring them together.
Now it was clear Alfred had no great intentions for her—other than to relieve her of her innocence. He was not thinking of the future. He was far more interested in the here and now.
Meredith stepped toward the door to the hallway. “Well, until you know that, I think it best if we do not meet like this.”
“Meet like—Meredith, we live in the same house!” Alfred protested.
“I cannot do this,” she said, her voice breaking. “I cannot give you what you want with no idea of the future. You must not ask me, Alfred. Please, leave me alone.”
Meredith’s scrabbling fingers found the door handle, and she almost staggered into the hallway. She had to be quick, for she could hear Alfred’s footsteps following her—but she stepped lightly across the hall and up the stairs.
“Meredith—Miss Hubert, come back!”
Alfred shouted after her, but she ignored him, focusing on keeping her feet quick up the stairs as her heart raced.
“Meredith!”
She did not look back.
When Meredith slammed her bedchamber door, she leaned against it with a frantically beating heart.
How long could she stay in this house?
Chapter Eighteen
October 1, 1812
“And that,” Alfred said heavily, with a great sense of relief, “brings our campaign to a close.”
Applause rang out across the drawing room, Mr. Walker in the lead. Mr. Brown had not bothered to bring his hands together, and Mr. Hemming looked a little disgruntled and was clapping just as loudly, if not more so, than Mr. Walker, as Alfred tried to hide his smile.
If he were not very much mistaken, there would now always be a Walker and a Hemming involved in a Carmichael victory.
“Please, please,” said Alfred, holding up his hands in an attempt to slow the applause, but it only succeeded in the opposite.
“Three cheers for His Grace!” called out Mr. Walker.
Alfred grimaced. “No, Mr. Walker, please don’t—”
/> “Hip, hip, hooray!” began Mr. Hemming determinedly.
Alfred allowed his hands to fall to his sides and listened with a careful smile on his face as all those who had supported him offered congratulations for a race well run.
It was ridiculous, really, but there was nothing for it. The more he attempted to calm them, to demonstrate that he had done very little, the more they tried to congratulate him.
Embarrassment flooded his veins, but Alfred was not new to this sensation of taking credit when it was not due. He had been applauded on his first day in the House of Commons. Some old gentleman who had known his father forever, it appeared, had orchestrated it.
“A new Carmichael in the House!” someone had shouted all those years ago. “Three cheers for the future Duke of Rochdale!”
And here he stood, the current Duke of Rochdale, about to, once again, enter that dreaded though hallowed hall. At least, when the results were announced in a fortnight.
What a long fortnight it would be. He would have to start packing. Kittering would need to start laundering and putting aside his formal wear, and a new Season in London would require a few more waistcoats and cravats.
“Mr. Hemming,” said Mr. Walker stiffly, offering his hand for the younger man to shake. “A clean run. I commend you.”
Alfred once again hid a smile. It took a tremendous amount of effort for Mr. Walker to say that, he knew. If only one had a daughter and the other a son. There could have been a natural merger there if ever there was one.
“I cannot believe we have done it again,” said Mr. Hemming, taking the older man’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “All thanks to your guidance and leadership, Mr. Walker.”
A rapprochement, Alfred thought wryly. One that would undoubtedly be increased once he won the damned election.
For he would win. A Rochdale always won, and Alfred was not so pigheaded as to believe it was anything to do with him, his charms, his wit, or his popularity.
“There we go, a smile on our member of Parliament’s face!”
Alfred looked up to see Mr. Walker beaming. “I beg your pardon?”
The older gentleman was seating himself beside the duke by the fire with a wide grin. “We need you to be positive, Your Grace! In a few weeks, we’ll be waving goodbye!”
A Governess of Great Talents Page 22