The Enigmatic Governess of Buford Manor_A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  They are speaking the truth. He is not coming home.

  Rose fainted.

  Chapter 2

  A shot pierced the bright blue sky in a fog of smoke, again startling the peace of the otherwise still morning. With a terrible squawk, the pheasant halted mid-flight and spun dizzily toward the field as the hounds yapped, hurrying to retrieve its fallen body.

  “Well done!” the Duke of Buford cried heartily. He cocked his own rifle upward, narrowing a green eye carefully to line his aim. “I daresay you are out-shooting me today, Nicholas.”

  “You must have known that the day would come, father,” Nicholas replied dryly, casting his father a sidelong look as the older man steadied his hand. “Surely you must have accounted for such a thing when you taught me to be a skilled marksman.”

  The duke chuckled, firing into the flock of birds. He was successful this time and another carcass fell to the ground. Nicholas watched as his father lower his gun and turned to look at him.

  “You never fail to impress me, son.”

  The words had a warming effect on Nicholas and he smiled tentatively.

  “Thank you, father,” he murmured, slightly abashed by the compliment.

  It was hardly a secret that the Duke of Buford was immeasurably proud of his strapping offspring. He had good reason.

  The Marquess of Buford, Nicholas Frampton was an unusually handsome man of thirty with a shock of thick, ebony hair, stylishly amassed about his proportioned head.

  The luxuriant curls spilled against an even set of cheekbones, creating a startling contrast to a set of brilliant emerald eyes. He was taller than any of his peers with a solid, barrel chest and well-formed arms yet there was little which others found intimidating about him. Perhaps it was his brilliant white smile which he flashed frequently and disarmingly or possibly the easy way in which he spoke to everyone. There were no servants or princes in Nicholas’ mind; only friends. Unfortunately, not everyone felt the same and Nicholas learned from a young age about biases and bigotries.

  Behind his intense gaze was the noble and highly adept mind of a man who knew too much but did not oft speak his mind. Nicholas had determined early that it was easier to listen than offer his opinion for he learned more in that fashion.

  Aside from the marquess’ dashing good looks and fine mind, the Duke of Buford’s son was a decent soul. He found himself cringing even at the sight of the mangled birds the proud dogs dropped before him.

  He had been hunting with his father since he was barely old enough to scamper about, but Nicholas did not feel excitement in killing the beasts. At least, he reasoned, they used all the parts of the animals, just as the great hunters had hundreds of years before them.

  Meat for eating, feathers, fur and skin for clothing, bones for tools and décor. Nothing goes to waste. Still, tis painful to take another life, no matter how insignificant.

  “We shall bring Harry along for the next hunt,” the duke announced, and Nicholas nodded in agreement despite his concerns. There was no need for his father to know Nicholas had purposely avoided bringing the gentle-hearted child along for months. In his mind’s eye, he could see Harry sobbing over the marred form of a red squirrel, who tumbled from the high roof of the estate.

  “Fix him, Nicholas!” the boy pleaded desperately. “Do not permit him to die!”

  The Marquess of Buford had spent half an afternoon attempting to revive a furry rodent who had died the moment it hit the brake.

  He is much too sensitive to endure a hunt at his age, Nicholas reasoned but he knew eventually he would need to stop making excuses for his cousin. It was a male rite of passage, after all, one which could be avoided only for so long. He could not shelter Harry forever just as he had not been sheltered.

  I am not his governess.

  The duke meant no harm in inviting his cousin along. On the contrary; his father wished only to bond with his young ward as he had with Nicholas.

  However, I imagine Betsey would be better suited for such an excursion.

  Nicholas forced back a smile as the servants stepped forward to collect their guns and captures. The men mounted their horses, preparing to head for the estate.

  “What has you diverted?” Duke of Buford asked, noting his son’s expression.

  “I was simply envisioning little Betsey joining us,” he confessed, somewhat embarrassed at the idea as the words left his mouth. It was an inappropriate thought, one he would not have shared with anyone but his father. As he suspected, the duke found the notion equally entertaining.

  “I have seen her running amok with the servant children as if she is some feral cat. Eloise has not a notion how to handle her.”

  The words were laced with mild admiration although both men knew a girl of ten and two should not behave in such a manner. She was nearing womanhood after all. Whatever wild streak she maintained would need to be broken.

  Albeit that may be easier said than accomplished, Nicholas thought wryly.

  “I highly doubt anyone will be adept in handling Betsey. Good heavens, she is like an untamed wind.”

  “She is not a bit like her brother,” the duke added, and Nicholas bobbed his head in concession. Indeed, there seemed to be little resemblance between the Arlington siblings except they shared the same parents. Or had shared the same parents.

  Lord and Lady Arlington had perished in a freakish carriage accident only three years prior, leaving Harry and Betsey without guardians. Duke and Duchess Buford had immediately opened their lavish home to the displaced orphans, accepting them with the same grace and affection for which they were so well-admired.

  Nicholas knew that his parents were refreshed by the sound of small footfalls in the vast halls, a sound they had undoubtedly yearned to hear for years. His mother was devastated by the news that terrible complications surrounding her pregnancy and delivery had left her barren, and crushed the duke’s dream of having a large family.

  The news may have ruined another marriage and if Duke Buford had been a different man, he may have turned to other women in his disappointment, but Duchess Buford told Nicholas it had only increased his loyalty to her.

  “You will never know who cares for you until you are caught in the middle of chaos, Nicholas. Your father and I may not have chosen one another, but love has kept us together.”

  Nicholas had much to be grateful for. Knowing how it would upset his mother, he kept quiet his longing for a sibling. He had long since accepted that he would be a sole child, and given the fortune he had been born into, Nicholas was more than content with his life. There was no need to consider life with a brother. It was simply not in the grand design.

  Until the Arlingtons were bestowed upon us. God does work in mysterious ways.

  No matter how unruly Lady Betsey might act nor how timid Lord Harry behaved, they were adored additions to Rosecliff Manor and Nicholas was pleased to have them near.

  The men started off, leaving the house staff behind. Nicholas adjusted his hunting cap to block the sunlight from his eyes, and the horses retreated into the thick and onto the path leading back to the estate.

  “Forgive me cutting our day short, Nicholas. I have several matters to attend prior to the soiree this evening.”

  “Nonsense, father. East Anglian matters prevail.”

  The duke did not reply. Only the sound of hooves crunching against the dry forest bed could be heard.

  “You will attend tonight, will you not?”

  The question was strange and Nicholas raised his head to look at his father.

  “Of course,” he replied, his brow furrowing in confusion. “When have I ever missed an event?”

  “Never. You are as reliable as my pocket watch,” the duke agreed quickly but Nicholas could not dismiss the thought that his father’s inquiry was laced with something underlying.

  “Is there something I must know about this evening?”

  Another small silence ensued. Nicholas sensed that his father was collecting the words
before speaking. Patiently, he waited, knowing he could not pry the answer from the older Frampton’s mouth.

  Why do I suspect I know what he is scheming?

  “There shall be a number of ladies in attendance,” Duke Buford offered tentatively. “Ones you may not have seen in many years.”

  Blimey, Nicholas thought, biting on the insides of his cheeks to keep from grinning. Father has taken on the role of matchmaker in mother’s place.

  “Is that so?”

  Apparently encouraged by his son’s response, the duke continued with more conviction.

  “Indeed. Comely ladies of title and charm.”

  “Should I assume you would like me to entertain the idea of wedding one of said ladies?”

  “I said no such thing!” the duke snapped but even from where Nicholas sat, he saw his father’s ears tinged pink with embarrassment.

  “Oh? Then what are you saying, father?”

  The duke grumbled something incoherent under his breath, but Nicholas could not help laughing aloud when he heard his mother’s name escape his father’s lips.

  “I merely jest, father,” he interjected before the duke could further work himself into a sulk. “I am pleased to meet with any of the fine ladies whom you present.”

  His father turned to stare at him suspiciously.

  “You have decided to marry?” he asked curiously, his eyes narrowing slightly as if sensing a trap.

  “I am not courting anyone, father,” Nicholas reminded him softly and the duke’s back seemed to tense as he watched.

  “However,” the younger man added quickly, detecting a lecture. “As I have said many times, I am not opposed to marriage when I find my true love.”

  He watched as the duke’s shoulders visibly lowered in relief.

  “That is all we ask of you,” his father replied gruffly. “Your mother and I know precisely what perils arise from a loveless union. We would never infringe such a cold future upon you. Your happiness will reflect in the way you run Buford and Rosecliff. That joy begins in a home filled with affection, not bitterness. There are those who claim that its benefits reflect in childbearing also.”

  Nicholas thought he heard a note of wistfulness in his father’s voice.

  “Yet you wish I would find love at a more rapid pace,” Nicholas finished, an uneasy smile twisting upon his mouth.

  “Nicholas, you are the most eligible bachelor in East Anglia. You have no shortage of ladies-in-waiting deigning for your affections and attention. While we would never force marriage upon you, we cannot help but wonder what is it that keeps you from finding love?”

  The duke did not wait for a response, urging his burnt coat thoroughbred forward with a dig of his heels. Nicholas allowed his father ahead.

  Mother is determined to have her grandchildren, he thought, shaking his dark curls ruefully but he knew his father was just as eager to see him wed as Duchess Buford.

  To Duke and Duchess Buford, it mattered little that his blood was royal nor that he was the heir to Rosecliff Manor. His parents were no different than any others; they longed for their son to marry and begin a family.

  And yet they are so much different. Who else can boast such an apollonian life, particularly when they claim noble heritage? It is not heard of.

  The duke and duchess were wise enough to keep their liberal beliefs within the walls of Rosecliff Manor, knowing that some of their views would not be well-received by some of their more traditional-minded peers.

  I imagine now, however, that others have begun to talk, wondering why the Marquess of Buford has not taken a wife.

  The answer was simple enough for Nicholas; he had not found love. There had been several whirlwind courtships with ladies of standing and one affair with a schoolmarm in Ipswich.

  Each relationship had begun warmly, filled with hope and promise but none had made it through the initial phases of romance faltering anticlimactically into nothingness. He had ended each tryst with disappointment but none more so than his former lover.

  After all, he was the Marquess of Buford, Nicholas Frampton. Who would not wish to wed him and secure her future and the future of her family?

  He considered that he was disillusioned, concerned that the women he courted thought of him as security and little else. Nicholas found himself wondering if perhaps he had expected too much.

  For generations, parents had been making matches for the children and for hundreds of years the world had continued.

  Is the idea of love a silly, childish notion, aroused only by fairy stories, or is there a woman I have yet to find out there, somewhere, fated to be with me?

  Nicholas slapped the reins against the Arabian’s sleek back and he neighed softly, kicking his hooves into the dirt to increase speed. The duke was almost out of sight and Nicholas rushed to keep pace.

  Whatever his future held, Nicholas knew he would embrace it with his usual aplomb and dignity. He was a Frampton, after all.

  I will always do my father proud.

  Chapter 3

  The veil blocked her ability to see the world around her with clarity but as Rose tried to move it from her face, she could not.

  “Are you well, child?” Bridget whispered from her side as she watched Rose fumble to remove the covering from her face. “What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  Am I well?

  The inquiry was almost farcical but Rose could only stare straight ahead through the shroud of blackness. There was nothing amusing about anything which had happened, not in the least.

  “Why can I not move the veil from my face?” she murmured.

  A gentle squeeze on her arm caused her to look at her neighbor.

  “Rose, you are not wearing the veil any longer. You discarded it when we returned from the church.”

  Her blue eyes caught Bridget’s brown ones uncomprehendingly.

  “How can that be when I cannot see?” she demanded.

  “Come along, my dear,” the motherly woman urged, pulling Rose to her feet. “You must eat something and rest before you faint. Dr. Bernard fears he is running low on smelling salts at the rate you continue to drop.”

  Rose tried to protest, to explain that she needed to sit and address the mourners who had come to pay their respects. Sailors, neighbors and friends milled about, speaking in hushed tones as they celebrated the life of the man with whom she had spent so little time.

  They knew him better than I, she realized, her heart growing impossibly heavier.

  She stared from person to person, waiting for someone to flash her a disarming smile and proclaim the wake a hoax.

  Any moment, Philip will walk through the door, tittering that I believed such an awful truth. He will embrace me, even before all these people and tell me that he would never leave me, not when our lives have not yet begun.

  She felt bile bubble in her stomach as she realized that none of that was to occur. Her eyes rested on the face of the man who had borne her such tragic news. Captain Daniel Balfour met her gaze, his piercing grey eyes boring into hers with too much intensity.

  Rose’s breath caught in her throat as she looked away, unsure of why his stare unnerved her so deeply.

  He is the man who shattered your life with a few short words, Rose reminded herself. Tis only natural that you would feel discomfort in his presence.

  “Come along,” Bridget insisted. “You must keep up your strength, child. It is what Philip would expect of you.”

  Hearing his name made her wince as if a thousand blades pierced into the depth of her soul.

  Do I have a soul any longer or has it died now that my love is gone?

  Bridget steered her from the parlor toward the galley, carefully blocking the well-meaning grievers from communicating but Rose hardly noticed. In her mind, there was still a strange shroud about her eyes, stopping her from seeing the outpouring of good intent.

  Bridget shooed the gathering of women from the kitchen and gently steered Rose into a chair. She then turned to
collect a plate of food for her to eat.

  “From where had all this come?” Rose asked suddenly, looking about in surprise at the mass of dishes piled along the countertops.

  There were meats, breads and pies as far as the eye could see. Sweets and cheeses perched almost precariously over the edge of the table, taunting the house mice from their hiding spots in the shadows.

  “The parish, of course. Philip was a well-loved member of our community and you are still one of us. We will not see you starve in your grief.”