Indeed, this was the first time that Mary had been alone with Sir Nicholas since that kiss on the night of Mrs Fenhurst’s musicale. The kiss that haunted her memory, interfered with her sleep, and confused her in every possible way. It felt as though there were two of her—the one who thought endlessly of Sir Nicholas and the one who worried about Papa, taught children and made polite, empty conversation.
Mrs Fenhurst had numerous guests for dinner almost every evening now and somehow Mary was never placed beside Sir Nicholas. There was to be a dancing evening on Friday and the ladies were due to return to Norwich tomorrow for another dress fitting.
Will he take the opportunity to speak with me tomorrow, while they are gone? Might there be another riding lesson, or a walk in the gardens?
She shook her head. Probably not. He had not sought her out for days.
How perplexing everything was! Her mind was already in turmoil over Papa, yet she also felt heartsore over this unexpected estrangement from Sir Nicholas. The comments she had made about him that evening had been ill-judged, she knew, and she deeply regretted them. Oh, not because they were particularly untrue. Because they were unkind.
Papa would have no reason to be proud of her if he knew what she had done. Indeed, Papa had cautioned her many times about stating her opinions in too blunt a manner.
This is not new.
On numerous occasions in her life, she had had cause to regret an intemperate response.
This, though, was worse than any she could remember, simply because it had, she believed, left a crack in her friendship with Sir Nicholas. He had not deserved her judgement of him. She recalled the injured look in his eye that night. Why, she was no better than Sir Harold! Yes, she must have hurt Sir Nicholas deeply, judging by his coolness towards her since that night. And she had no easy opportunity to make amends.
She trudged along the country lane, gripping her cloak tightly against a bitterly cold wind that had sprung up and was blowing in her face. Remembering her harshly spoken words was easier than allowing herself to recall the other memory from that evening—their kiss on the terrace. Immediately, the usual heat ran through her—yet still the cold wind bit at her nose and ears.
How foolish she had been, to risk her position by allowing him to kiss her. There were some gentlemen, she knew, who made a habit of seducing their employees, often turning them off when they got with child. Sir Nicholas was not such a man, she believed. He was truly a man of integrity.
So why had he kissed her that night? He must have known, as much as she, how impossible it was. Had she made his acquaintance as a guest—perhaps as the dowried daughter of the new vicar, a gentleman by birth—then they might have been more equal in the eyes of society. Money and position, as well as birth, mattered. As it was, as a poor governess she had given up her status in society. She had no business to be kissing any gentleman, least of all her employer.
When he embraced her, had he still been irate about her assessment of him? Had the kiss, for him, been borne out of anger? She squirmed at the possibility. At the time, it had seemed pure, almost heavenly—although earthly, too, in terms of the animalistic passion that had flared between them and which had frightened her into running from him.
Now the rain began to fall, icy droplets that gathered and increased until she was leaning into a veritable downpour. The empty basket became a nuisance as she held on to her hood with one hand, the front of her cloak with the other.
Today’s encounter had confirmed what she had suspected. Sir Nicholas had abandoned his former warmth towards her and he was now determined to treat her with a cold formality that should not have stung, but did. Hot tears mingled with freezing rain as she pressed on, feeling pity for herself and her situation.
I have lost a friend, she thought. A friend that I had only just come to appreciate. I wish I had never kissed him, never spoken aloud my thoughts on his character.
That night had changed everything.
Hearing the rumble of an approaching carriage, she stepped off the road and into the ditch to await its passing. The hedgerow behind her dripped cold down her back, while her left foot felt suddenly damp. She glanced down, then shuffled sideways to get out of the puddle. The carriage appeared around the corner, coming towards her, and she had only enough time to recognise it before it stopped, a little further along.
The door opened. ‘Well, come on then, Miss Smith! Or do you intend to stand there all day in this infernal rain?’
She started forwards. ‘Oh, Sir Nicholas! But I am going home, to Stiffkey Hall.’
‘Yes, and I am here to fetch you,’ he retorted brusquely.
John, the coachman, well-protected in oilskins and a broad-brimmed hat, had jumped down to lower the step. Mary thanked him gratefully as he handed her in to the rear-facing seat, her mind still disordered by the notion that Sir Nicholas had put out his carriage in the rain simply to bring home his governess. ‘I—thank you, sir. But there was no need. I could have walked.’
The carriage set off again, the coachman carefully turning it at the nearby crossroads. Sir Nicholas did not respond until the carriage had departed back in the direction it had come. He then said simply, ‘Well, of course you could. But you should not.’
Mary sat back and looked at him. He was staring out of the window, scowling. His frustration was palpable—indeed, he was showing all the signs of a man beset by foolishness on all sides. Yet he had just inconvenienced himself—and his coachman—for the sake of a woman who was, essentially, a servant.
‘Thank you,’ she said again, this time quietly.
He turned his head to look at her and his eyes softened. ‘Think nothing of it. By the time I arrived home the rain had started. I could not leave you to get drenched when I could do something to rescue you. It is of no matter.’
She shook her head. ‘On the contrary, it matters very much. You sacrificed your own comfort for another.’
The merest hint of colour rose along his cheekbone. ‘Oh, I believe I am still the same indolent, selfish knave I have ever been.’
‘Oh, no! You were never that!’ Without thinking, she leaned forwards and grasped his hand. ‘Indeed, I hold you in the highest esteem!’ This time, she put no restraint on the warm words.
He looked down at her gloved hand on his, then shifted his gaze to her face. She froze, as his eyes locked with hers and time seemed to stand still.
Recalling herself to the moment, she withdrew her hand as if stung. Flushing, she looked out of the window, using all of her will to slow her breathing and maintain a neutral expression.
We almost kissed again.
The hunger in his eyes had called to her, and every moment of her upbringing as a lady and as the daughter of a respectable clergyman had been needed to prevent her from encouraging his embrace.
I could have done it! she thought fiercely. If I had simply looked at him unwaveringly, or looked at his mouth, then...
A sense of heady power rushed through her. She knew instinctively that, in that moment, he had needed only the smallest encouragement from her. Had she given it, they would even now be locked in an embrace as wonderful as the one they had shared on the terrace. Grimly, Mary bunched her hands into fists and pressed her knees together, determined to fight against the unwanted desire within her.
I must not!
The rattling carriage wheeled into the drive of Stiffkey Hall. Too late. Disappointment washed through her.
I should have kissed him.
Immediately, she chastised herself. Of course she should not have done so. As wonderful as the kiss would have been, she would have been flooded with regret and worry afterwards. It was better this way.
The coachman handed her down and Sir Nicholas jumped lightly down behind her. Neither of them noticed Mrs Fenhurst, who happened to be looking out of the window just then. Had they seen her, they might have been
struck by her stiffened posture and icy expression.
‘Thank you again,’ Mary said as they entered the hallway. She undid her cloak, relieved to be shedding its sodden weight.
‘Please stop thanking me,’ he replied tersely. He bowed politely, then stomped off to allow one of the footmen to relieve him of his boots. Mary watched his retreating back, resisting the unaccountable urge to smile in a relieved way. Something had shifted. She was not sure exactly what. She just knew that, somehow, she had found again the connection to him.
* * *
Mrs Fenhurst had agreed that Mary could have this afternoon off, for the purpose of visiting the poor and the needy. This had partly been influenced, Mary knew, by Miss Cushing’s anxieties, for the elderly governess did not like to see the growing bond between Mary and Beatrice, or the way in which the younger children sought her out to play with them. Mary suspected Mrs Fenhurst was also content to see Mary away from the family when she was not being personally useful to her.
Yet it was still a little surprising when, after dinner, Mrs Fenhurst decided to quiz Mary on her activities that afternoon. Such an interrogation had not happened since the day of the ladies’ trip to Norwich.
‘I visited the Bridewell in Walsingham,’ Mary said carefully, in response to Mrs Fenhurst’s sharp question. ‘Mrs Kett provided food which I gave to the prisoners.’
‘And where else did you go?’
Mary frowned. ‘Nowhere.’
‘I saw you arrive back here in my brother’s carriage.’
Mary’s brow cleared. ‘Ah, yes. It was raining, so he took me up in his carriage for a short distance.’
‘Hmmm.’ Mrs Fenhurst was clearly unconvinced, yet seemed unsure as to what question she would ask next. Mary sat very still, inwardly praying that her hostess would focus neither on her brother’s interactions with her, nor on the prisoners in the Bridewell. Luckily, Amabel chose that moment to distract her mama with talk of the dresses that were being made for them, their return trip to the modiste planned for tomorrow and the plans for the dancing. Mrs Fenhurst became caught up in this new topic and her attention to Mary was deflected for now.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, as the ladies were setting off, despite the rain, Mrs Fenhurst took Mary aside. Gripping Mary’s arm tightly, she admonished her to remain with the children at all times while they were gone. ‘Promise me that you will do so, for I have a terror of something ill befalling them!’ she declared.
That is a lie. You wish to keep me from your brother.
Biting back her true thoughts, Mary promised dutifully, but could not resist a thankful sigh as the carriage finally departed. The house felt lighter without them—although Beatrice would be missed.
She turned in towards the hallway, when she was surprised by a dark voice above her. ‘Miss Smith.’ Sir Nicholas was becoming more handsome by the day. This morning, his hair was a little damp.
He must have had a bath.
The thought sent delicious shivers through her.
‘Good morning, Sir Nicholas,’ she replied primly, her eyes secretly devouring him as he descended the staircase.
Thank goodness he cannot see my thoughts!
‘We missed you at breakfast.’
‘I ate in my chamber,’ he said shortly. ‘Are we studying together as usual? I know Miss Beatrice has travelled with her sister and her mother—and of course, the indomitable Miss Cushion! That should not mean we forgo the pleasure of companionable study.’ His tone was light, but the fact he had even asked pleased Mary immeasurably.
‘I promised Mrs Fenhurst I would not let the children out of my sight,’ she replied ruefully. ‘I am even now on my way to fetch them.’
‘My sister is remarkably enthusiastic about her children’s education.’ His tone was wry. ‘What are your plans for them?’
‘The weather is unfortunately too poor to spend much time outside this morning, although I shall watch for any break in the rain. I am planning to paint and sketch with them.’
‘Yes, it is too wet for a riding lesson, too.’ He paused. ‘There will be a fire already lit in my library and the light is remarkably good in there. Please feel free to bring the children if you wish.’
Her heart skipping at the memory of the previous riding lesson and how he had looked at her that day, Mary took great care to speak in a colourless tone. ‘You will not be disturbed by their presence? I assume you mean to read, as usual.’
‘I do and, in answer to your question, I shall manfully tolerate any disturbance to my train of thought.’ He sent her a meaningful glance that managed to combine humour and heat. A warm glow went through her as she reached the inescapable conclusion that he wished to spend time with her.
While he was getting to know and appreciate Beatrice, he was only distantly tolerant of the younger children and would not have normally sought their company.
It seems he has indeed forgiven me for my plain speaking.
The relief that flooded through her at the thought was much stronger than it ought to have been. Somehow, his good opinion of her had come to matter very, very much.
* * *
Half an hour later, an awed Caroline, Edmond and David sat at Sir Nicholas’s large table, setting to with pencils and pastels. Mary had arranged a still life for them in the centre of the table—a bowl of apples, a milk jug and a crumpled cloth. Sir Nicholas took his usual seat by the fireplace and Mary sat with the children. She gave gentle encouragement and noticed Sir Nicholas lifting his head from his book each time she spoke.
After a time, as the children became more riveted on their art, they all lapsed into silence. The clock ticked, the fire crackled and the children’s pencils scratched rhythmically on their sketchbooks.
All is well.
A sense of unexpected well-being settled over Mary. The children were happy. She was safe and warm. She would see Papa again on Sunday. Sir Nicholas was once more her friend.
She glanced at him, enjoying the sight of his intent expression as he focused on his book, his eyes downcast. His hair had dried and was long enough to curl a little over his collar. His pose was relaxed, long legs stretched out before him, hugged by tightly-fitting breeches.
He is so beautiful.
Just then, he looked up, making her flush. Wordlessly, he beckoned her to come and sit with him. Heart pounding, she rose from the table and moved towards him, conscious of his intent gaze.
Am I walking differently?
Something new and unexpected was happening in her body. There was something fluid and beguiling in her own movements, she realised, something that she was doing naturally, without conscious thought.
My goodness, this tendre has opened my mind and body to so many new thoughts and experiences!
Gratifyingly, the blaze of hunger in Sir Nicholas’s eyes revealed that her unstudied impulse had kindled an answering response in him.
He rose, his eyes never leaving hers as he pulled the second armchair close to his own. He held out a hand to her and she took it briefly, allowing him to seat her close beside him. She murmured a word of thanks, glancing towards the children. They had not, it seemed, even noticed that she had left the table, so intent were they on their task.
‘I have never seen the children so quiet,’ he murmured in her ear. She knew well that he did not need to do so. It was simply a ruse to lean physically close to her. His breath was warm on her face, and his nearness was sending a thrill of delight through her body.
‘Art usually has that effect,’ she replied softly, turning her head to look at him. He had not retreated and their faces were agonisingly close.
They continued to converse about nothing, enjoying the tortuous agony of exquisite proximity. Their bodies spoke to each other—a language of leaning close, of looking into each other’s eyes for much too long, of ‘chance’ touches. Arm agai
nst arm. His foot touching hers momentarily. His fingers ‘accidentally’ brushing her arm. Every part of Mary’s body was alive and tingling, her mind and heart on fire with his nearness.
The magic could not last forever. Eventually, the spell was broken by little Edmond, who called on Miss Smith to view his drawing. She rose immediately and went to him, thereafter remaining with the children and admiring their work. Emboldened by this, they began making conversation with their large uncle, going as far as to shyly show him their work, which he admired with great enthusiasm.
* * *
When the clock chimed for nuncheon, Mary accompanied the children to the dining room, asking them to thank their uncle for allowing them into his library. He bade them enjoy their nuncheon, mentioned that he might join in their games one day, then added, ‘Miss Smith, I have never known the children to be so well-behaved. What magic do you have in your person, that you can so bewitch people?’
Knowing he was not only referring to the children, her heart sang. He thinks me bewitching!
Aloud, she said only, ‘They are good children, sir. I believe you have been misinformed.’
He smiled, tousled Edmond’s hair and nodded. ‘So it would seem. I must do better and avoid judging people on my first impressions of them. I am learning that there is more to people than I sometimes realise.’
He watched her as she followed the children from the library. She felt the touch of his gaze on her back, enjoying the sensation.
It is a promise. We have agreed to kiss again, when we find the opportunity.
The notion sent her heart pounding.
* * *
After nuncheon the rain gave way to sullen cloud, so she was able to take the children outside. They rampaged through the woods, shrieking and playing, developing rosy cheeks and happy smiles. By the time they returned Sir Nicholas had gone—riding out as was his usual habit. He had not offered her another riding lesson.
A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess Page 14