An air of unreality surrounded her, as the magic of waltzing with Sir Nicholas permeated every part of her. Physical desire, the attuning of minds and...something more. Something wonderful.
Gradually she began to notice the everyday world. Miss Cushing, she noted, was seated beside her mistress and the two women were watching Mary intently. Abruptly, the dreamlike quality left her. She shivered, feeling a little like a mouse under the gaze of a pair of merciless hawks.
Sir Nicholas secured refreshment for her from a passing footman and they stood together at the side of the room. Their eyes met once, as they sipped their drinks, and Mary felt a sliver of magic spear through her.
It is still there!
Beatrice bounded up to them, curls bouncing. ‘Oh, Uncle! They played the waltz! Can you believe it? I have never seen it danced before. Miss Smith, I was never so excited in my whole life!’
Mary smiled at her charge’s enthusiasm, delighted to see such animation. ‘In truth, Beatrice, I have just danced it in public for the first time myself.’
‘I saw you. You dance so well together.’ Beatrice beamed at them both. ‘As did Mr Bramber and Miss Reeve. She was fortunate to have Mr Bramber as a partner, for I saw him steer her on two occasions when she almost went wrong.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ murmured Sir Nicholas. ‘He deserves it.’
Mary sent him an admonishing look and he acknowledged it, eyes dancing. Amabel joined them then and there was no further opportunity for private conversation. But as she moved mechanically through the rest of the evening, dancing, talking and watching others, Mary hugged the memory of the waltz close to her heart.
No matter what came next, what trials she would face in her life, she would always have this one perfect memory. That time she had waltzed with Sir Nicholas Denny.
Chapter Nineteen
Although it had been late in the night when the ball finally ended, Mary found herself awake at her usual time. It mattered not that she had had so little sleep, for she felt happy. She lay for a while in the near-darkness, savouring the memories from the night before.
The moment he had said she looked beautiful. The deliberate way he had ensured the musicians would play the waltz next. The waltz itself and the ever-increasing desire that had flared between them.
Oh, if only circumstances were different! She lost herself again in her favourite daydream—the one where Papa had not been arrested, where she had met Sir Nicholas through social connections, where she had danced with him not as his governess, his paid employee, but as the daughter of a respectable vicar. Simply a gentleman and a gentleman’s daughter. How might that have made a difference?
When she had run in haste to Mrs Gray, seeking employment, she had not realised how thoroughly it would change her station in life. A governess remained a lady, yet was immediately also of the servant class. There were, she supposed, some gentlemen who would consider marrying a governess, but Mary suspected the proud head of the Denny family would never dream of it. Oh, if only there had been some other way to aid Papa!
And why was she even thinking of marriage? He had kissed her and danced with her. He desired her. That was all. Gentlemen, she knew, might have numerous flirts and tendres, none of which remotely influenced who they would eventually marry. No, such a dream was impossible. She must be content with what she had. So why did she feel so dashed happy?
Questions fluttered through her head like leaves in autumn, yet no answers came to her. Knowing the family planned to stay abed until noon, Mary tried to sleep again, but oblivion eluded her. Eventually, she admitted defeat and rose. Padding to the window, she drew back the heavy curtains and looked outside. The morning sun was shining, pale and weak, yet welcome. Spring was everywhere to be seen, with new buds on the trees, busy birds building nests and tiny snowdrops adding welcome colour next to the solid reassurance of the oak trees. Thankfully, the relentless rain of recent days had briefly ceased.
Country-bred, she opened the window to better enjoy the fresh air and spring sounds. As she did so, her eye caught a movement below.
It is him!
He was leading his horse to the mounting-block near the terrace below her and had automatically glanced upwards when he had heard her window slide open. Now he stood transfixed, as did she.
Somewhere inside, she knew she should step back, that she should not allow him to see her thus, with her hair tumbling in unruly curls about her half-bare shoulders and her body barely hidden by her thin white nightgown. Yet the same spirit of Venus that had gripped her last night now did so again. She thrilled in the knowledge that he desired her. Never had she felt so alive, so vital, so full.
His eyes devoured her, his gaze sweeping over her body, then focusing on her face. He half-lifted his left hand in a greeting and automatically she reciprocated. His horse, failing to understand the sudden delay, walked on and Sir Nicholas, as if recalling himself to his surroundings, allowed it. Mary, finally finding the ability to move, stepped backwards before sinking down on to the bed, her breathing ragged and her mind all disorder.
One thought came to her clearly; he was going riding and would return within the hour. The ladies were abed. Here was an opportunity.
A slow smile spread across her face as she rose again, this time with purpose.
* * *
Sir Nicholas’s heart was thumping wildly. As he rode out along his usual route through the woods and towards the river, he reflected that he had never—no, not even in the throes of his awakenings to manhood—never been so taken with a woman. She enthralled him. Thoughts of her body dominated his mind when alone. Seeing her almost naked in the window frame just now was almost his undoing.
Yet, he acknowledged, his obsession was more than simple lust. Her beauty captivated him and her character fascinated him. Why was it that the opinion of a simple governess—and one whom he had initially thought to be unremarkable—should be so vital to him? Why should he be filled with jealousy when she had smiled at Bramber and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor? Irrational, for Bramber had told him that he preferred another lady.
More questions. Why should her criticism of him sting so deeply? And why had waltzing with her felt so wonderful?
He had no answers. Nothing but yet more uncertainties, each piling on top of the last until he had quite lost his ability to reason. Abandoning any attempt to find peace, he spurred his horse to a gallop, enjoying the feeling of wind on his face, weak sun on his back. Finally, he turned for home and entered the woods. He had yet no clarity about what was transpiring or what he should do about it. He continued, his horse picking its way through a dappled mosaic of shadow and sunlight—nature’s very own stained glass.
As he reached the last section of the woods—the part that led directly to his gardens—his eye was drawn to a flash of colour on his right.
He caught his breath. Miss Smith, wearing a silk cloak in a dramatic shade of yellow-gold, standing still and calm in a delightful oak grove.
Now. Here. Alone. Unobserved.
He knew exactly why she was there. Knew why she had timed her walk to this moment. Knew why she had worn the gold evening domino rather than her usual black day cloak. Knew that their guards—most notably his sister and her elderly assistant—were likely still in their beds.
Now is the moment!
He turned the horse towards her, halting right beside her. Sliding off, he abandoned the horse and stepped towards his Mary.
An instant later, he swept her into his arms. No words were needed, for they had both hungered for this moment for far too long. Their language was that of tongues. Of lips against lips. Of hands seeking and touching and discovering what they might. He gloried in her—in her mouth and her hair, and her breasts and her derrière. He gloried in her soft skin, her ragged breath, her murmuring his name. ‘Mary!’ he muttered, as he had last night. ‘Mary!’
‘Nicky,’ she groaned, pulling him even closer, as if she could by will alone merge them into one being.
In the end it was he who put a stop to it. Not because he wished to, but because he knew, even if she did not, what might happen in this place if they did not stop. Some vestige of gentlemanliness remained within him. He could not use his Mary so. Not without first placing his ring upon her finger.
Marriage? Really?
Had he lost his mind?
Perhaps I have, he acknowledged ruefully.
He must think about this. He must be sure that he was not driven to make a long-time decision based on a short-time fancy. So he held his tongue and said nothing of the tremendous thoughts that were whirling around inside his disordered mind, the tremendous feelings that had taken hold of his heart.
She was still there, real and lovely and breathing raggedly not a foot away from him.
What a fix! Her puzzled expression hinted of hurt. She feels rejected.
‘Mary,’ he said, trying to find the right words. ‘You are a delight. But I am your employer and you are in my care, and this—’ he gestured vaguely ‘—cannot be right.’
‘What do you mean?’ Her voice was husky. She looked at him in bewilderment.
Lord! She was only twenty, with no one to protect her. I am a damn fool!
He drew himself back, dropping his arms to his sides. ‘We cannot and should not do this again.’
Leastways, not until I know what I am doing.
Tears sprang to her eyes, but she lifted her chin proudly. ‘You are right. I have been foolish. Please promise me you will not speak of this to anyone.’
‘Of course I shall not speak of it! What do you take me for?’
‘At this moment,’ she flashed back at him, sudden anger in her expression, ‘I honestly do not know!’
She whirled around, all gold silk, fury and pride, and stomped off southwards, away from the house. Sir Nicholas watched her go, using every ounce of self-control to stop himself from running after her and proposing marriage. Madness!
He took a deep breath and scanned the area for his horse. There he was, contentedly munching sweet spring grass. Recapturing the stallion, Sir Nicholas mounted with the aid of a nearby rock and galloped the half-mile back to the stables. He had much to consider.
* * *
Mary heard him go, yet refused to turn her head to watch him. Her mind, heart and body were all in disorder and she knew she needed time to restore herself—away from the insanity that had overcome her. She wandered through the woods, choosing to focus on the beauties of nature that were all around her. It took some time, but eventually a sense of calmness returned. It could only be maintained, she knew, if she did not think of him, or of what had occurred between them. She could not allow herself to recall the glory of his hands on her, of their tongues dancing, of his strangled uttering of her name.
Stop! Once again, she chose to notice the yellow celandines beside the brook, the robin on the nearby tree limb, the crunch of bracken beneath her feet. Once again, her breathing steadied and her spirits regained their equilibrium.
Finally, knowing it must be almost noon, she went back to the house. Handing her cloak to the footman, she divested herself of her stout walking boots and donned her house slippers, before asking calmly where the family were at present.
The footman informed her that the ladies had recently come downstairs and were even now in the breakfast room. Realising she was hungry—for she had been too excited to eat earlier when she had dressed for him—she made her way to the breakfast room, where she filled a plate of eggs, rolls and ham.
The ladies were already aware that she had been out walking and Mrs Fenhurst commented disapprovingly on her windswept hair and pink cheeks. ‘Really, Miss Smith, you ought to do better! I must say I have been extremely disappointed in you lately.’
Mary, flushing even more, promised to fix her hair just as soon as she could. Thankfully, Sir Nicholas did not join them and his sister reported that he was presently enclosed with his secretary. Mary’s shoulders relaxed a little on hearing this. She had no desire to encounter Sir Nicholas any time soon.
Oh, how foolish she had been! Like a wanton, she would have done whatever he had wished earlier in the woods. Stupidly, she had wrapped herself in daydreams and it had almost undone her.
Remember, she told herself, all of his flaws.
Deliberately, she sat, chewing food that tasted like sawdust and thinking of all of the things he had ever done or said that were less than ideal. His insularity. His lack of awareness of the privileges given to him by his wealth and his birth. His lack of engagement with the wider world and everyone he could help if he chose to do so.
It helped, a little, for it quieted the hurt within her heart. Vaguely, she was aware that she was being unfair to him but, in this moment, being angry was better than being heartbroken.
Just then, the door opened, admitting Seth, the same footman who had been at the front door earlier. He looked decidedly uncomfortable.
‘Ma’am, I apologise, but there is a person here.’
‘Yes?’ Mrs Fenhurst’s brow was creased. The footman’s choice of words indicated that the visitor was not of the gentry. ‘You may direct this person to Mrs Kett, or Mr Bramber. Why are you informing me of it?’
‘He says he is seeking Miss Smith.’
All eyes turned to Mary, who could say only, ‘Me? But I know no one in the area!’
The footman coughed. ‘I believe him to have travelled from London yesterday.’
Mary frowned in puzzlement. Could he be something to do with Mrs Plumpton? Or Mrs Gray, perhaps? What on earth could someone from London want with her?
Mrs Fenhurst was all vexation. ‘Where have you put him?’
‘In the small parlour.’
Mary rose. ‘I shall go to him, although I cannot think who he might be.’ Conscious of the interested gaze of the four ladies, she followed Seth to the parlour. Stepping inside, she closed the door behind her. The man who stood to greet her was of average height, with a weather-beaten face, a balding pate and a purple waistcoat. Mary had never seen him before in her life.
‘Miss Mary Smith?’
‘I do not believe I have made your acquaintance?’
He fished in his pocket for a card. ‘The name is Potter. John Potter.’ Mary looked at the card. John Potter, it read. Principal Officer.
‘You are a Bow Street Runner?’
He bristled a little. ‘That is not a title that we officers answer to. Ours is important work and we answer only to the title of Officer.’
Mary’s senses were now fully alert.
Is this the man who arrested Papa?
She forced herself to smile. ‘I apologise, Officer. Please be seated. Now, how can I assist you?’
He took out a notebook and set it down on the side table near his chair. ‘Are you aware that a certain vicar, Reverend William Smith, was taken from the vicarage at Houghton St Giles to the Walsingham Bridewell, having been accused of a serious crime?’
Mary could only nod, distress at his words having momentarily closed her throat.
‘A messenger, who is being watched as part of this investigation, was observed delivering a letter to this vicar some weeks ago. However I—we have not been able to establish the connection between this messenger and this traitorous vicar.’ He drew himself up, hooking his thumbs into the top of his breeches. ‘This day, I have interviewed Miss Sarah Lutton at the same vicarage and she has informed me that you are the man’s daughter.’
‘I am.’
He picked up his book and made a note in it. ‘She attests that the vicar in question was not known to be of a political persuasion, nor was he short of a shilling.’
‘Er—that is correct. My father has never been active in politics and has an independent income. He is a clergyman
through choice, not financial need. Why do you ask?’
He ignored her question, and made another note. ‘I have been working on this case for a number of months and so far I have been unable to track how and why your father might have become part of a conspiracy against King and country.’
Mary could not help it. She snorted. ‘Well, the solution to your conundrum is obvious. It is because he was not part of any such conspiracy!’
The man’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who were his acquaintances in London and how often did he visit there? I believe you yourself lived in the capital until very recently?’
‘I was at school in London, yes. And my father never visited me there because he hated the place. Smoke and noise, and bad smells, he would say. He has, as far as I know, no acquaintances in London at all.’
‘It is your duty to assist me with my questions, Miss Smith.’
‘And it is your duty to find the true traitor, rather than hound a poor man who has done nothing wrong!’
* * *
Mr Potter stayed a full twenty minutes, asking Mary stupid, pointed questions that invited her to incriminate her own father. Why, even if he had been guilty, she would not have done so! Eventually, he rose to leave, clearly unsatisfied. He appeared convinced of Papa’s guilt and seemed not to even consider other possibilities. No matter what Mary said, he stuck to his belief that her father was guilty.
Once the footman—his curiosity apparent—had shown the man out, Mary sank back down on to the satin-covered sofa. She had had only a few hours’ sleep, had nearly been compromised by Sir Nicholas in the woods, had been rejected by him and had now endured a rigorous inquisition from a Bow Street Runner. She put a hand to her head. She could not even begin to think clearly.
Surely this day could not become any worse?
Chapter Twenty
Nicholas paced restlessly in his library, his thoughts interrupting each other like greedy gannets diving after elusive prey. Mary was wonderful. Mary was a governess in his employ. If he had not halted their amorous activities in the woods... If anyone had seen them! Was she distressed?
A Waltz with the Outspoken Governess Page 16