Regency for all Seasons: A Regency Romance Collection

by Mary Lancaster

  “With Rosa,” he said in surprise. “And me.”

  For some reason, her stomach tightened. It wasn’t displeasure or even fear, for he intrigued her, and she wanted to know more about him as well as Rosa. He didn’t wait for her acceptance, merely limped off into the bowels of the house.

  *

  Since she made Rosa put on a clean dress for dinner—a demand that appeared to surprise Rosa but which she obeyed—Caroline changed her own mud-splashed, workaday garment for her Sunday gown, the only other she possessed. This was a slightly newer but equally drab brown dress. It wasn’t precisely evening wear, but she doubted Mr. Benedict was a stickler for etiquette. She did wonder about the lady who’d thrown the cake at him. But when she and Rosa entered the dining room, the table was set only for three.

  Rosa obviously noticed, for when her father arrived, she went and looked at him in silent question.

  “Marjorie isn’t dining with us tonight,” he said briskly. “You may go and see her after dinner.”

  Although the food was surprisingly good—thanks no doubt to the cook who had once worked at Braithwaite Castle—it was rather an odd meal. Since Rosa didn’t speak, and Mr. Benedict appeared to be silent by nature, Caroline didn’t feel she should be the one to break the silence. Rosa did smile at her encouragingly a couple of times, so she smiled back and continued eating her soup.

  The soup was eventually removed and a dish of chicken brought in. As she helped herself to vegetables, Caroline was aware of Rosa nudging her father and staring at him significantly.

  He picked up his knife and fork. “My daughter wishes me to make conversation, so that you don’t desert us for some more civilized family. Ouch,” he added with amusement as Rosa clearly kicked him under the table.

  “I’m happy to converse on any subject you wish,” Caroline replied, refusing to be put out. “Although, I have never been in favor of simply filling silence with noise if one has nothing to say.”

  “You see?” Mr. Benedict said to Rosa. “Miss Grey is clearly a lady of superior understanding. On the other hand, Rosa and I are both curious, so I hope you won’t consider it mere noise when I ask you about your life.”

  She met his gaze. “Sadly, I have nothing to say. My life has been largely too dull for conversation.”

  “But you give us hope in the word largely. When has your life not been dull?”

  “I did not say it was dull to me,” she retorted. “But it would most certainly be so to you and Rosa.”

  “I think you must allow Rosa and me to judge for ourselves. I know you have a sister. Do you have other siblings?”

  “No.”

  “Where did you grow up?”

  “In a country vicarage in Yorkshire.”

  His eyebrows flew up. “You are a vicar’s daughter?”

  She inclined her head. “The fact does not usually elicit so much…astonishment.”

  “I am adjusting my preconceived ideas,” he said obscurely. He chased his food around his plate for a little bit. Then, just as she shot him a surreptitious glance, he looked up. “So, were you good children, as a vicar’s should be? Or naughty like Rosa?”

  Rosa grinned at both her father and Caroline. Caroline couldn’t help smiling back.

  “I’m sure we were both,” she replied lightly. “Perhaps it’s my mother you should consult on the subject.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  Her gaze flew back to his, and he set down his fork. “Interesting. You don’t like that idea at all.”

  “I have never had an employer interview my mother before,” she retorted.

  “It would be outrageous, wouldn’t it? You must learn to tell when I’m jesting.”

  Caroline pronged her chicken with unnecessary force. “Must I?”

  “For your own peace of mind. What of your sister? Is she a governess, too?”

  “No. She has a child.”

  “And no means of support but you?”

  Caroline flushed. “Sir, my sister is not your concern.”

  “But she is yours. I find that does concern me.”

  “Why?”

  His glass froze in midair. A short bark of laughter escaped him before he raised the wine the rest of the way to his lips and drank. “Good question,” he allowed, setting the glass down again and pushing once more at his food. “You’re not afraid of me, are you, Miss Grey?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied honestly. She swallowed. “I apologize for my rudeness.”

  “Oh, don’t spoil it,” he mocked. “You weren’t rude. And if you were, I am impervious to such things. Eat up.”

  It was advice he would have been better taking than giving. Caroline’s plate was almost cleared, Rosa’s all but polished, while Mr. Benedict’s remained nearly untouched. She recalled his soup plate had been removed still half full and he seemed disinclined to eat more than the couple of forkfuls he’d already taken of the chicken.

  She raised her eyes to his face. “Are you quite well, sir?”

  “Quite.” His fingers curled around the stem of his glass, his expression unchanging.

  It was Rosa who looked suddenly anxious, her large, scared eyes fixed on her father’s face. Caroline’s question had inspired that fear.

  “Rosa, did you not get any dinner?” Caroline tried a teasing note. “There’s hardly any left for you now.”

  Rosa gave a distracted smile, while Caroline ladled the last of the chicken on to her plate. “Eat up,” she said cheerfully. “Will there be pastry now?”

  That attracted a more enthusiastic nod.

  “What kind?” Caroline asked.

  While Rosa tried to sign the answers, Caroline was aware of Mr. Benedict’s gaze on her, but she refused to look to see if it was with disapproval or otherwise. However, by the time the servant brought the pastries, Mr. Benedict’s plate was not quite so full. As if he’d made an effort, at least to stop his daughter worrying—or to prevent the governess from blurting unhelpful remarks.

  Rosa set about her pastry with enthusiasm, and indeed it was delicious. The fact that her father took none did not appear to upset her. Presumably, he rarely did. Instead, he picked at some cheese and, having finished the wine, poured himself a glass of port.

  Rosa swallowed the last of her pastry. Catching her father’s gaze, she pointed upward in a hopeful manner.

  “Go and see Marjorie, then,” he said. “I’ll be up in a little to make sure you go to bed.”

  Rosa bounced to her feet and held out her hand invitingly to Caroline, who laid down her napkin.

  “No, Marjorie would prefer you alone,” Mr. Benedict said. “Besides, I wish to talk to Miss Grey.”

  Rosa wrinkled her nose but shrugged apologetically to Caroline and ran out of the room.

  “Is the lady ill?” Caroline asked. “Is there something I might do for her?”

  “No, she will come about with a little peace. Don’t we all?”

  “I didn’t mean to upset Rosa by drawing attention to your lack of appetite,” she said quickly. “I was thoughtless.”

  “Or too thoughtful? Interesting point. My wife died a year ago. Rosa…watches me quite carefully to be sure I don’t follow her to the grave.”

  It made sense, although it filled Caroline with a hundred other questions. She opted for, “Are you ill, sir? It would make my position simpler if I knew.”

  “But your position isn’t simple. I told you that.”

  If it was an attempt to intimidate her to silence, she resisted, holding his gaze as she waited for her answer. After a moment, he let out another short laugh and reached for his glass. “I am convalescing, Miss Grey. Will that suffice? But talking of your position, I need to know your intentions.”

  “My intentions?” she repeated blankly. After all, her intentions hadn’t appeared to matter to anyone since yesterday morning. She had been blown around by other people’s until she’d landed here.

  “Rosa needs a governess. I hoped she would grow used to the idea of h
aving you here. But it appears she’s taken a liking to you. I refuse to have her feelings hurt if you go running back to Braithwaite.”

  A flush of anger rose up from her toes. “Running back to… If I return to Braithwaite Castle, it will be to the ladies Maria, Alice and Helen. And only at Lady Braithwaite’s invitation. Whatever you imagine my relationship with the earl to be, you are wrong!”

  His lips curved. “Truly? Then you are his mistress?”

  She gasped, jumping to her feet. “I beg your pardon?”

  He rose with her, albeit languidly, which brought him a shade too close. But Caroline was far too indignant to back away.

  His gaze mocked her relentlessly. “I imagined your relationship to be entirely innocent,” he drawled. “I wouldn’t otherwise have employed you. I’m not much of a moral stickler myself, but even I draw the line at employing a neighbor’s bit of muslin to teach my daughter. You’re very touchy on the subject. Perhaps you harbor a tendre for the earl? He is very handsome.”

  “Then perhaps you should be his bit of muslin!” she said furiously.

  To her surprise, he threw back his head and laughed. “What a picture! Wouldn’t that set the tongues of Blackhaven wagging with a vengeance? Oh, sit down, Miss Grey,” he added, throwing himself back into his chair. “I impugn neither your honor nor his. Nor do I actually care whether either of you gives a jot for the other. What concerns me is your returning there and leaving Rosa once she has grown to rely upon you.”

  Grudgingly, Caroline resumed her own seat. “Lord Braithwaite spoke of a week or so,” she admitted. “By then, he believes his mother’s temper will have calmed and her good sense be restored.” She drew a deep breath. “I believe his lordship to be a just man, offended by his mother’s injustice to me. Besides, he believes me to be a good influence on his younger sister. While I…I value my well-paid position and I am fond of the girls. I am ashamed to say neither of us gave much thought to you or Rosa in these plans.”

  She met his gaze with conscious bravery. “If you think it better for Rosa, I will leave tomorrow. I can give you the address of a good agency to find another governess.”

  There was a hint of curiosity in his hard eyes. “You would, too, wouldn’t you? Where would you go?”

  “I should be grateful for a conveyance to Carlisle. From there I can travel home to my mother’s house north of the border. Lady Braithwaite may reach me there as easily as here.”

  “Not quite so easily,” he observed. He raised his glass and finished his port. He shrugged with a hint of impatience. “Rosa knows you are on loan. If her affections are too engaged, well, she will have to grow used to disappointment like the rest of us.” Pushing back his chair, he rose to his feet. “Stay if you wish.”

  Baffled, she watched him limp across the room and out the door.

  Chapter Three

  Despite desperate tiredness, Caroline found it hard to fall asleep that night. Her allotted bedchamber on the west side of the main first floor passage, lay next to the schoolroom, to which there was also a connecting door. A third door connected her to Rosa’s chamber. It felt like a room consisting only of doors. Even with them all closed, it resembled a corridor more than a bedchamber. She supposed she would get used to it in time. She was not sure, however, that she would ever get used to her temporary employer.

  Javan Benedict filled her thoughts as his presence tended to fill a room. Since he didn’t appear to find her replies insolent, she had no objection to sharpening her wits on his mockery. Or whatever it was. She didn’t pretend to understand him, and he was clearly not in the best of health. One thing was clear, though—he did care deeply for his daughter.

  The door between Caroline’s and Rosa’s bedchambers had been left slightly ajar from the child first showing her to her room. So, before she sat down by the candlelight to write to her mother, she had glanced in on Rosa to say goodnight. To Caroline’s surprise, Mr. Benedict was still there, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  His back was to Caroline. She must have let very little light into the room, for he did not seem aware of her. His attention was all on Rosa, who lay on her side, facing him, her eyes closed, her little hand lost in her father’s large one. She was either asleep or on the verge of it, but he did not move, simply sat there giving what Caroline imagined to be silent comfort.

  She had crept out, closing the door as silently as she could. Then, she’d written part of a letter and was undressing for bed before she heard him leave his daughter’s room and walk quietly along the passage. She wondered if he did this every night, or if Rosa had just been unsettled by Caroline’s unwary words.

  The child missed her late mother, of course, and was terrified of losing her father, too. Was that the cause of her silence? But no, Mr. Benedict had said his wife died last year, while Rosa hadn’t spoken for two. Perhaps Mrs. Benedict had had a long illness?

  And then who was the mysterious Marjorie, who threw cake at the master of the house and retired to her chamber for the rest of the day? Caroline could understand the impulse. Even on such a short acquaintance, there had been times when she would have dearly liked to throw things at him herself.

  What illness was he recovering from? Why was he…the way he was? Why ask her about Braithwaite if he was already sure of her innocence? Did he approve of her or not? Did he like her?

  While she realized the latter question was quite irrelevant, she found herself coming back to it all too often. It wasn’t as if she actually liked Benedict himself. At least, she didn’t think she did. She did like the erratic appearances of his humor. And his laughter. But he was hardly easy company. He was sardonic and mocking and occasionally rude. Prying. Arrogant.

  What or who had scarred his face? And why did he limp? Why was he hiding out here in isolation from everyone else in the environs of Blackhaven?

  Her mind continued to spin with questions long after she blew out the last candle and climbed into bed. Someone had taken the chill off with a warming pan, for which she was eternally grateful. Winter was in the air.

  She’d only just nodded off to sleep when she was awakened by a heart-rending cry.

  Caroline sprang out of bed, instinctively blundering to Rosa’s bedchamber door. She opened it to discover the child peacefully asleep in the glow of a small, covered night light.

  Hastily, she crept out again. Another wail caused her to feel for the flint and light a candle. In Blackhaven, they said the hall was haunted by the ghost of the Gardyn child and those cries did sound childlike…

  But Caroline did not believe in ghosts. And Rosa was the only child in the house.

  Throwing her threadbare wrapper over her night rail, she opened the door to the passage and walked barefoot into the corridor. Soft sobs in the distance, followed by occasional outbursts of howling, drew her warily along, her candle held in front of her like a shield.

  On the other side of the staircase which divided the house, lights bobbed by an open door. A maidservant in a cap and wrapper whispered in the passage to a man with a lamp and then vanished back into the room, closing the door. The crisis, whatever it was, appeared to be over; even the soft cries had subsided.

  The man turned in her direction, and her heart lurched, because it was Mr. Benedict, not a servant. In his shirt sleeves with no necktie, the last vestiges of a civilized gentleman seemed to have fallen away from him. He was simply a tall, very physical man, and for some reason, Caroline’s throat went dry as he approached her.

  “Why are you abroad?” he demanded, low-voiced but clearly irritated.

  “I heard crying. Is someone ill?”

  His gaze flickered over her. “She is better now,” he muttered.

  Who is better? she couldn’t help wondering. The lady who threw cake? “Is there anything I can do?” she asked aloud.

  “Yes, you can make sure Rosa wasn’t disturbed.”

  “She wasn’t. She was sound asleep.”

  He nodded curtly. “Come, then.”

  The
re was nothing she could do but turn and trot after him to keep up with his long if uneven stride. He didn’t speak until they reached her open bedchamber door.

  “You must think us all unhinged,” he said softly, coming to a halt.

  She could only shake her head. “I have heard unhappiness before. Good night.”

  She expected him to walk on, but to her surprise, his eyes focused on her face. They seemed to glow in the lamplight while the rest of his face was cast into shadow. “Was it yours?”

  A frown tugged at her brow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The unhappiness that you heard before. Was it your own?”

  It had been, although she had been more careful to unleash it only where it could not be overheard.

  “I don’t remember,” she whispered hastily. “I was speaking generally.”

  His lips twisted. “It seems we all have our secrets.” His gaze dropped to her lips, flickered lower over her flimsily wrapped body before returning more slowly to her flushed face. The flame of the candle seemed to leap in his eyes, turning them suddenly warm and dangerous. The moment stretched, paralyzing her. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Go in, Miss Grey,” he said softly, “before I forget I was once a gentleman.”

  With a gasp, she whisked herself inside and closed the door. Leaning against it, she listened to the incomprehensible thundering of her heart. She thought she heard a faint, deprecating laugh as his footsteps walked on. It seemed his bedchamber, too, was in this part of the house, close to his daughter’s. And hers. She wasn’t sure why that mattered to her, but it did.

  *

  She woke to daylight and a strange, soft, scratching noise. Rosa’s head poked through the bed curtains while her fingernails scratched at their fabric. She smiled.

  “Good morning,” Caroline croaked.

  Rosa made hasty eating motions with her hands.