The Earl and the Governess

by Sarah Elliott

‘No. M’grandfather collected Chinese teapots.’

  ‘But not ancient sculpture or anything of the sort?’

  She seemed oddly interested in his answer, and peculiarly anxious. ‘No. Sorry to disappoint you.’

  Instead, she actually looked slightly relieved. ‘Not at all. It’s just that I’ve heard there are a lot of disreputable dealers out there, and I should hate for you to have fallen victim to one of them.’

  It was an odd thing to say, but perhaps less so considering her father’s profession. She had been in possession of several forgeries when he first met her, but to her credit she’d readily declared them as fakes. He didn’t press her about it. ‘Thank you for your advice, Miss Thomas. I shall be vigilant.’

  She blushed again at his teasing tone. ‘What are you interested in, then?’

  ‘Interested?’ Was she trying to change the subject?

  ‘Yes. Everyone has an interest.’

  Will had to think for a moment, not least because it was a more direct question than he was used to being asked by a woman. It also made him feel momentarily insufficient and rather purposeless for the first time in many years. But he wasn’t, not really. He might have spent much of his life being thoroughly irresponsible, but when he had inherited his title four years ago that had changed. Suddenly he’d had two large houses to take care of and more tenants than he could count. He took everyone’s happiness and health very seriously, perhaps more seriously than most would because he knew he had to make up for years of fallowness. He was still a long way from perfect, but when it came to protecting those in his charge, he thought he managed rather well.

  She was looking at him, patiently waiting for his answer. Of course he wouldn’t tell her all that, like some sort of maudlin fool.

  ‘Horses,’ he said. ‘Do you ride?’

  His remark just made her look uncomfortable again. ‘Not well. I told you I wasn’t very accomplished.’

  He wondered if asking about riding had made her self-conscious. Everyone he knew rode well, but just about everyone he knew had grown up on large country estates with acres and acres of land. ‘You could learn.’

  ‘I know how,’ she clarified. ‘I…but I’ve never hunted, or anything like that…’

  Her voice trailed off, and he noticed her staring into one of the crowded cases. A grey, stone woman stared back, her nose broken off and her head wound round with carved plaits.

  ‘Miss Thomas?’

  ‘What? Oh, sorry. Did you say something?’

  He tried to alleviate her discomfort by asking a question he was sure she could answer. ‘So…what’s this statue you’re looking at? Is she Greek? Roman?’

  But instead of looking more confident, she blushed and looked away. ‘I’m not certain.’

  ‘Come now, don’t pretend you don’t know. I shan’t accuse you of being a bluestocking again. What else would it be?’

  She hesitated before answering. ‘I’m sorry. It’s Greek. I imagine it’s a bit more than two thousand years old.’

  She seemed bothered by saying that. ‘Are you well?’ he asked. She didn’t look well. She looked pale and hot, and he felt suddenly worried.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘No. Perhaps I’m just tired?’

  ‘There’s a bench by the wall. Shall we—?’

  He didn’t get a chance to finish before a hearty greeting interrupted him, resonating from somewhere behind his left shoulder. ‘Lennox? Is that you?’

  Will turned around slowly, a feeling of dread brought on by the familiar voice. Two handsome gentlemen, one dark, one fair, were crossing the room, looking well dressed, well fed and well oiled from a self-indulgent lunch: his friends, John Dewhurst and Charles Prestwick. John had been the one to address him, but both gentlemen now regarded Isabelle with keen interest.

  ‘We’ve just come from the club and are walking off the effects. What are you doing, old chap?’ Prestwick asked, smiling at Isabelle as if she, too, might offer an answer. They were both obviously waiting for an introduction.

  Bloody hell, he wasn’t in the mood for this. She didn’t look like she was, either. If possible, she’d grown even paler.

  ‘I’m taking my ward around,’ Will replied, quickly scanning the room for Mary. Was she even still there?

  Dewhurst grinned engagingly at Isabelle. ‘Are you his ward?’

  ‘No, you…’ Will managed to avoid an obscenity. He motioned towards Mary, whom he’d finally located. ‘The girl over there. Tall thing with red hair. She’s an old friend’s daughter. Miss Thomas is her governess.’

  ‘A governess. How interesting.’ They both grinned broadly. Isabelle stared awkwardly at the floor. Will glared at them.

  Prestwick caught on and grinned. ‘Yes, well, we must be going.’

  ‘Not so soon,’ Dewhurst said. ‘I wanted to ask Miss Thomas—’

  ‘Not soon enough,’ Will cut in. Isabelle was biting her lip, pretending not to be present.

  The gentlemen made their excuses and wandered off. Will was sure they’d rib him about it when he saw them next. He really was a fool for taking her out in public.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said once they were out of hearing.

  ‘You’ve nothing to apologise for.’

  He felt he did, though. They’d ogled her as if she were his mistress. Fair enough for them to think that, but he hadn’t liked it. It had made her uncomfortable.

  ‘They’re idiots,’ he said.

  ‘They’re your friends?’

  ‘Yes. And idiots. We might have tea somewhere. Or perhaps just sit.’

  ‘Perhaps…I’m afraid I don’t feel terribly well. I’m sorry.’

  His gaze wandered over her face, trying to gauge what had bothered her. ‘Home, then.’

  She nodded after a moment’s indecision, and then walked off to inform Mary.

  What had caused the change? She’d seemed relaxed, and now she was practically wringing her hands. He doubted it was just his friends’ asinine behavior—she’d seemed upset before they’d even arrived. He wondered if he’d ever get the chance to understand her better.

  Chapter Eight

  Isabelle spent the rest of the day feeling wretched, although not unwell as she’d told Will. She simply felt overwhelmed by her problems.

  She hadn’t expected to see one of her father’s pieces at the museum. She was certain it had once been in his collection, even though she couldn’t have been more than eight when she’d last seen it. She remembered the way the woman’s plaits curled like snakes around her shoulders, and the flaking black paint around her eyes. He’d brought it back from one of his trips, and it was probably as old as it purported to be—if she remembered correctly, he’d bought it before his reliance on Signor Ricci began. But just seeing the statue had caused her to experience a sharp stab of insecurity. Who could tell what was true and what was false?

  The experience had rendered her useless for the rest of the afternoon, barely able to concentrate long enough to give Mary her arithmetic lesson. She knew she couldn’t afford to repeat this erratic behavior. Will had hired her to instruct the girl, not to behave like a ninny. And, oh, she’d made a hash of things even before she’d recognised the statue. She must be unfailingly polite to him. He was her employer, and her welfare was in his hands. But he kept provoking her, and she found herself responding as if they were equals. Worse, when she wasn’t being downright impertinent, she was too bowled over by him to manage a sensible sentence. She shouldn’t let his flirtation rattle her so. He certainly meant nothing by it.

  But it did rattle her.

  She looked out of her bedroom window. The pale moon had just appeared in the clear sky. Mary was in bed with a book, so Isabelle’s duties, for now, were finished. She’d bid Mary goodnight, and although the girl’s response hadn’t been warm, it hadn’t been unfriendly, either. She didn’t know why Mary resisted every overture so stubbornly, but perhaps with patience she would understand more.

  Her stomach grumbled, and she remembere
d her supper, which the cook, Mrs Graham, had promised to leave on a tray in the kitchen. Along with the officious Rogers, Mrs Graham promised to be stubbornly unpleasant. The risk of running into her made it almost worth forgoing supper. Hunger, however, won out in the end.

  She rose from her seat, pulled a shawl around her shoulders and headed out the door. She guessed it to be about nine o’clock, and the house was quiet. What a relief. She walked briskly down the stairs, humming quietly as she went.

  She didn’t notice Will until she was six steps away from setting foot on the marble hall floor. He was standing by the front door, wearing severe black evening dress, impeccably cut clothes revealing broad shoulders that tapered to narrow hips and long, muscular legs. She stared, thinking there would be no way to improve him. He really was perfect.

  He was staring at her.

  And then she suddenly remembered that Mrs Wright had told her not to use the main staircase unless she was accompanying Mary. Another mistake to add to her long list.

  He continued to stare, waiting for her to complete her descent. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m not supposed to walk down these stairs. I forgot.’

  He seemed nonplussed by this answer. ‘What’s going to happen if you do?’

  ‘Mrs Wright instructed me to use the servants’ staircase. She said I must stay out of sight.’

  He walked closer, to stand at the base of the staircase. ‘That wouldn’t be terribly sociable.’

  It occurred to her that they were alone. Odd, since in her limited experience Rogers was never far from his post at the door. He must have noted her confusion, since he explained, ‘I sent Rogers off to find my walking stick. Haven’t the faintest idea where it…were you looking for him?’

  Looking for…? ‘For Rogers, you mean? No. I’m going to collect my supper.’

  Slowly, she walked down the rest of the stairs, trying to ignore the fact that she’d have to pass right by him.

  He spoke again just as she reached the hall floor.

  ‘You’re feeling better?’

  He was just two feet away. She took a step to the side before answering him; she couldn’t very well ignore a direct question. ‘Yes, thank you.’

  ‘And how is Mary?’

  ‘She hasn’t said.’ She opened her mouth to say more, but then paused in thought. She knew she should bid him goodnight and carry on her way—that’s what a servant would do. But she was curious about something, and her deferential role didn’t yet quite fit. ‘How…’ she began slowly, ‘if you don’t mind my asking—’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘How exactly did she end up in your charge?’

  He put his hands in his pockets. ‘Mary’s father was my best friend at school. He made me her godfather when she was born, and when he died I was the only person in a position to take her.’

  ‘And you plan to keep her only until you find a school to take her.’

  ‘That would be best for her.’

  Isabelle wasn’t so sure. It couldn’t possibly be nice being shifted around. Little wonder the girl was permanently standoffish. Obviously, though, she couldn’t voice her concerns. ‘Well, goodnight.’

  He sighed. ‘It won’t be.’

  She paused once more at his cryptic words. ‘You’re going somewhere?’

  ‘Yes, a ball.’

  She shouldn’t say another word, but other than Will, she’d hardly spoken to anyone in weeks—a predicament, given her curious mind and voluble tongue. ‘You don’t sound as if you’re pleased.’

  ‘I find this sort of thing a tremendous bore.’

  ‘Then why are you going?’

  He leaned back against the banister. ‘Afraid I’ve no choice. My cousin, Henrietta, has asked me to come, and I owe her a favour.’

  ‘Oh.’ She’d wondered about his life and his family, and here was a titbit to chew over. ‘Have you many cousins?’

  ‘Not compared to most people. I’ve got seven—all girls, and all younger than me. But I only see two of them often. Remember I told you about the uncle who forced me to go to the museum?’

  ‘Uncle Henry?’

  He smiled. ‘That’s the one. Extremely bossy. He had twin daughters, Henrietta and Venetia. I see far too much of them, in fact.’

  ‘You don’t like them?’

  He frowned. ‘They take after their father. They like to give orders. But…I’m fond of them. In as much as I’m fond of nearly everyone I’m related to. I’m quite loyal that way.’

  She was trying to imagine him being ordered around by a woman, but couldn’t. ‘You’re lucky. I was an only child, and I’ve just two cousins. I hardly know either of them.’

  He tilted his head slightly, as if he were about ask her something. But then all he said was, ‘Will you sit, Miss Thomas?’

  He spoke casually enough, but his words set off a tremor of nerves in her stomach. She suddenly realised that she’d been far too free. ‘Sit? Oh, no, I mustn’t keep you.’

  ‘You won’t be, or I shouldn’t have asked. I’m waiting for my carriage, you see, and I’d rather like to sit m’self, since I’ll be standing for the rest of the night. But as long as you keep standing it would be terribly rude of me.’

  A pair of hall chairs flanked the wide set of doors that opened into his study. She crossed the floor and picked one, nervously smoothing her skirts around her as she sat. ‘I’m sorry. Did you wish to speak to me about anything?’

  He took the other seat, only about six feet away. ‘Not really…’ He paused as if mulling something over. ‘But perhaps, being female, you might offer me some advice, Miss Thomas. Concerning my cousins.’

  She didn’t want to give him advice. It seemed too intimate a proposition. Furthermore, Rogers would no doubt return any minute and she’d rather he didn’t see her sitting there, so inappropriately alone with his master. Better make it quick. ‘I doubt I’ll be of any use. I don’t know them, and I don’t know you.’

  ‘You know me a bit, and living in the same house as we do, I expect we’ll know each other very well before too long.’

  She hoped he couldn’t see the spots of high colour staining her cheeks. ‘What is the problem, my lord?’

  ‘Their bossiness.’

  ‘Surely you can simply ignore them?’

  ‘I’ve been ignoring them for years, and it doesn’t work. Only makes them more tenacious.’

  ‘What…what is it they pester you about most?’

  ‘They want me to get married.’

  His words caused a small, illogical pain in her chest, perhaps since she knew she would never get married herself. He sounded so matter of fact about it, which she supposed was fair enough since marriage wouldn’t be a difficult endeavour for someone like him. Finding a wife would be as easy as buying a new waistcoat. ‘To anyone in particular?’

  ‘No…well, that’s not quite true. They have one or two young ladies in mind, but at this stage just about any sentient female of distinguished parentage would satisfy them.’

  She tried not to frown at his blunt cynicism. ‘Why should they care so much if you get married?’

  He seemed surprised by that question. ‘Because if I don’t marry, then my title is likely to die out and I’ll have failed in my duty. I’ve a younger brother, but he’s had only one daughter himself. So…my cousins keep insisting on introducing me to suitable girls.’

  ‘And what makes a girl suitable?’

  ‘A host of things, I suppose. My cousins only care that she should be rich and well bred. Dullness, too, seems to rank quite high in importance to them.’

  She shouldn’t have asked. Obviously red hair and insolvency wouldn’t feature prominently on the list. ‘How…how very calculating.’

  He raised an eyebrow at the current of anger in her tone. ‘I assure you, I didn’t invent the rules.’

  She rose stiffly. ‘I suggest you buy yourself another horse instead.’

  He also rose, and he walked closer, not stopping until only
a foot separated them. ‘I’m afraid a horse wouldn’t quite fit the bill.’

  ‘No? I’d think you’d have a lot in common.’

  He digested her insult slowly. ‘Are you suggesting I’m…an ass, Miss Thomas?’

  She was, in a roundabout way, and it was one of the stupidest things she’d ever said. He should dismiss her right there. But he didn’t look angry. He looked as if he were trying not to laugh. Infuriating man.

  But infuriating or not, humility was in order once more. She took a deep breath. ‘I apologise if you interpreted my statement that way. I just meant that you were fond of horses. You told me so this afternoon. Buying a horse would be a more straightforward transaction.’

  ‘I assure you, I’m much fonder of women.’ He paused, allowing his gaze to linger on her lips. ‘Can’t kiss a horse, you know.’

  He was too close, and he was talking about kissing. She was completely out of her element and, worse, she was red. Red hair, red face. ‘I don’t suppose you’d want to.’

  He leaned in. ‘I have to strain my neck with most girls, but you’re rather a good height for kissing, Miss Thomas. Hypothetically speaking, of course.’

  She needed distance. Ten strides to the servants’ passage, and about fifty beats of her racing heart. She stepped to the side and started walking. ‘Goodnight. I wish you luck with your brood mare.’

  ‘Do you?’

  She turned to give him one last look, wondering momentarily if he felt as affected as she did. There was something in his eyes…

  ‘Yes, my lord, I do. I think you’ll need it.’ And with the turn of a knob she was out of the hall, away from his disturbing gaze. Into the dark corridor and passing right by Rogers, who gave her a most suspicious stare.

  ‘William.’

  Will turned around at the familiar but not entirely welcome voice. He’d been…not exactly hiding from his cousin, although he had been trying to make himself inconspicuous next to a small, potted tree. This was the third ball he’d been to since falling prey to her manipulation, and thankfully it would also be the last. He didn’t need her help any more, since Isabelle had worked out so nicely.