The Earl and the Governess

by Sarah Elliott

  ‘I’m seeing to estate business. More specifically, I’m signing my name, over and over.’

  ‘Is it dreadfully boring?’

  It should have been, but he didn’t mind it. ‘No. I mean, writing my signature is no great pleasure, but I care about it.’

  ‘Your house, you mean?’

  He paused before answering. He loved his house, as anyone would if his family had lived on the same piece of land for centuries. ‘Yes…not just that, though. I care about the people who live there. I’ve known many of our tenants my entire life. The oldest is nearly ninety. The youngest was born five weeks ago.’

  Rogers arrived with a large bowl of water just then. He placed it by Isabelle’s feet, but she just looked at it with bemusement.

  ‘You’re to put your foot in the water,’ Will explained. ‘It’s cold. To reduce the swelling.’

  ‘I understand the principle, but I should do this in my room.’

  ‘You’d have Rogers carry it up two flights of stairs when you can put your foot in it perfectly well right here?’

  The footman shot her a baleful look. Will fought the urge to reprimand him harshly for doing so, but at least Rogers’s ire had the desired effect. Isabelle’s face assumed an expression of guilt, and her next protest was weaker.

  ‘But you’re obviously busy.’

  ‘I’ve told you already that you don’t bother me. I can easily ignore you.’

  She frowned at his words, but he went back to his work, pretending to pay no attention to her. Rogers left, and they were alone.

  He watched her from the corner of his eye debating how best to submerge her foot without compromising her modesty. She was clearly resolved against revealing any naked flesh, so she eventually put her stockinged foot in the deep bowl—very carefully, so that she didn’t have to raise her skirts more than necessary.

  The water must have been icy cold, because she immediately gasped and pulled her foot out. The cat lifted a cross eyelid and jumped from her lap.

  ‘Put it back in, or I’ll hold it there,’ he warned, continuing to pretend interest in his work.

  She didn’t test him. She bit her lip and eased her foot into the water. Then she was silent for nearly two minutes—which, he was coming to realize, was a long time for her to remain quiet. He could see her getting restless. She looked around the room and began drumming her fingers on the arm of the chair.

  ‘Miss Thomas?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes?’

  He looked up at her. ‘Are you finding it difficult not speaking?’

  She blushed. ‘I talk a lot, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes. You’re most impertinent.’

  She looked at him for a second, trying to determine if that was criticism or simple teasing. When she realised it was the latter, she took it as permission to proceed.

  ‘I don’t mean to be. I suppose I’m rather under-talked during the day, considering Mary doesn’t say much. Although truth be told, I suppose I’ve always been like that.’ She paused. ‘I’m doing it again, aren’t I?’

  He didn’t mind. She had a lovely voice, and there was something both sweet and mesmerising about the way she moved her lips and used her hands when she spoke. ‘You may talk all you like. And no doubt Mary will communicate more freely soon enough. Suppose she’s just very shy.’

  ‘A bit, maybe. She’s obviously sad—angry, too, I think. And she does communicate, just not with me. Writes at least a letter a day to a friend from school. Heaven knows what she has to say about me.’

  He lay down his papers. ‘About us, for that matter, and I’m confident you fare better in her letters than I.’

  ‘Us’ felt strangely pleasing as he uttered it, but the word clearly made her uncomfortable. She changed the subject. ‘Where is your house?’

  ‘Wentwich Castle is in Norfolk. Not far from the sea.’

  ‘What sort of house is it?’

  He smiled. His father had described their house as notable for size but not its refinement. ‘In the Gothic taste. Very big, but a little coarse. Rather like me when I was taking you to task this morning.’

  ‘Oh, don’t, it is of no matter…’ She blushed again as her words trailed off.

  He rose and crossed the room to remove a framed watercolour from the wall. He handed it to her as he returned to his seat.

  ‘My mother painted that. It’s dated at the bottom…there—1786. My grandfather had the tower and all those funny turrets added. He had a better imagination than sense of proportion. It took three architects to complete the house, since he kept falling out with each new one over his unorthodox ideas. The result is…well, a bit of a heap.’

  He watched her eyes move over the picture, taking in every detail.

  Finally, she looked up. ‘It’s lovely. Perhaps just a touch eccentric, but all the better for it.’

  That made him rather proud, although he didn’t know why he should care. ‘It’s far too big, really. Once one thing is repaired, something else goes wrong. I employ a man whose sole function is to walk round the roof, repairing leaks as he goes. By the time he gets back to where he started, it’s leaking again.’

  She smiled at the image. ‘You exaggerate.’

  ‘Just a little.’

  ‘But you like it nonetheless.’

  ‘I love it—I’m there most of the year. If I can’t find a school to take Mary before the autumn, I’ll have to take you both there with me.’ He hadn’t even considered the possibility until that moment and surprised himself by suggesting it. It would be interesting, having her there. He’d rather she come in a capacity other than that of a governess, though.

  Her smile faltered at the thought. ‘By then I…I might—’

  ‘You’ll have something better to do?’

  She frowned. ‘It is not inconceivable that some better opportunity might come along.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said indulgently.

  She stared at the picture again, no doubt in order not to look at him. ‘Did you grow up in Norfolk?’

  ‘Until my parents died when I was eleven, we were almost always there.’

  She looked up, sympathy in her eyes. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. You had to grow up quickly then.’

  Yes, he had. ‘Well…sort of. I’m a second son, you see, so I wasn’t immediately head of the family. I spent the first three decades of my life being thoroughly irresponsible. My older brother, Richard, died four years ago—he was seven years older than me. My younger brother, James, is alive and well.’

  ‘How tragic to lose both parents at once. And a brother, too, at such a young age.’

  Losing his parents had been devastating, but Will had felt little sorrow at Richard’s passing. ‘My real mother actually died when I was born. I was referring to my father and stepmother. He married her soon after my mother’s death, and she’s the only mother I knew. They were killed in a fire—it was tragic. At any rate, she hated London, so we stayed in the country most of the time.’

  She placed the watercolour carefully on a parcel-gilt side table. ‘Which mother painted the picture?’

  ‘My real one.’

  He could see her hesitating, obviously wondering how many questions she could ask before being accused of impertinence again. Cautiously, ‘Why did your stepmother dislike London so much?’

  He debated telling her she’d overstepped her bounds—which she had—but decided in the end that there was no harm in answering her question. It just wasn’t the sort of thing he discussed with many people. ‘I suppose she felt like a bit of an…interloper. I think that’s how she was treated, although to be honest I was too young to be aware of much. She didn’t come from a grand family.’

  ‘How “not grand” is not grand?’

  ‘A long way from grand, in her case. Her father was an actor, and she started out on stage herself. My father saw her playing Ophelia and fell instantly in love.’

  ‘But that’s rather romantic,’ she said.

  He smiled ruefully. ‘Might
have been, except he was already betrothed to my mother.’

  She looked mildly outraged. ‘Did he marry her anyway? Even though he’d fallen in love with someone else?’

  ‘Yes, and when she died he married again, for love. Everyone thought he’d gone mad for marrying someone so far beneath him.’

  ‘I suppose love is the best reason to marry.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Love has little to do with it.’

  ‘Not marry for love? You mean you’d marry someone you disliked?’

  ‘No…what I mean is…’ She looked so appalled by the idea, and he realised it didn’t sound particularly laudable. He wouldn’t expect her to understand, though—her parents had eloped and left her a pauper. Marriage was different for people who didn’t have much to begin with. They could marry for love because they had so little to lose. ‘All I meant was that marriage should be a based on reason and sound judgement rather than impulsive emotions. Of course I’d have to get on with the person. But sharing a common background is more important.’

  ‘Love isn’t enough, then.’

  ‘It’s not even necessary.’

  She frowned. ‘Your poor mother.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. She was only about nineteen when they married, and I don’t think she was expecting her husband to be smitten with another woman from the start—to be keeping her as his mistress, in fact. But she got something out of the marriage. They both did.’

  ‘What did she get?’

  ‘Money. A title. And my father had a pretty wife.’

  ‘Whom he didn’t love,’ she said pointedly.

  Will shrugged, realising he wouldn’t convince her. He believed everything he was saying, but for some reason saying it to her made him feel like an ass. No doubt he sounded like one, but experience had taught him that this was one area where it paid to be cynical. His father’s first marriage, unloving though it might have been, had been sound and trouble-free. His second marriage had produced James, who would always be Will’s best friend. Other than that it had just led to tragedy.

  Bloody Richard…

  ‘May I ask some questions now?’ he said, wanting to talk about something else.

  ‘I’ve been asking far too many.’

  ‘Where did you grow up?’

  She removed her foot from the water and carefully dabbed it with the hem of her dress so she wouldn’t cause a puddle on the floor. She didn’t look at him as she began speaking. ‘Not far away. In Hampstead. We needed to be close to London since most of my father’s clients had houses in town.’

  ‘Was your father successful at what he did?’

  She finally looked up. She spoke slowly, reluctantly. ‘Yes. Very, I think. He was knighted, you know. For advising King George about some purchase.’

  ‘Then…’ He paused, trying to find a delicate way to pose his question. ‘I’ve been wondering, Miss Thomas, why he seems to have left you in such straits.’

  He sensed she didn’t want to talk about it. She became very still, and her expressive face turned a telltale pink. ‘He was rather unwise with money. He made some mistakes. He, uh…’

  How interesting, Will thought. She seems to have a secret. ‘Come, now, let’s be fair. I’ve told you about my family.’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, there’s not much to tell. We always lived comfortably. I didn’t know anything was wrong until after he died.’

  ‘Debts?’

  She nodded. ‘A few. I’ve come to think that because my mother came from a wealthier family, he felt pressure to give her things he couldn’t actually afford. Her family thought she’d made a mistake when she married him, and I suppose we lived above our means to prove that he could provide for her.’

  He suspected she was lying. ‘If she died when you were six, he should have had ample time to recoup his funds.’

  ‘Yes…I admit I don’t entirely understand it. But he also had to spend a lot of money, you see, in order to buy new artefacts—he had to travel quite a bit just to find them, and that itself was an expensive business. And if he didn’t find buyers for them in turn, well, it was really a risky…’ She paused to frown. ‘And then, of course, the war meant he couldn’t travel, and his business suffered because of it.’

  ‘So the short answer is he spent more than he earned.’

  ‘I’ve already confessed to a fondness for saying a lot when a little would suffice. I should see how Mary is.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s well. She didn’t get run over by a horse. Sit a bit longer.’ He wanted her to stay and to learn more about her. He sensed he’d only been given a glimpse of her prior life. ‘What was your house like?’

  ‘About a hundred years old. Red brick. Surrounded by pretty herb gardens. I had to sell it.’ She bent over to collect her boot and then rose. ‘I must go now. I will leave you to your affairs.’

  ‘Then let me help.’ He crossed the room and held out his arm.

  She just stared at it. ‘I assure you, I can walk. The water helped immensely.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You shouldn’t put pressure on it. You’re no use to me injured. Take my arm.’

  Reluctantly, she did, leaning on him to take the weight off her foot. He opened the door and walked with her across the hall.

  ‘I suggest you spend the rest of the day in bed,’ he offered, but then wished he hadn’t. It was the wrong thing to say. It just made him think about her dishevelled and drowsy.

  ‘I should be better tomorrow,’ she promised, oblivious to his sudden discomfort.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be waltzing in no time.’

  She looked away again. He seemed constantly to be blundering into uncomfortable subjects. Why should that comment bother her?

  ‘Do you like dancing, Miss Thomas?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve done very little,’ she said quietly.

  ‘That’s a pity.’

  She looked at him. ‘But I thought you disliked dancing.’

  ‘When did I say that?’

  ‘Last night. You didn’t want to go to that ball.’

  ‘Ah, it wasn’t the dancing I objected to, but my partner. I’m sure you’d have been an improvement. I’m actually quite good. Shall we have a go?’

  ‘No,’ she said, too quickly.

  ‘You don’t want to dance with me? I’m offended.’

  ‘I, what I meant…’ She paused to collect herself. ‘I am injured, my lord. I did not mean to be impolite.’

  ‘Another time, then.’

  She neither confirmed nor denied that possibility. They’d reached the bottom of the stairs, and she’d become shy again. ‘Well, thank you, then.’

  ‘I’ll help you upstairs.’

  ‘I don’t need help.’

  ‘Must you always be this argumentative?’ He put her arm around his waist. ‘You didn’t complain so much when your Dr Collins was helping you.’

  She held on to his arm and took the first step with her good foot, dragging the sore one behind. It required effort and concentration. ‘Dr Collins is a gentleman.’

  ‘What am I?’

  She looked up the staircase with dismay. There were probably at least sixty steps to climb before she reached her bedroom. The landing seemed impossibly far away. ‘You, sir, are not.’

  ‘Really?’ And before she could protest he’d picked her up into his arms.

  After two seconds of frozen shock, she immediately started to struggle. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she hissed.

  He held her tightly cradled, making it difficult for her to move. ‘I thought I was being terribly gallant…what do you think I’m doing?’

  ‘Put me down.’

  ‘You said I wasn’t a gentleman. I’m just trying to prove you wrong.’

  ‘I take it back. Now, put me down.’

  ‘If you don’t stop wriggling about I’ll drop you.’ His lips were close to her ear, too close. She turned her head, and they accidentally brushed against her cheek. She went still.

  He nearl
y groaned. He didn’t know what had possessed him to pick her up: the thought of her clinging to Dr Collins’s blasted arm or the painfully slow progress they’d make if he let her walk. But he was too stubborn to lower her now. ‘Put your arm around my neck.’

  She did as he asked her, too disconcerted to argue, and he made short work of the stairs. He didn’t immediately lower her when he reached the third floor, either, but carried her all the way down the hall to her bedroom door. There, he let her down gently.

  She looked at the floor, but her quiet voice was very angry. ‘I hope no one saw that.’

  ‘Who’s here to see anything? You don’t mean servants, do you?’

  She glared at him, her eyes flashing. ‘As a matter of fact, I do. I have to work with them, you know. If anyone saw, they will think…they will think—’

  ‘What will they think?’ he asked the question softly, but he didn’t expect an answer. They’d think he was bedding her, that’s what they’d think, and there wasn’t a chance she’d utter those words.

  But she was thinking them. He could tell by the blush staining her cheeks.

  ‘I suppose I’ve never been too worried about what my servants thought,’ he said, leaning around her to find the doorknob, trapping her in his arms. Stubbornly, she refused to lower her gaze, and he found himself lost in her blue eyes, her lush, full lips. It would be so nice, so easy to lean in and kiss her. Even angry, she wasn’t immune to him.

  Not kissing her tested his will far beyond the point at which he usually gave in, but this time he didn’t. He knew he couldn’t—not unless he planned to forfeit the game for just a kiss. If he kissed her, only three days after she’d arrived, he knew she’d pack her things and leave. Since he wanted much more from her than a kiss, he’d have to move very slowly.

  He opened the door. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Thomas.’