The Earl and the Governess

by Sarah Elliott

  ‘You look beautiful,’ he said over his shoulder while pouring glasses of wine for both of them.

  ‘Your sister-in-law lent me the dress.’

  He turned around. ‘I told her you were lamenting your lack of fashionable clothes.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ she said with dismay.

  ‘I certainly did—’

  ‘But it’s humiliating.’

  He crossed the room, handing Isabelle her glass when he reached her side. His gaze wandered slowly down her neck. ‘I don’t care. Never seen this much of you before and I’m rather enjoying it.’

  Dear God, and now all that pale, freckled skin was turning pink. ‘I…I still feel I’m imposing enough already without their charity.’

  ‘You’re not imposing at all. You’ll be pleased to hear, though, that I’ve found a cottage you might rent. It’s just outside London, on some land that belongs to a friend. Quite rural, really—would you mind?’

  She shook her head, bemused. Events had moved so quickly.

  ‘I’ll take you tomorrow, and if you like it you can move in immediately. It would be within your means, provided your luck holds.’

  She wished he hadn’t reminded her about her tenuous position. She sank down on to the damask sofa, suddenly depleted. ‘You think it’s wrong, don’t you? That I should propose to live on funds that were gained dishonestly.’

  He sat next to her. ‘You’ve nothing else to live on, Isabelle. I understand that. A sensible girl would just marry me, but as we’ve discussed wisdom isn’t your strong suit.’

  She couldn’t believe he’d brought it up again. ‘Marry you? After you saw that list? You want to marry your social equal, not…not someone with such a burden. What if any of those men should discover my secret? How would you explain to your acquaintances that you’d wed the girl whose father had cheated them?’

  He didn’t answer immediately, and she held her breath, waiting. Finally, he said, ‘I can’t deny it’s problematical. But I’m not going to waste time worrying about something I can’t control.’

  ‘You don’t want to marry at all.’

  He looked like he was starting to lose patience with her. ‘I don’t know any man who wants to be married. One or two, maybe. I think we all need to feel as if we’re being forced.’

  ‘I’m not forcing you.’

  ‘For the love of God, Isabelle, then let me pretend you are. If my option is to marry you or leave you to the wolves, then I don’t have to think about it. Maybe you shouldn’t think too much about it, either.’

  His words made her go quiet. Perhaps she was thinking too much. But she just couldn’t believe that he would be happy with her. Not in a year. Not even in six months. And if he ever rejected her, or started to despise her for who she really was, it would be too painful for her to bear.

  ‘I’m not suitable, and you know it.’

  ‘But you are interesting. One would never be bored.’

  ‘So much so that one would pine for boredom,’ she retorted.

  ‘Not so. Arguing with you these past weeks has much improved my mental agility.’

  ‘You want a stubborn, argumentative wife? I thought you wanted dull.’

  ‘Henrietta wanted dull. I want you.’

  She couldn’t be clever when he looked at her like that. When his voice grew husky. She ached with wanting to accept his proposal, so much that the pain forced her to look away. Quietly, she said, ‘Yesterday you told me I should do the honourable thing. I cannot marry you.’

  ‘Then be my mistress, Isabelle. Just don’t tell me I’ll never see you again.’

  His words…so tempting, and so saddening, too, because that was the best she could hope for. The last thing she wanted was never to see him. She wanted a life with him, not some lonely existence in a cottage with only chickens for company. More immediately, she wanted his wide chest to press her into the sofa, for his lips to find hers. His eyes had grown dark, and he leaned forwards.

  Voices in the hall, unnaturally loud to give fair warning. Will’s gaze trailed down to her mouth. Isabelle felt frozen, unable to look away even though she knew she had to. He sat up slowly.

  When James and Eleanor entered the drawing room a minute later, Will had removed himself to an armchair. Isabelle sat uncomfortably in the centre of the sofa, trying to force from her mind the dull, throbbing frustration of not having kissed him. Her heart still beat like a small bird’s wings, but her mind had slowed to a crawl with the apprehension that she might not mind being his mistress. It was that or be nothing at all.

  What would tomorrow bring?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Will collected Isabelle at noon to take her to inspect the cottage. She brought along all her belongings since she’d no intention of rejecting it—the cottage would have to be downright uninhabitable for her to consider returning to London to accept any more of his brother’s hospitality. Will had packed a bag as well; he planned to travel on to Wentwich Castle provided she found everything satisfactory.

  She glanced at him covertly from across the carriage. In her former life, she would have protested at riding alone with him, but her resolve had worn very thin. She was precariously close to abandoning common sense and letting her heart take over. What if he tried to kiss her? She didn’t think she’d push him away. She thought she’d be disappointed if he didn’t. Since he’d been annoyingly well behaved during the journey today—rather quiet, perhaps preoccupied—she was starting to get a bit worried. Why wasn’t he trying to seduce her?

  No, no, she mustn’t think like that. If she let her heart make decisions, it would only get broken. Mistresses were disposable, unlike wives. If she became his mistress, he’d lose interest in her quickly enough. And when he did eventually marry—someone else—she’d be devastated.

  She looked outside, trying to concentrate on something other than the handsome gentleman on the seat across from her. She’d said goodbye to Mary before she’d left, and she assumed she might not see her again. She hated being yet another person to abandon her. Perhaps the girl could come for a visit…but, no, that just wasn’t feasible. Not now, while the gossip was still so fresh. Soon, though, she hoped.

  They’d been driving for just over an hour and had said little. Although their destination was only a few miles outside London, the scenery had changed quite markedly, growing hillier and leafier the further they went. In the distance, she could see the silver river winding along beside them, specked with boats on such a pleasant day.

  The carriage turned down a rutted drive and a minute later stopped.

  ‘I think we’re there.’

  She turned her head to glance curiously out of the opposite window. From her position she could see a slate roof and a limed brick wall partially covered with ivy. Just a suggestion of a rather nice cottage, the whole picture framed by an auspiciously blue sky.

  Will opened the door, stepped out, and then turned to help her. As she exited, she took in the rest of the house, allowing his hand to clasp hers longer than was strictly necessary. The warm pressure reassured her, for at that moment she couldn’t quite believe her luck. It was a small house, really, rather than a cottage. Generously sized windows, freshly painted white, were evenly spaced along the brick façade; during the day, the interior would flood with light. Flowers scented the air, suggesting a large garden behind. Bordering the front of the house, white and yellow hollyhocks swayed in the breeze.

  ‘This is it?’ she asked. Since uncertainty had plagued the last three years of her life, she couldn’t imagine living somewhere so charming.

  ‘I think so. Never seen it before. Only learned about it yesterday afternoon from my friend, Christopher Hawkings. I hope it’s not too small for you. Do you like it?’

  Small by his standards, perhaps, but not hers. ‘I’m sure I can’t afford it.’

  His hand slipped up her arm to support her elbow. ‘Kit offered it at a good price, although if we weren’t friends perhaps you’d be right. It’s been em
pty for a month and he’s keen to let it. Shall we go in?’

  Her palms sweated inside her gloves. She nodded and allowed him to lead her to the door.

  ‘There should be a key…’ He trailed off as he reached above the window to the right of the door. ‘Ah. Here it is.’

  He opened the door, and she entered cautiously, letting her eyes adjust to the dimmer light of the vestibule. Pegs lined the wall, waiting for hats and coats; she untied her bonnet and hung it up.

  Will followed her into the generous sitting room, made bright by south-facing windows. Her gaze travelled round it, looking for faults but finding none. It had been furnished comfortably and sensibly with a sofa, several side chairs and a stool, the latter pulled close to the fireplace. A mahogany drum table sat in front of the bow window, surrounded by a quartet of caned beech chairs, painted black and highlighted with gilt anthemia.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘I…it’s more than I could have hoped for. I should never want to leave.’

  ‘A housekeeper will come in twice a week to replenish supplies and cook. The kitchen should have been stocked yesterday.’

  ‘A housekeeper is too extravagant.’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  She blushed. To him, a housekeeper would be essential, so he wouldn’t exactly understand her protest.

  She walked over to the bow window and gazed out. A wide lawn sprawled out to the side of the house, and in the distance she thought she could still see the river, judging by the occasional sparkle of reflected sunlight. It really was perfect, and she’d no qualms about accepting it. But what would he do now? Leave for Norfolk immediately?

  No. Not yet.

  She turned around, feeling panic take hold. ‘You’ll stay for tea?’

  His gaze searched her face. ‘Shall we inspect the kitchen?’

  She nodded nervously and wandered to the back of the house, pulling off her sticky gloves as they walked. They passed another sitting room, a bright breakfast room and a worn staircase, leading to the first floor. Finally, the kitchen—cheerful and clean, like everything else. More importantly, it appeared to be well stocked. An oak table dominated its centre, surmounted by several loaves of bread, a bowl of strawberries and another of eggs. An oak dresser to match it displayed prettily enamelled blue-and-white plates, cups and saucers.

  ‘You must be hungry,’ she said, pausing in the doorway and turning to look up at him. He shook his head slowly, and she wished she had the nerve and the experience to tell him what she wanted—wished she knew herself what it was. All she felt certain of was that she didn’t want him to leave. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, to stand on tiptoe and find his lips. He was close enough. ‘Thank you for helping me. It’s perfect.’

  He reached out to tuck an errant curl behind her ear. ‘I enjoy helping you.’

  She didn’t pull away. ‘You do too much.’

  ‘I want to do more.’

  ‘No. I couldn’t wish for more.’

  They were both quiet for a long moment. Isabelle, feeling awkward, walked over to the large window, pretending interest in the potted herbs that grew on its sill. Outside, she saw what seemed to be a vigorous kitchen garden. Lettuce, peas, an orchard in the distance…

  She should ask him if he’d like to go out to look at the plants. That was one way to stall for time.

  ‘Will, would you—?’ She turned around as she spoke, but he had moved closer while she wasn’t looking. Only a few paces now separated them.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Would you like to see the garden?’ she asked quietly, moving back to the table.

  ‘Not just now.’

  It didn’t help, how unforthcoming he was being. ‘What…what are you thinking?’

  ‘That perhaps I should compromise you thoroughly.’

  She hadn’t been expecting that response. A wave of pleasure and anticipation swept over her. Apprehension, too, since this time there was no butler to save her. She gripped the table as if it would protect her, then took a step backwards.

  ‘You’ve already done so, I think.’

  He was warming to the subject. His eyes glowed wickedly. ‘No, not thoroughly. If I made love to you, for example, you’d have no choice but to marry me.’

  She stared at him, but didn’t move. ‘What?’

  He took a leisurely step forwards. ‘No. Because if I made love to you, then you might carry my child. My real child, and not just the one the gossips have made up.’

  Will watched her. She’d gone very still at his words. Understandably, given the subject. He hadn’t really planned on putting it like that. He’d phrased it too much as a challenge, and he’d always found challenges difficult to resist.

  She didn’t move, other than to part her lips slightly, probably without even knowing it. His own mouth felt dry, his throat thick. Sitting in the carriage with her for so long had been akin to torture, albeit the most enjoyable kind. He stroked her cheek, and she stood like a statue, letting him, meeting his gaze shyly before looking away. Her skin was soft, flushed. She moistened her lips with the tip of her pink tongue.

  Her tongue was his undoing. His hand moved round to cup the back of her head, bringing her forwards to meet his lips—gently, though. Not too quickly. He’d tried and failed to kiss her properly before; each kiss had been too urgent, like that of a youth to his first love. Ridiculous, considering his experience. He schooled himself to go slowly this time, and it was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Kissing instead of ravishing, gently tugging at her lower lip with his teeth when he wanted to devour her. One hand buried in her hair, dislodging pins and releasing copper curls. The other hand trailed down her spine to cup her bottom. She stood on tiptoe to accommodate him, instinctively fitting herself more snugly against his body.

  That was a bit much for him to bear. He couldn’t be expected to go slowly when she did things like that. He groaned, deep in his throat.

  ‘Slow down, darling.’

  His words made her stop, suddenly worried. ‘Have I done something wrong?’

  God, no, but he hadn’t the mental capacity to explain at that moment. ‘You’re getting rather good at kissing.’

  ‘Should I stop?’

  He shook his head, answering her by gripping her bottom tighter, pulling her close and rocking her against him. A gentle rhythm, slow at first, then faster until she moaned, her cry muffled by his mouth. Her head fell back, and his lips travelled down her throat, pausing at the quickly beating pulse at its base.

  God, he wanted her. More than he’d wanted anyone before. More by a vast degree. Again, he found himself fighting for the self-control that usually came naturally. If he obeyed his base instincts, it would all be over within a few minutes, and he wanted to make love to her for the rest of the afternoon.

  In which case lifting her on to the dresser and fitting his hips between her knees wasn’t the cleverest way to prolong things. But it felt so good, especially when he pulled her forwards, so his hardness pressed between her legs. He leaned her back, supporting her with one arm while raising her skirts to her thighs with the other. She wrapped her legs around his hips, pulling him tight. His fingers worked expertly down her back, unfastening her gown as they went.

  God, no, he shouldn’t do this. Not in the kitchen. What if someone came by, looked in the window…?

  ‘Isabelle?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  No, never mind, it didn’t matter. Not when he’d just managed to loosen her gown enough to tug it down to her waist. He kissed her breasts through her linen shift, grazing each nipple with his teeth until she called out.

  It was the most wonderful sound he’d ever heard, but bloody hell, he couldn’t take her virginity in a kitchen. But stopping long enough to locate a bedroom might take too long. She might change her mind. He didn’t want her to think about what was about to happen—didn’t want her to think at all. Not now.

  ‘Isabelle?’ His lips brushed against hers.

&n
bsp; She opened her eyes. Dark blue, unfocused. Her pale skin flushed with pleasure. So beautiful he held his breath.

  ‘Should we go upstairs?’ he asked quietly.

  She didn’t answer immediately. Just straightened slightly. He could see the outline of her breasts beneath her shift, and he swallowed hard. Slowly, without taking her gaze from his, she nodded her head.

  He hadn’t realised how anxious he’d been until that moment that she might actually refuse. He felt a powerful surge of relief, and of blood below the waist. He kissed her again, not gently this time. It wasn’t even clear who was kissing whom. Without taking his lips from hers, he lifted her from the dresser as if she weighed no more than a leaf. He let her down to the floor slowly, savouring the feel of her in his arms.

  ‘Go upstairs, then. I’ll lock the door and be up soon.’

  Will didn’t rush through his task. He needed time to collect himself, or else he’d be giving her a brief and bad introduction to lovemaking. He spoke to his driver, directing him to spend the night at an inn; he locked the front door and checked the back. He finally found her five minutes later, seated nervously on the bed in the largest bedroom. A nice room, he noted abstractedly, although he’d rather be making love to her in his own bed. That would come, with luck.

  She rose anxiously when he opened the door.

  He closed it behind him, leaning back against it. Just watched her for several seconds. She’d loosened her hair the rest of the way, so it floated softly around her shoulders and down her back. ‘Come here.’

  At first she didn’t move. She felt glued to the spot. In his absence, she’d had time to regain her self-control. She knew what he wanted from her, and she knew she was foolish and wicked to want it, too. But she did. She loved him, needed him, and asking him to leave now…she could no more turn him away than she could food and drink.

  She walked towards him slowly, stopping when only a few steps away. She met his gaze, then looked down shyly.

  ‘Turn around.’