by Lucy Ashford
When Loxley died two years later, Joseph Molina’s kind offer had meant Isobel could return to the Gloucestershire countryside she loved. But now—with Connor’s return also—everything had gone wrong again. How could she have been so stupid as to accept this job?
She suddenly remembered something else that troubled her. This morning, one of the children had told Isobel that her father had been involved in a fight last night—over the school.
Isobel had frowned. ‘Are you sure about this, Mary? That it was about the school?’
‘Miss,’ Harry put in, ‘it started outside the alehouse. Some of the men around here don’t like us. “A school isn’t for the likes of you lot,” they said. But my dad thumped them and Mary’s dad thumped them, and they ran.’
Isobel would have liked to know more, but that was when Connor had arrived. She remembered the story again now, though, and it troubled her. Perhaps Connor ought to be informed? Then Susan came in with some cold lunch on a tray; Isobel thanked her and made herself eat it, even though she wasn’t really hungry. She expected the maid to come back for the tray—but it wasn’t Susan who came in next. It was the housekeeper, Mrs Lett.
‘Will you be long in here, Miss Blake? I’ve not said anything for the last few days, but I really must tell you that the maids need to clean the chapel. It’s on their afternoon duty rota.’
Isobel gave the woman her brightest smile. ‘Oh, Mrs Lett! I simply have to get this work done for the children’s lesson tomorrow. Can the maids wait another half-hour, perhaps?’
‘That would be most inconvenient for them.’
‘Even so, I’m afraid I must insist. Thank you so much, Mrs Lett!’
The housekeeper departed, her rather sharp shutting of the chapel door showing exactly what she thought of this interference with her staff’s schedule. Isobel worked on, lighting a candle as the shifting afternoon light left her desk in shadow, practising the spellings over and over, then at last standing up to transfer all those fiendish words on to the blackboard, ready for tomorrow.
And then she heard the door opening, yet again. She glanced at the clock on the wall—it was five o’clock. The housekeeper, she thought wearily, come to order her out of here, so the maids could get on with their work. She turned round, resigned. But it wasn’t the housekeeper. It was Connor. She dropped the piece of chalk and reached to pick it up, and in doing so she sent books and papers flying from her desk. Oh, no. Please not him again. Not now.
* * *
Since visiting the schoolroom that morning, Connor had escorted Laura and Elvie to the Phillips’s family home, staying just long enough to be civil before going on to visit two more farms that lay on the Calverley Hall estate. The tenants were full of gratitude for the new equipment and stock Connor was providing, though to him, the money he was spending was simply a business investment. He wanted to make something of this place and he had a limited time in which to do so. Soon, his commitment to the docks work in London would be making far more demands on his schedule, so he was determined to make the most of the summer here.
After returning from his visit to the farms, he’d gone to his study to start checking the estate’s accounts, but his mind was elsewhere. His mind was on Isobel, in fact. There had been yet more rumbles of discontent about her from the servants this afternoon—Haskins had reported that she was proving reluctant to adjust to the household routines.
‘Miss Blake is only here for a short while,’ Connor had replied, ‘and I’d be glad if you and Mrs Lett would allow her some leeway.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Haskins rather woodenly.
Now Connor frowned at the memory. Of course, what Haskins and the others meant was that Isobel in no way looked or acted like a servant, but Connor didn’t really expect her to—he’d hired her to run a school and the children clearly liked her, very much. Wasn’t that vitally important to the process of learning? He was extremely eager for his scheme, small as it was, to prove a success, because he was hoping he might be able to use it to encourage various business colleagues to set up similar projects for their own workers’ children.
But if there was going to be any sly innuendo as to why he’d hired such a young, attractive teacher, then his project might be dragged through the mud.
He’d been a fool to take her on and not only because of the scandal attached to her name. He was a fool because whenever he was close to her—even when he was blazingly angry with her, like this morning—he couldn’t help but imagine how soft her skin would be to touch and how sweet her lips to taste. In the chapel, even as the children stared at him in awe, he’d actually longed to slide his hands around their teacher’s slim waist and draw her close, and kiss her...
Connor almost thumped his desk. How could he be so foolish as to even think it? She had no place in his life. He enjoyed the company of women and he knew that some day he would do what was expected of him and get married. As Laura had recently pointed out to him, there were plenty of suitable candidates—the chief amongst them being Helena Staithe, who would bring her family’s proud heritage to the match.
Isobel Blake was just the opposite. Her family heritage was a tale of headlong ruin and disgrace. But there was something else—something that he just couldn’t get his head around.
She was always cool and calm with him, as if it didn’t matter that she had lost everything; in fact, sometimes she was so flippant that it appeared as if she didn’t even care! Yet just occasionally, like this morning in the chapel when he’d questioned the unsuitability of what she called her lesson, he’d seen a glimpse of raw vulnerability. And when he’d picked up that crumpled sheet of paper, she’d looked almost terrified.
Why? What on earth was going on?
He should just let her get on with the job he was paying her for and leave it at that. It was safer to feel nothing for Isobel Blake—no anger, no scorn, just nothing. That was the only possible course. Because otherwise, his rampant thoughts about her sweet face and soft lips and lush figure would cause absolute mayhem in his body and his brain.
* * *
It was gone five by the time Connor had packed away his papers in his study and went out to the stables to inspect the horses and enjoy a chat with the grooms. But as he left the stables to return to the Hall, he happened to glance in the direction of the chapel and he noticed candlelight shining from its windows.
Surely Isobel wasn’t still in there? Doing what, for God’s sake?
He was still frowning when he opened the chapel door several minutes later. She almost jumped from her seat when he came in, knocking a book and some papers to the floor. Her face was flushed with confusion.
Connor found himself, as usual, utterly perplexed by her. Had she been in here all afternoon? Why did she look almost afraid to see him? Was she doing something she ought not to be doing? But what could she be doing wrong in a schoolroom, on her own, for heaven’s sake?
And why did he feel that sharp tug in the region of his heart, as he observed the effort she made to pull herself together, to pick up those papers and scrape back some loose tendrils of her fair hair and try to smile?
‘Why, Mr Hamilton,’ she said, ‘what a surprise to see you.’
He replied, ‘Miss Blake. What a surprise to see you. What on earth are you doing here at this hour?’
She gestured towards the books and pieces of paper on the desk. ‘Oh, I take my duties most seriously—whatever you may think to the contrary!’
She was being her usual flippant self, but she looked tired. Frightened, almost. She didn’t want him to be in here. Didn’t want him to know what she was doing...
He moved closer to look at the book on the table—Barnaby’s Guide to Weights and Measures. On the blackboard behind her, he realised, were rows of carefully written words.
4 rods = 1 chain
40 rods = 1 furlong
He turned to face her.
‘I take it you’re preparing tomorrow’s lesson? I don’t expect you to work non-stop, Miss Blake. There’s absolutely no point in exhausting yourself.’
She waved one hand airily. ‘Oh, it was just a little something I was checking on. Tomorrow, I’ve decided we’ll have a mathematical lesson, using various measurements—poles, perches, rods and everything! Just as you requested!’
Even as she spoke, he noted that she was scooping up the pieces of paper from her desk and transferring them to a folder. But she’d dropped one. He picked it up, glanced at it and frowned.
What the devil...?
Someone had been ruling lines and writing the same word over and over, sometimes incorrectly, just like that sheet of paper he’d picked up earlier with the months on—Janury. Januery. Yet again, the handwriting was laborious, awkward. It was the work of the children—it had to be!
But all the words had been written in ink. And the children only had their slates and pieces of chalk...
There was something odd going on. He put the paper down. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘You’ve had a few days to settle in now and the children appear to be very much enjoying themselves. The question is, are you?’
‘It’s been wonderful,’ she enthused. ‘The children are so eager and engaging!’ And she chattered on, but Connor was still puzzled, and more than a little troubled. All afternoon. She’d been in here all afternoon.
Just after lunch, as Elvie and Laura had prepared to set off on their visit to the neighbours, Elvie had anxiously clutched Connor’s hand and said shyly, ‘You won’t frighten Miss Blake away, will you?’
‘Me? Frighten anyone?’ he’d teased.
‘You are frightening sometimes, you know,’ Elvie said seriously.
She was right, of course, thought Connor. Otherwise he wouldn’t have got to where he was.
‘And sometimes,’ Elvie had gone on hesitantly, ‘it means people are scared to tell you the truth.’
He’d been taken aback by that. ‘Do you think so? I really hope not, Elvie.’
‘Connor,’ she’d said, ‘w-what would you do if someone got into trouble b-because of something you had done wrong?’
Oh, no. That stammer again. He’d thought very carefully before replying. ‘I think,’ he’d said at last, ‘that I would feel happier if, however scared I was, I told the truth. Because it would be bound to come out some time, you know?’
And then Elvie had looked as if she was about to tell him something important—only at that precise moment Laura had called for her.
Connor knew Elvie was afraid that he would frighten off Isobel Blake. He had no intention of doing so—though I am going to keep a damned close eye on her, he resolved to himself, watching her now as she tidied up her desk. Unfortunately, keeping a close eye on her might involve certain risks he hadn’t anticipated.
What had Elvie wanted to tell him? he wondered. But really, it was impossible to concentrate on the question, because Miss Blake had started putting her books away on the shelves and he couldn’t help but see how her vigorous movements revealed the delicious curves of her all-too-feminine figure. He found himself distracted yet again by the fact that, despite her drab gown and rumpled hair, she looked quite lovely.
She was struggling now to put the blackboard and chairs away. Swiftly he went to help, but her arm unintentionally brushed his and he felt the sudden shock of her warm, fragrant body so close to his. She must have felt it, too, because she shied away from him like a terrified filly.
He should have backed away, but instead he felt impelled to move closer until he was virtually towering over her. And there was something pulsing between them that was totally powerful and totally dangerous and impossible to resist. He could feel the pounding of his heart, he could hear the ragged rasp of his own breathing. And suddenly raw desire throbbed inside him, crazy and out of control. All he could think was, What would she taste like if I kissed her?
He forced himself, literally, to take a step backwards. And he said, in a voice that sounded far harsher than he meant it to, ‘Miss Blake. On consideration, I was rather sharp with you this morning, over your choice of lesson material. I just wanted to report how I’ve heard that your somewhat unconventional teaching methods are already having excellent results. Some of the travellers came to me an hour ago to express their gratitude. I thought I’d let you know.’
She still looked very pale. ‘Well,’ she said brightly, ‘that’s satisfactory, at any rate. It would have been rather awkward for you, wouldn’t it, if you’d been forced to dismiss me so very swiftly?’
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it would. And that brings me to another point—please try, will you, not to antagonise my staff?’
She put her head on one side, arching her eyebrows. ‘Oh, dear. I take it you’ve had more complaints?’
‘One or two. Though I’ve reminded my staff to treat you with the respect you deserve.’
She’d started gathering her books together. ‘So understanding of you! Believe me, I’ll really try to remember my place.’
He swallowed his exasperation. ‘Miss Blake, is it time to remind one another of that truce we agreed to?’
‘Why not, Mr Hamilton? It’s always such fun to see who breaks it first!’
He smiled back—he couldn’t help it. Keep things light. No danger in that, surely? ‘There was something else I was meaning to ask you,’ he said. ‘Laura—Mrs Delafield—suggested to me that you might like to take your meal with us this evening.’
She looked stunned. ‘You no doubt reminded Mrs Delafield that her invitation, though kind, would in no way be appropriate?’
‘I didn’t, as it happens. I agreed that it was an excellent idea. So perhaps you will join us to eat in the dining room at seven tonight? As you’ll realise, we keep country hours here.’
Isobel closed her eyes briefly, then opened them again. ‘I really, really would rather not.’
‘And I would prefer it,’ he answered, ‘if you did.’
He turned to leave. And—as if something was prompted in his brain—he suddenly remembered what Elvie had asked him earlier. What would you do if someone got into trouble because of something you had done wrong?
And he faced Isobel again. He said abruptly, ‘That expedition to meet the Plass Valley children. It was Elvie’s idea, wasn’t it? Yet you let yourself take all the blame! For pity’s sake, Isobel, why?’
She said nothing, but he knew he was right by the way she held herself so very still.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said between gritted teeth, ‘to have misjudged you. Please accept my apologies.’
And he left; but he was still aware of her standing there looking quite lost, with that stray lock of fair hair trailing down her cheek.
Truly, there was something about her that grabbed at his heart. Damn it.
* * *
After he’d gone, Isobel didn’t move for a long time.
Connor had said he was sorry that he’d blamed her for that meeting with the children—but he’d still been angry with her. You let yourself take all the blame. For pity’s sake, Isobel, why? As if she would have dreamed of loading the blame on to poor Elvie!
He’d proposed a renewal of their truce—yet the gulf between them was so vast, it was hopeless. She should never, ever have agreed to this arrangement. Not only was their past an insurmountable problem, there was also the present to consider, because some time soon, she’d be caught out—she couldn’t spend every afternoon and evening practising her spellings and memorising them for the next day’s lessons. Sooner or later, she’d be exposed as being entirely unsuitable for this post—and a liar into the bargain.
There was something else, just as bad. Worse, in fact. She had thought she could cope with the way Connor Hamilton made her feel. Thought she could laugh and joke her way through her conversations with him. But it was getting more and more difficult
.
She’d been frightened when he’d drawn so close just then, because at first she’d feared he might be about to guess those clumsy spelling attempts were hers. But then she’d felt another kind of fear. With his taut body so near to hers, and his dark, lean features hovering too close, her mind had become dizzy. She’d known she ought to back away, but she couldn’t, because her body was paralysed with a helpless yearning.
Connor the blacksmith’s son had become a powerful man, a formidable man—and she’d been fervently imagining his kiss. She’d been longing for it. The young man she’d once hero-worshipped had become something else entirely—and it was making her position here impossible.
She rose and walked over to the chapel window, staring blindly out. Six weeks was the bargain and time and time again she’d mentally lashed herself for agreeing to it. She could easily have backed out—after all, he’d let the Molinas off their rent regardless of her decision. What really disturbed her now was the suspicion that she’d accepted his offer because, from that first day of meeting him at the midsummer fair, he’d worked a kind of dark magic on her.
He didn’t even try to look attractive, yet he’d developed a kind of masculine grace that the son of a blacksmith just should not have. He made no effort with his clothes or his grooming; sometimes he looked almost disreputable—his scruffy breeches and boots, his open-necked shirt and his sleeveless leather jerkin were the kind of garments a farm labourer might wear.
His dark hair was long and often unkempt. He really ought to shave twice a day, but clearly didn’t—and Isobel found, to her horror, that her wayward fingers longed to tangle in his dark locks and feel the rasp of his strong, stubbled jaw. And to touch the silken softness of his mouth, preferably with her own...
She felt her breasts tingle and the sudden heat bloom low in her belly. She was confused and ashamed, because she felt herself wanting things she’d only heard about before. She thought she’d grown used to those stories about her time in London; she’d told herself she didn’t care what people said. But she was wrong.